The scavenging was relentless and demoralizing. The workers moved like ghosts, hunched and silent, their movements dictated by the fear of Clork's chain and the looming threat of the Wraiths. For every dozen shovelfuls of worthless debris, they recovered maybe one pound of warped, usable metal.
Lorn kept his head down, but his mind was alight. He silently ran the Aether-Flow into his Ruin Tread just enough to maintain near-silent, efficient movement, saving the rest of his internal energy for training his more complex skills.
He focused his senses through Scrap Recognition. Where Gris saw only the desperate surface layer, Lorn saw the potential veins beneath. The skill didn't give him a map, but it gave him a feeling—a pull toward denser, undisturbed pockets of buried debris.
"We need to move further out, Gris," Lorn whispered, his voice dry.
Gris stopped, leaning heavily on his pipe-weapon, his eyes wide with fear. "Are you mad, Trench-Rat? That's where the things start to gather. The supervisor won't protect us out there."
"The scrap here is exhausted," Lorn argued, pointing to the obvious pits already dug by past scavengers. "We waste energy for nothing."
Gris reluctantly shuffled along behind Lorn as the young man, guided by the tingling sensation of his utility skill, navigated deeper into the ruins. They moved toward the base of a shattered office tower that looked particularly unstable. Eiara, patrolling the distant flank, noticed their deviation but made no sign of intervention.
Lorn stopped beside a foundation slab split by deep, dark cracks. The Scrap Recognition was singing now, focusing on a spot beneath a tangle of rebar. He didn't know what he was sensing—pure metal, crystallized Aether-Flow, or something else—but the urge to dig was overpowering.
He slammed the rusty pipe into the debris, using the full, channeled strength of his Eternal Core. He didn't have a Strength skill, but the infinite Aether-Flow provided brute force. He ripped away a chunk of concrete, revealing disturbed soil beneath.
Gris gasped, terrified. "Too loud! You'll bring a Runner!"
Lorn ignored him, tearing through the dirt with manic efficiency. A layer of packed ash gave way, and Lorn's hand brushed against something cold, heavy, and strangely non-corroded. He dragged it out, wiping the ash away with a shaking sleeve.
It wasn't metal. It was a chunk of rough, dull grey rock—about the size of Lorn's fist—veined with crystalline blue. The blue veins pulsed with a faint internal light, and the rock itself radiated a deep, clean coolness.
"Aetherite!" Gris's voice was a choked whisper, a blend of awe and sheer terror. "A full vein! That's... that's enough to run the village barrier for a week!"
The lump of Aetherite Stone was an undeniable treasure. Lorn's heart hammered a rhythm faster than the Wraith's distant thumps. This was a resource that could buy more than food; it could buy attention.
Lorn quickly crammed the massive stone into his canvas sack. The weight was significant, but the reward was greater.
"We go back now, Lorn," Gris urged, his face pale. "You can't hide that. They'll know."
"We go back," Lorn confirmed, suddenly aware of the silence. The rhythmic scraping and shuffling of the other scavengers had stopped.
Lorn looked toward the perimeter. He hadn't brought the Wraiths, but he had drawn the attention of the Organization.
Clork, the Gate Warden, was marching toward them, flanked by the unnamed supervisor with the three-pronged flame crest. They moved with a chilling, synchronized focus. They hadn't seen him dig the stone, but they had certainly witnessed Lorn and Gris break formation and move into the deep zone.
Clork stopped ten feet away, his heavy chain dragging on the ash. His eyes were cold, assessing Lorn's ragged figure and the bulging sack.
"You broke formation, Trench-Rat," Clork stated, his voice devoid of any human warmth. "And you made enough noise to wake the dead. Empty the sack. Now."
Lorn glanced at Gris, who was visibly shaking, resigned to punishment. Lorn knew if he handed over the stone here, Clork would take the credit, and Lorn would get nothing but a beating.
Lorn stood tall, meeting Clork's gaze. The Mental Fortress was absolute, giving his weak body a deceptive presence.
"I have the Aetherite," Lorn said, his voice surprisingly steady. "A large vein. I want to report it directly to the supervisor."
Clork's face twisted in rage, his hand gripping the chain tighter. "You worthless Tier Zero trash! You dare—"
The supervisor cut Clork off with a sharp, curt gesture. She stepped forward, her eyes—cold, calculating, and undeniably E-Rank or higher—locking onto Lorn. She was looking past the dirt and the rags, assessing the strange defiance in his eyes.
"You have six seconds to prove you haven't been infected by the Wraith and that your 'find' is real, Tier Zero," she commanded. "Otherwise, you answer to the Organization's punishment protocols."
Lorn understood the risk. He had stolen the reward, and now he had to prove his worth before they simply took his life.
To be continued...