The dawn bell rang. Another day in the mine.
I walked the now-familiar path down into the earth, past the main work crews, and kept going. My assignment, by Albert's design or the foreman's disdain, was a narrow, solo tunnel in the deepest section. The air was colder here, the lantern light barely pushing back the gloom. The only sound was my own breathing and the steady clink of my pickaxe against the unyielding stone.
Lift, swing, crack. Lift, swing, crack. The repetition was a kind of pain itself. My body was a collection of complaints—a throbbing shoulder, a strained back, blistered hands. In the silence, the hum from the core fragments in my pocket was louder than ever. It had become a constant, low-grade temptation. A whisper of more.
On a heavy swing, the pickaxe struck a hardened metal seam hidden in the rock. The shock jolted up my arms. The tool twisted in my sweat-slick grip, and the sharpened edge caught the inside of my forearm, slicing deep.
I dropped the pickaxe with a grunt, clutching the wound. Blood pulsed out between my fingers, dark in the lantern light. The pain was bright and sharp, cutting through the usual dull aches.
I slid down the tunnel wall, pressing hard, but the blood kept coming. Alone. No healer. No status to tell me how bad it was. Just the cold rock and the warm, steady leak of my own strength.
That's when the pull became a voice.
It wasn't sound. It was a compulsion, crystal clear and coming from my pocket. The cores weren't just humming. They were insisting. Consume. Mend.
I'd fought the madness for days. Now, bleeding in the dark, the madness was the only plan.
With my good hand, I fumbled out the green goblin shard. It glowed in my bloody palm, its light seeming to beat in time with my pulse. I had a small skin of weak ale on my belt. No time for careful grinding.
I braced the shard against the tunnel wall and, with a sharp tap from the pickaxe head, chipped off a flake no bigger than a splinter. I dropped it into the ale skin, shook it, and drank.
The liquid was vile—bitter and electric. For a few heartbeats, nothing.
Then my heart seized.
A white-hot cramp locked my chest. I bit down on the leather strap of my tool belt to keep from screaming, my vision blurring. It felt like my veins were filling with shattered glass.
Just as suddenly, the pain broke, receding like a tide. I looked at my palm. The main green shard wasn't just dull. It was crumbling, its light vanishing as it turned to grey ash. The energy from the entire fragment had followed the flake I'd consumed, draining into me.
The change hit.
The bleeding from my arm stopped. The fierce, stinging pain melted into a fierce itch. I wiped away the blood. The cut was closed, leaving only a thin, pink line. The deep fatigue that had weighed me down for days vanished, replaced by a humming alertness. I flexed my arm. It felt denser, more solid.
I picked up the pickaxe. Its weight, which had been a struggle minutes ago, now felt manageable. Lighter.
A raw, disbelieving hope cut through the last of the pain.
I didn't hesitate. I pulled out the three blue wolf-shards. One by one, I chipped a fragment into the ale, drank the burning mixture, and rode out the brief, heart-clenching agony.
Each time, the main shard dissolved into nothing in my hand, its power transferring completely. Each time, I felt stronger, clearer, more real.
When it was done, four small piles of grey dust were all that remained on the tunnel floor.
I stood up. My body thrummed with a quiet, unfamiliar power. The world seemed sharper, the shadows less deep. I hefted the pickaxe again. It felt like a toy.
No screen had appeared. No numbers had gone up.
But the wound was healed. The weight was gone. The strength was there.
The system had given me nothing. So I took everything it wouldn't.
And it worked.