The next seven days were a blur of obsidian dust, salt-sweat, and the metallic tang of blood.
Matheo didn't become a powerhouse. Instead, he became a ghost made of iron. The "Stone-Eater liver" he had eaten didn't give him muscles; it gave him a fever that lasted three days. He worked with a 103-degree temperature, his vision swimming, his skin leaking a foul-smelling gray sweat as his body processed the toxins.
Every time he swung the pickaxe, it felt like his heart was going to burst. But he didn't stop. He couldn't.
The exhaustion hit a new level. One of the other slaves, a man Matheo had shared a mud-trench with, finally gave out. He collapsed, his heart stopping from the sheer pressure of the 1.7x gravity and malnutrition.
The guards didn't even stop the line. They unchained the dead man's corpse while the rest of the chain was still moving.
"Keep pulling!" the Overseer shouted.
Matheo felt the extra weight of the chain slacken, then tighten as he had to compensate for the missing man. He looked at the dead slave's face as he passed. The man looked peaceful. For a split second, Matheo envied him. Then, he felt a sharp, familiar sting in his own palm—a blister popping and immediately beginning to itch.
I don't get the mercy of death, Matheo realized. My body won't let me out that easy.
The quota was met. The Aether-Quartz crates were full. The "Crystal Abyss" had been stripped of its surface treasures, and the Governor ordered the move.
The slaves were hauled out of the humid, pulsing heat of the dungeon and back into the cold air of the Oakhaven settlement. But they weren't going back to the mud-trenches.
"Listen up, scum!" Vance—the hunter who had sold Matheo—was back, standing next to a new Overseer. He looked wealthier now, wearing a new leather chestpiece bought with the silver he'd made from Matheo's sale.
He didn't recognize Matheo. To Vance, all slaves looked the same: skeletal, grey-skinned, and broken.
"The South Wall is finished," Vance announced. "But the Black-Iron Mines in the northern foothills have a labor shortage. The gravity there is higher, and the air is thin. You've proven you can survive a D-Rank dungeon, so you're being promoted."
The "promotion" was a death sentence. The Black-Iron Mines were where they sent slaves to die when they were too used up for construction.
As they were marched toward the transport wagons, Matheo watched the hunters. He saw them drinking clean water, eating fresh bread, and laughing. He felt a cold, deep-seated hatred blooming in his chest. It wasn't the hot anger of a teenager; it was the calculated, frozen spite of a man who had seen the bottom of the world.
He looked at his hands. They were calloused and scarred, but underneath the grime, the skin was thick.
Seven days of mining. Seven days of eating scraps and poison.
He had gained exactly zero levels. He had zero magic. But he had gained something the hunters didn't have: he knew exactly how much pain he could take before he broke. And he hadn't reached that limit yet.
As the wagon gates slammed shut, locking him in darkness for the journey to the North, Matheo sat in the corner. He didn't cry this time. He just leaned his head against the wood and closed his eyes.
30 silver, he reminded himself. That was my price. I need to remember that number. Because when I finally kill the man who sold me, I'm going to leave 30 silver on his eyes.
The wagon jolted forward. The "Village" arc was over. The "Mines" were next.