238: Dime a Dozen
The dirty business had begun.
Nickels didn't have faith in the gods; they were real, but most were worth the dung off the back of a horse. He had seen their shrines left to rot, candles burned down to stubs, offerings crawling with flies. He passed them without a word, boots scraping on uneven stone.
He didn't have faith in kings or queens either, finding them a little too prone to being like everyone else when it suited them. Coins clinked the same no matter whose face was printed on them.
Nickels didn't even have faith in himself, unable to know what temptation he would chase next.
People, drink, and others had all been his companions for a while. They came and went, leaving behind stains on his soul and silence in the room.
But like his desires, Nickels' faith had settled onto one thing.
Dungeons.
His group, people he didn't know but could rely on being just as professional as himself, began to gather. Their boots pressed into the ash, some still smoking, and the smell of burned bark clung to their gear. Behind them, the demon tree burned from the inside, a mix of chemicals and poisons meant for hunting tree minders and forest goblins. It worked just as well on a tree woman.
The air pulsed with cracking heat, black sap running down the roots, bubbling against the wet soil. Still, it had half a mouth on it even as it died.
Nickels had never heard his mother mentioned so much nor involved in so many activities.
It was a dishonorable method for sure, more huddled around hiding spots and lobbing their inventory than any true fight. He scraped a bit of soot off his sleeve, half-listening to the chatter as others checked their packs.
Calcs did something similar, but they had the premium stuff, sharper and more stable mixtures. They could afford to take risks because they had buyers in every port. Well, they did. Most of them had up and quit the business not long ago, leaving tons of prime farming spots, unguarded routes, and room for new deals. Nickels could already see fresh claim markers hammered into the earth, a reminder that even in chaos, someone was always moving in.
Nickels was a Maxer.
A dirty subspecies of adventurer who was only in it for the profit. He kept a pouch for coin, another for chalk, and a third for proof of kills.
Nickels would have thought that was the majority, but most of the meatheads chased a damn thrill that lived somewhere in their chests. They liked the sound of steel and the heat of the fight more than the coin at the end. But they were human too.
They paid Maxers like Nickels to go deep into the dungeon, test every dirty tactic in the book and report back. He carried oil, salt, and smoke bombs, all cheap and dependable. His job was to succeed in ways that taught others not to.
Nickels got a lot of money and the 'heroes' would suddenly discover the crucial weakness of the boss everyone struggled with. He didn't ask how they explained it later. The coins came through, the work was logged, and the next hole in the ground waited.
Win-win.
He followed the others down the stairs to the Third Floor, the wooden steps changing into solid dark stone in a way only a Dungeon could manage. The shift was slow, layer by layer, the surface rougher under his boots until the sound of each step deepened into a steady thud. The walls thickened too, the grain of timber fading into cooled stone, a faint vibration humming through the air.
His foot settled on the Third Floor and the pressure of mana hit like weight dropped on his shoulders. He rolled his neck, testing how much strain it added to his breathing. It was stronger than he expected, tight and heavy across the chest.
That was worrying. He had been to the forty-second floor of the Twin Dungeon in Gemino before he turned back. He remembered the burn in his lungs and the shimmer in the air that warned him to stop.
So how could this Delta Dungeon, only three floors deep, press on him with the same kind of force the Twin Dungeon held in its thirties? He knelt and touched the floor, feeling for any hum of enchantment, but the mana was raw, not crafted. It came from below, steady and alive.
Others commented on it, but Nickels ignored them as the first room came into view, and it wasn't what he expected. Most Dungeons tried to draw explorers inward with signs of comfort or promise. Some had clear water trickling through carved fountains, others displayed doors set with fake jewels meant to catch torchlight.
This Dungeon didn't seem interested in being tempting. The air held a sharp stillness, too dry for comfort, and every step sent a thin echo into the stone. He adjusted his pack, shifting the weight so the straps stopped biting into his shoulders.
The stairs emptied them out before a massive gate of stone, metal, and blazing triangles, one side slightly thicker than the others. Each triangle glowed with a soft orange light, steady and clean, like heated metal before cooling.
A strange image for the otherwise dark cavern. The glow showed dust hanging in the air, caught in slow movement, and the smell of old iron mixed with something faintly burned. Nickels raised a hand to test the heat, and even from a distance, the gate carried warmth that reached his skin. Some of the newer Maxers moved in first while Nickels hung back. He adjusted the strap of his pack and watched their shoulders tense as they crossed the line of light cast by the gate.
Experience had tempered his greed enough that he could avoid the basic mistakes of his job. His fingers twitched toward the tools at his belt, the familiar weight of the knife and chisel grounding him in habit.
Such as rushing in like idiots without checking for traps. He crouched and ran a small metal rod along the floor, testing the seams between the tiles. No resistance, no pull of hidden pressure plates.
Still, no one mysteriously turned to paste or ended up screaming from a latch-door drop. The gate remained steady, its glow constant. In fact, everything felt downright cordial as it let them approach. The quiet almost pressed at the back of his skull.
Nickels didn't trust it. The more a Dungeon seemed to understand patience, the worse it usually was inside. He rubbed a thumb along the stone, feeling the faint tremor of mana. Nothing good came from a Dungeon that learned restraint.
As someone approached with a Glowstone, a simple rock filled with mana to keep it lit, Nickels finally got a proper look at the shadowed gate. The faint light spilled across the stone and rolled over the rough lines of its surface. The glow was steady but weak, leaving more darkness than it cleared.
It wasn't inviting at all. The air close to the gate felt thicker, touched by dust and the faint bite of old metal.
Dark stone stood reinforced by layered metal bands, each hammered deep and riveted in place. Spikes jutted upward like a warning, their tips polished smooth as if wiped clean after use.
The gate filled the chamber wall to wall, rising high enough that the ceiling disappeared into shadow. Its shape left no gaps, no hinges or visible seam, only a cold weight that promised effort for anyone trying to move it. Nickels shifted his stance, boots scraping the ground, eyes tracking along every joint and mark.
The whole structure looked alive with quiet intention to stop them.
Dozens of crude statues covered the upper half of the gate, carved in rough layers that reached toward the ceiling. Gargoyles and warped figures leaned forward from their perches, their stone eyes locked downward. Each face carried small flaws from rushed work, uneven chiseling, or cracked stone.
Nickels noticed that some were hardly more than lumps with faint human outlines while others had more definition, wings folded close or jaws stretched open. One looked like a bird mid-turn, another like a coiled serpent with hands pressed against the wall. He squinted, counting the number of complete heads, and stopped when he lost track near the top row.
"This isn't water, it's fine ooze," someone muttered as they crouched near the lower panels. The light caught faint threads stretching from one statue's chin to the stone below. The man touched it, his fingers sinking slightly into the damp surface before pulling back. Thin strands clung between his fingertips, stretching and snapping with a faint wet sound.
Nickels didn't fancy wasting an antidote on the idiot if he had poisoned himself. He kept the vial capped in his pouch and waited. If the fool started twitching, someone else could deal with it.
Who touched random slime in a Dungeon?
As the group gathered again, a new sound stirred from the rows of statues. It began low, like air moving through hollow space, and rolled across the chamber until every carved mouth seemed to breathe. The vibrations pressed through Nickels' boots before lifting into the walls, steady and deliberate.
The noise wasn't a single voice. It was several, all blending, carrying a faint rattle deep within the stone. Then one voice cut through the rest, sharp and far too cheerful.
"Turn back, outsiders. You've all been… pretty naughty. You're all on 'Stage Three: Warned, Listen, Sweat'," it said, the tone bouncing between command and amusement.
A few Maxers froze where they stood. Nickels' hand moved toward his knife by reflex. The air thickened again, the glowstones dimming against the pressure of the unseen presence beyond the gate.
That phrase, the strange Shaman Frog woman had warned them they had been on stage 2 before, was it unique to each floor? But the stages had sounded more mild than 'sweat'...
"For winning?" someone called back, a voice with too much energy for the room. One of the younger Maxers, Nickels noted, was the type that thought a Dungeon was a stage and not a system meant to kill them. The man had looted less than the others, taking more time to laugh and watch. His grin stayed wide, his hands resting on his knees as if ready for a show.
"Well, no," the voice replied, carrying that same mix of patience and scolding humor. "You're all currently in trouble for the rampant murder, theft, destruction of properties, tricking Sir Fran into eating a poisoned meal so he was unable to defend himself, setting the jungle on fire to clear sections of it, chemical warfare on the Pygmies, and using weedkiller on Wyin."
The air shifted with a deep inhale that carried through every corner of the chamber, like the walls had lungs. A few stones rattled free from above and fell near the gate.
"Burning the spider webs, smashing pots left as gifts, using explosions as fishing tactics, robbing Fera of her important liqueurs, and using the hotsprings without leaving a tip," the voice finished at last, the tone almost pleased to have the list complete.
"The only reason you're only on Stage Three is you don't all enjoy the methods. More like a job really, so the lack of malice helps your case!" the voice continued, carrying a tone too cheerful for the accusation. The glowstone light shifted slightly as if the sound itself made the air hum.
"Enough. By the rules of nature, we cannot be barred from going forward. Present your challenge or be silent," one of the more experienced Maxers called out. His tone was sharp, meant to carry authority. The man's boots were set wide, sword half drawn.
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It worked. The voice hesitated, the echo cutting off mid-breath. The quiet that followed felt heavier than before. Nickels caught the faint sound of dripping from behind the gate, something moving or resetting itself.
It was likely wise to interrupt. Dungeons had learned to talk, flatter, and twist stories to distract people from their rules. They could fake emotion and build an atmosphere, but they could not lie about what their function demanded.
There was a pause. The kind that dragged on long enough for weapons to shift and boots to scrape.
"You know," the voice started again, slower now, "we've not really had a Stage Three reach the third floor yet. Stage Ones? Like lemmings. Stage Two? Rarer, but they sneak past. But Three?" It lingered on the word before continuing, tone lifting with faint satisfaction. "Wyin is usually strict about such matters, so we're quite excited to have you all here as… guests."
The last word carried weight. The gate shuddered once, sending a dull vibration through the ground. Dozens of the statues trembled with it, their joints grinding, dust seeping from every gap. The light from the Glowstones flickered across the carvings, catching the small movements of shifting stone.
Then came the sound of strain, low and uneven, like rock bending against its own weight. The air filled with a brittle tension that made several Maxers draw back a step. Bits of grit fell from above, bouncing off shoulders and packs. Nickels kept still, eyes on the gate's center where the sound grew deeper, a steady crack that refused to finish breaking.
One of the gargoyles suddenly moved forward, wings spreading with a scrape that echoed through the chamber. Its mouth opened wide, stone teeth clacking together.
"So, how about we-" it began, voice cut short as the first volley struck. Arrows and glass vials flew, the impacts cracking across its chest. The chemicals burst, spilling smoke that hissed where it touched the stone. The creature staggered, one wing breaking off before the rest of its body slumped forward. Its form broke apart on impact, pieces melting into a thin slurry that left a dull stain across the floor.
Silence followed. Nickels stayed near the back, knife drawn low. His eyes scanned the ceiling, the walls, the ledges high above. Nothing moved, but small chips of rock still fell where the fight had started.
"Stone creatures, matching the species of gargoyle. Each form has different abilities. Look for visual cues on their shell," someone called from the front. The voice was steady, practiced. Nickels listened carefully, noting the tone and distance before tucking the information away.
He kept a running list in his head of every creature, trick, and trap that might end him. Gargoyles were new, but not impossible.
Nickels didn't do faith or religious-style Dungeons. Those always twisted too fast into rituals and voices. It went bad real fast, and the ones praying usually went first.
"That was rude!" the same voice barked as the bat creature reformed from another statue, its surface bubbling where the stone pulled itself together. The faceless mass reshaped into the same gargoyle as before, wings stretching with a pop of stone joints.
Nickels tensed. His hands and mind separated into their own rhythm. His body moved first, boots sliding over the rough floor as he ducked behind a shallow groove in the wall, barely enough space for cover. The stone pressed cold against his back.
He leaned out again, careful not to expose too much of himself. A dozen statues still lined the gate, unmoving but restless. The air had a faint tremor, the kind that made the torchlight flicker. Cracks traced over a few of the carvings, and small flakes slid down their faces, scattering across the floor in dry little clicks.
Horde rush? The idea sat cold in his chest. His breathing slowed, every inhale controlled, eyes tracking the spread of movement along the wall.
Or maybe a Source. One central body feeding the rest, recycling its energy to keep the shell alive. He counted seconds between each tremor, listening for a pattern.
Could be a Puppet too, the gargoyle nothing more than an echo, the gate itself directing its every twitch.
Thoughts layered and broke apart faster than he could sort them. His grip tightened around the knife until the leather handle bit into his palm. The edge of the blade gleamed faintly in the low light.
No plan would last long if the statues came to life together. His body stayed low, weight balanced on his heels. Every sense pointed forward to a single rule he knew by habit, not choice.
Survive.
"Mass destruction, melt the gate down!" someone shouted, and the group fell in like trained hands at work. Bottles clinked, arrows notched, runes cracked to life.
The Gargoyle wrenched itself free, dust exploding off its wings. It dropped fast, gliding low before rising again with a sweep of stone claws. It looked like an easy shot, but as it moved, a shimmer wrapped around its body. Every arrow that flew twisted away, every vial hit nothing but air. The barrier bent the attacks aside before fading again.
It landed hard, tail sweeping wide. The impact thudded through the floor, tossing a few Maxers off their feet. "Dozer doesn't doze on the job!" the Gargoyle barked, voice distorted by the echoing walls.
It charged again, the same shield flaring back to life. Several Maxers scrambled for barrier charms or shifted aside, boots scraping stone. A pulse of mana burst each time their protections met its field, leaving trails of heat in the air.
Nickels held back, eyes narrow. The shimmer caught his attention, not the impact. It wasn't random. Each time the creature built speed, the light folded around it in a pattern. For a breath, the shield's edge wavered near its left wing.
He had seen the weakness.
"Rear, seven o'clock!" Nickels shouted, voice sharp enough to cut through the noise. He darted along the side, boots skidding on loose grit, keeping low until he reached the gargoyle's blind spot. The creature swung two Maxers together, the collision ringing through the chamber before both hit the floor in a heap.
Nickels closed in. His knife met the light around the wing, and the barrier flared once, then flickered. The blade pushed through as if the shield had no strength to resist, biting into the outer layer of stone. A crack spread out from the wound, dust spilling from the edge.
The knife was a piece he had traded off a Calc long ago, back when he only trusted his own hands to get him through. For months, it had been all he cared about. He had slept with it drawn close, fingers curled around the hilt even in dreams.
Only a few days ago had he forced himself to stop that habit, to use his other gear again, to act like the job required more than one tool. It was like waking from a foggy dream, the knife more ugly than appealing now.
Still, the blade had earned its place. The runes along the edge burned faintly now, the mana reacting to contact.
It could pierce through stone, and that meant through anything this monster called a body.
Nickels' knife went deep, the blade grating through the dense surface until it hit resistance. The gargoyle froze mid-motion, its bat-like head turning with slow, deliberate effort to face him.
"I ain't stopping you for my benefit," it said, voice rough, the grin that followed stretched and wrong. The barrier shimmered back to life around its body, but the damage had already spread. Lines cracked outward from the wound, crawling across its frame in a pattern that pulsed with faint light.
The knife's enchantment, meant for breaking locks and metal joints, was doing its work. The mana inside the weapon forced pressure into the stone, snapping through every weak point it found. The gargoyle's steps faltered, knees grinding before both legs began to crumble.
It looked down at itself as fragments broke away. "I didn't even get to use the gate… but I was trying to be nice…"
The voice lost volume as the head sagged forward, body collapsing piece by piece until the last fragment hit the ground with a sharp crack. Dust spread in a small ring around the remains.
All that stayed intact was a stone-heart, warm from mana and faintly glowing. A small reward, worthless to most but prized by alchemists and blacksmiths for its density. Nickels crouched, testing its weight before slipping it into a side pouch. The fight was over, but the gate still waited.
Even as that thought crossed his mind, a deep groan rolled through the chamber. The glowing orange triangles along the gate darkened to a burnt hue, heat bleeding faintly into the air. The gates shuddered, joints scraping with the weight of old metal. When they finally began to swing open, the sound was near deafening, each inch grinding against the hinges until stealth was no longer a concern for anyone alive.
The space beyond was pure black, the air still and thick except for a single orange glow deeper in the passage. It sat low, steady, marking the next path.
The Third Floor was open.
Nickels scanned the group again. Bottles were half-empty, arrowheads dulled to gray, fingers raw where leather had rubbed skin away. A dozen costly potions gone, smoke from the burned mixtures still thick in the air. The ground was littered with shards of glass and bits of torn cloth from exploded charms.
Their packs sagged thin. Frayed stitching hung loose, tools rattling near the bottom where the good supplies used to sit. No one dared speak. Even breathing sounded too loud now.
All that work, all that coin, only to reach the start of the Third Floor, a depth others walked into with half the loss. Nickels wiped his blade against his sleeve, the motion slow and steady, and checked each strap at his waist.
The real work started now.
Still, something pressed against the edge of his thoughts, a quiet weight that refused to fade. The air carried it too, a tension that didn't belong to victory.
From the rubble near the gate, a broken piece stirred. The cracked jaw of the gargoyle shifted, faint light spilling through the gaps. Its voice rasped out a final sound before turning to dust.
"Stage… four…"
The word meant nothing on paper, yet Nickels felt the rules move around it.
All around him, men and women straightened up, shoulders squared, the weight of fear replaced with noise and breathless talk. Some grinned as they checked their weapons, others started boasting about how fast the gargoyle had fallen.
Nickels stayed still. Confidence spread through the group like heat off a forge, quick and without aim. He could almost feel it settle on his skin, the kind of buzz that made people forget how close they had come to dying.
Their overconfidence was more poisonous than anything he carried in his bag. He had seen it before, after every small win. It always ended the same way, and the clean-up never lasted long.
He would not drink from that same source. He would not let it seep into his thinking. His hands stayed on the knife, knuckles pale under the grime.
It would kill him faster than any monster could. And in this place, it would not even leave a body to bury.
Nickels would reach the core.
Nickels would survive.
He had to…