“Our multi-level mining facilities offer students the freedom to choose their own challenge level.

  Deeper floors provide enhanced learning opportunities and premium drop rates.

  Remember: personal growth requires personal responsibility!”

  — Traninum South High Mining Program Brochure

  The mining hallway stretched ahead of us, transforming from polished school corridors into something that belonged underground.

  The floor changed from tile to reinforced grating, and the walls shifted from corporate-sponsored white to raw concrete reinforced with steel beams. Overhead lighting became harsher, casting industrial shadows that made everyone look slightly scary.

  Or that was just me…

  Other student groups moved around us, heading toward different elevator banks. Conversations echoed off the concrete, mixing with the distant hum of machinery and the periodic hiss of pressure locks equalizing somewhere deeper in the complex.

  We reached the banks; six massive industrial lifts, each one large enough to hold twenty students comfortably or ten students with full mining equipment uncomfortably.

  The elevator cars here were the same as in the south, the usual steel frames with meshed floors that let you see straight down into the shaft below, heavy-duty cable systems visible through reinforced plexiglass panels, and control panels that could survive a second apocalypse. I wrinkled my nose, as the entire space smelled like industrial lubricant.

  Ugh. I need a filter mask as my next project.

  Students clustered around different elevators, checking their gear one last time before descent.

  A group of five headed into the leftmost car, and I caught fragments of their conversation about quota numbers and respawn timers. Another group waited for the middle elevator, their weapons already drawn, clearly planning to hit the ground fighting.

  Veronica stopped in front of the third elevator from the left, turning to face us as she’d been thinking about this moment since we left the classroom.

  “So,” she said, her augmented eyes focusing on each of us. “Where are we going? I’m thinking -20. Good drops, decent challenge, and we’ve got four people now.”

  “Absolutely not.” Cindy instantly shut her down.

  “Come on—”

  “Veronica,” Cindy turned toward her. “Floor -20 is the first incursion level of danger. We are not ready for that.”

  “We don’t know until we try,” Veronica protested, but her voice had already lost some of its conviction.

  Rico shifted his weight, and his shield clanked softly against his armor plating. “She’s right about -20 being too much. But...” He paused, glancing at the elevator’s floor display panel. The numbers went down to -24, each floor marked with a small indicator showing current occupancy levels. “We’ve been doing -9 pretty comfortably. What if we compromised?”

  Veronica perked up. “Compromise how?”

  “Floor -18,” Rico said. “It gets harder every two levels. We’re jumping nine floors from our usual, so that’s what, four or five difficulty increases? Should be manageable with four of us.” He paused, then added with a grin, “Plus, I heard the drops are double on -18 compared to -9. Could hit quota in half the time.”

  I stared at the elevator’s floor display, my brain catching on something that felt simultaneously obvious and embarrassing.

  Twenty-four subfloors.

  The south elevator I’d been using for months had fifteen.

  Just fifteen.

  I’d been working the shallowest, easiest, most picked-over levels in the entire mining complex because I hadn’t known there were options beyond what that one elevator offered. Because I was too proud to socialize and professors didn’t bother to explain.

  No wonder my quota numbers had been shit and had to scramble around.

  Cindy turned to me, clearly expecting backup. “Dash? What do you think? Too dangerous, right?”

  I looked at her, then at the floor display, then back at her.

  “My sword is good enough to destroy an incursion, and,” I said, patting the hoodie over my chest where the impact foam sat hidden beneath the combat fibers. I did some basic tests yesterday with a kitchen knife and a meat mallet, which it passed. “My armor can withstand it. If things go south, we can always call for help, right?”

  Cindy looked like I’d just volunteered to juggle live grenades. “People get hurt even when they call for help, Dash. Response time down there is at least five minutes, and that’s if security isn’t dealing with something else.”

  “But we can call for help,” I pressed. “Which means it’s not suicidal, just risky.”

  She stared at me for a long moment, her jaw working slightly as if physically restraining the lecture she wanted to deliver. Finally, she sighed with the sound of someone accepting an inevitable disaster.

  “Fine. Floor -18. But we stick together, we don’t split up, and the second things look bad, we’re calling it and getting out. Understood?”

  “Understood,” Veronica said, grinning with the victory of someone who’d gotten exactly what they wanted through strategic compromise.

  Rico nodded, adjusting his shield strap. “Works for me. Been wanting to test this build against something tougher anyway.”

  I met Cindy’s eyes, seeing the mix of concern and resignation there. “Hope you’re not irritated you picked me up,” I said.

  Her expression softened, though the worry didn’t quite leave. “Better to go there with you than with just the three of us,” she admitted. “At least you’ve got that magic sword and apparently indestructible clothing. Even if you look like you’re going to a casual Friday at a corpo office.”

  “It’s a very tactical casual Friday,” I said.

  “The hoodie isn’t tactical,” Veronica pointed at my hoodie with a smirk. “It’s yellow.”

  I fought an urge to pull out schematics to explain why it was. “It has high durability, maximum mobility, and enhanced functionality. Tactical.”

  “Yellow,” Veronica delivered with a grin as if one word could be an argument.

  Instead of answering I just sighed, and Cindy snorted, then turned toward the elevator. “Come on. Let’s do this before I change my mind.”

  We stepped into the elevator car together, our boots clanking against the meshed floor. Through the gaps in the grating, I could see the shaft extending down into darkness, cables and guide rails disappearing into depths that looked as if the complex went far deeper than twenty-four floors.

  Cindy reached for the control panel, her finger hovering over the button marked -18. “Are we sure about it?”

  Veronica skipped toward her with a smile, and pressed Cindy’s hand along with the button.

  The elevator lurched, then began its descent with a mechanical groan that didn’t inspire confidence. The shaft walls slid past us, level markers flashing by at regular intervals: -1, -2, -3. Each floor we passed felt like a small commitment, a choice we couldn’t take back until we either hit quota or called for extraction.

  Rico leaned against the elevator’s back wall, his shield resting against his leg. “So, Dash. You really fought an incursion with just that sword?”

  “I had my rifle,” I said, watching the floor numbers tick down. “But this sword… is special, system-grade. Had to use it when things got closer to me. Actually, wanted to train with the sword today on easier… bugs.”

  “Easier?” Cindy smirked, but didn’t add more.

  If you come across this story on Amazon, be aware that it has been stolen from Royal Road. Please report it.

  Veronica leaned on the wall and asked with doubting tone, “and you survived?”

  “Obviously.”

  “How many enemies?”

  “Tens of shrikes, thus needing the rifle.”

  Though, I liked the rifle I had back in the arcades, but I didn’t have enough materials to build one. Well, here’s hoping Eddy’s sale on Monday would include capacitors for coilgun.

  The elevator passed -10, and the temperature dropped noticeably. The air quality changed too, becoming slightly thicker, carrying that underground smell of stone and moisture and things that lived in darkness.

  Cindy was watching me with an expression I couldn’t quite read. “You survived alone?”

  “I had backup,” I admitted. “I have an IC friend, she helped me.”

  “Crazy,” Rico said, but there was respect in his tone. “Should have guessed, you’re a Kallum. No wonder you think -18 is manageable.”

  The elevator continued down: -12, -14, -16.

  Through the meshed floor, I caught glimpses of the lower levels as we passed. Tunnels branching off into darkness, the occasional flicker of emergency lighting.

  -17.

  The elevator slowed, shifting pitch as we approached our level.

  My hand moved to my sword’s hilt automatically, muscle memory from months of mining runs kicking in despite the different context. Veronica’s augmented eyes were already scanning ahead without Cindy prompting. Rico hefted his shield, the riot-grade equipment settling into position. Cindy checked her rifle one more time

  -18.

  The elevator stopped with a final clank that echoed through the shaft.

  The doors didn’t open instantly. Instead, a warning klaxon sounded, followed by a voice that had clearly been recorded by someone who’d given up on life decades ago:

  “Sublevel eighteen. School threat level: high. Students are reminded that Traninum South High is not responsible for injuries, deaths, or equipment loss sustained during voluntary mining operations below sublevel ten. Emergency extraction requests should be directed to security frequency seven. Please exit carefully and remember: quota is life.”

  The doors slid open with a hydraulic hiss, revealing darkness beyond.

  Emergency lighting strips ran along the tunnel ceiling at regular intervals, casting pools of red-tinted illumination that did more to create shadows than eliminate them. The walls here were different from the upper levels, somehow rougher.

  The air that rolled into the elevator was cold and damp, carrying scents that made me regret I hadn’t prioritized building a mask.

  Veronica stepped out first.

  Her augmented eyes adjusted to the low light with visible flickers of processing, and her carbine came up automatically, sweeping the visible tunnel in smooth arcs. Rico followed, his shield leading, his shotgun held ready in his right hand. He moved with surprising quiet for someone his size, each step placed carefully to minimize noise.

  Cindy went next, her rifle tracking different angles than Veronica’s, the two of them instinctively covering overlapping fields of fire.

  I stepped out last, and the elevator doors hissed shut behind me.

  We were committed now.

  [Entering Dungeon: Traninum Mine -18]

  “Formations,” Cindy whispered. “Rico on point, Veronica scouts ahead, Dash in the middle, I’ve got rear guard. Standard sweep pattern, call out contacts immediately, and for Aurelia’s sake, don’t do anything stupid.”

  She looked directly at me when she said that last part.

  “Who, me?” I said innocently.

  “Yes, you. The guy who thinks a non-tactical yellow hoodie is adequate protection against bugs that dissolve armor plating.”

  The strength on my clothing was not tested in real battle condition. Which I was doing now, kinda. Was I stupid, trusting my design so much I skipped proper tests?

  …maybe.

  Next time I’ll make proper tests, but now… I will trust in myself and Hoqalo.

  “Told you, it’s a very good tactical hoodie; it’s better than armor.”

  “We’ll see,” she muttered, then gestured for Rico to move forward.

  We started down the tunnel, our footsteps echoing softly off stone walls that seemed to absorb sound in strange ways. The temperature continued dropping as we moved away from the elevator, and I could see my breath misting slightly in the emergency lighting’s red glow.

  Somewhere ahead, deeper in the darkness, bugs shrieked.

  High-pitched; metallic, the distinctive sound of bugs that had found prey or territory worth defending.

  Veronica’s hand went up immediately, signaling us to stop. She tilted her head as if processing something we couldn’t see, then made a series of quick gestures that I didn’t recognize but Cindy and Rico clearly did.

  Multiple contacts?

  Rico’s shield came up, and Cindy’s rifle tracked toward the sound. And I drew my sword, feeling the weight settle into my grip as the darkness ahead of us moved.

  They came out of the darkness like a wave of oil and chitin.

  Ten bugs, maybe more, their carapaces gleaming in the emergency lighting with that sickly iridescence I remembered from the upper levels, except these were different in ways that made my stomach clench.

  Larger, for one thing.

  Each one easily fifty percent bigger than the bugs I’d been farming, their bodies thick and armored. They moved differently too, more coordinated than the chaotic scrambling I was used to. They spread out as they advanced, flanking instinctively, their multiple eyes tracking each of us.

  The shrieking intensified, a chorus of screeches that reflected off the tunnel walls and made my teeth ache.

  Rico moved first, his shield slamming down into a defensive position with a metallic clang that rang through the tunnel. “Contact front! Ten-plus!”

  His shotgun boomed, the muzzle flash illuminating the tunnel in stark white light for a split second. The lead bug took the blast center-mass and staggered, its carapace cracking but not shattering the way I’d expected.

  It recovered almost instantly, mandibles clicking with what sounded like irritation, if bugs could feel that.

  “They’re tanky!” Rico called, pumping another shell and firing. This one caught a bug mid-leap, sending it spinning sideways into the tunnel wall, but it hit the stone and bounced back up, three of its legs clearly damaged but still functional enough to keep it in the fight.

  Cindy’s rifle opened up in controlled bursts.

  Her aim was good; each burst targeting joints and sensory clusters, but the bugs were fast enough that half her shots sparked off carapace instead of finding vulnerable spots. “Tougher than -9!” she shouted over the noise. “Adjust fire!”

  Veronica’s carbine added to the chaos, her augmented eyes giving her an edge in the low light but not enough to compensate for how much punishment these bugs could absorb.

  I watched her land three clean hits on the same target, saw the ichor spray from impact wounds, but the bug kept coming until her fourth shot finally found something vital and dropped it in a twitching heap.

  Four down out of ten, and they’d barely slowed.

  The formation held, Rico’s shield creating a choke point that forced the bugs to come at us from a limited angle while Cindy and Veronica poured fire into the clustered mass.

  It should have worked; it was working, except the bugs weren’t dying fast enough and I could see Rico’s shield arm shaking under the repeated impacts of claws and mandibles testing his defense.

  One of the bugs, smaller and faster than the others, found an opening.

  It darted low, using a corpse as cover, and slipped past Rico’s shield before he could adjust. Cindy tracked it, but held fire, probably worried about hitting me or Rico with the angle wrong.

  The bug’s eyes fixed on me, and it lunged.

  I truly wished I had a rifle right now.

  The thought hit me with perfect clarity as the bug closed the distance, its claws gouging stone with each step.

  But I didn’t have a rifle, I had a sword, and about two seconds before the bug reached me.

  I stepped forward, bringing the blade up in what I desperately hoped looked like proper form, and swung as the bug leaped.

  The sword caught its front left leg at the joint. The blade didn’t care about my sloppy angle or weak wrist position; its sharpness just sheared through chitin and muscle like they weren’t there, the cut so clean I barely felt resistance.

  The leg separated, blue ichor spraying in an arc that splattered across my hoodie, and the bug’s trajectory went sideways as it lost the limb. It crashed into the tunnel floor with a shriek that sounded genuinely pissed off, its remaining legs scrambling for purchase on stone slick with its own blood.

  I tried to follow up.

  I brought the sword around for what I thought would be a finishing strike, but the bug was faster than I expected. It twisted, mandibles snapping, and lunged upward from its awkward one-leg-less stance.

  The mandibles closed on my midsection with a pressure that drove the air from my lungs.

  No penetration; the combat fiber held against the cutting edges, and the impact foam beneath absorbed the crushing force, distributing it across the padding the way it was designed to.

  But designed to protect didn’t mean designed to feel comfortable, and the pressure was wrong, like being caught in a hydraulic press that was slowly testing exactly how much force human ribs could withstand.

  It hurt.

  The bug’s weight bore down on me, its remaining legs scrabbling against my chest and shoulders for better purchase, claws scraping across combat fiber with sounds that made my skin crawl.

  I stumbled backward, my balance completely shot, and the bug came with me.

  We went down together in a tangle of limbs and chitin, my back hitting stone hard enough that I felt it even through the hoodie’s padding. The bug’s mandibles were still clamped on my midsection, still squeezing, and up close I could see every horrible detail of its face: the multiple eyes blinking out of sync, the smaller mouth parts working beneath the mandibles, the way ichor dripped from the stump where its leg used to be.

  I tried to get the sword between us, angling for anything that looked vital, but the bug’s weight pinned my sword arm and I couldn’t get the leverage I needed for a proper strike.

  My other hand grabbed at its carapace, trying to push it off, but my fingers just slid across the slick surface without finding purchase.

  This was exactly why I preferred shooting things from a safe distance.

  A shotgun blast deafened me; the muzzle flash was so close it left purple afterimages across my vision. The bug’s head disintegrated in a spray of blue gore and chitin fragments, and the sudden dead weight collapsed onto my chest with a wet thump.

  Rico’s hand appeared in my vision, offered down with the casual ease of someone who pulled teammates out of dangerous situations regularly. “You good?”

  I grabbed his hand and let him haul me up, the bug’s corpse sliding off me with a squelch that I felt through the hoodie’s fabric.

  “Yeah,” I managed, breathing hard. “Thanks.”

  “Don’t mention it.” He turned back to the tunnel, his shield coming up again as two more bugs charged our position. “Cindy! Veronica! Status?”

  “Three left!” Cindy called back, her rifle cracking in bursts. “Veronica’s got one, I’ve got—make that two left!”

  The remaining bugs didn’t seem interested in tactical withdrawal.

  They came at us with aggressive stupidity; they either didn’t understand they were losing or didn’t care.

  I really regretted coming here without a ranged weapon.

  At the arcade with the twins, I’d found something I was actually good at: sitting back, lining up shots, watching targets drop from a safe distance where bugs couldn’t bite your face off. The sniper rifle had felt right in a way sword work never had, satisfying and lacking immediate physical danger.

  Rico caught one on his shield, the impact driving him back a step, but his shotgun spoke and the bug dropped. Veronica’s carbine stitched a line across the last one’s carapace until something vital ruptured and it collapsed mid-charge.

  [Mana LP progress: 5%]

  Silence.

  Not complete silence, there was still the ambient hum of the mine’s ventilation systems, the occasional drip of water or ichor from the tunnel ceiling, our own ragged breathing, but the shrieking had stopped.

  “Let’s do that again!” Veronica grinned.

  TODAY’S CHAPTER IS BROUGHT TO YOU BY Cindy

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