“You sure have been busy, eh?”

  The sudden voice jolted Jack from his trance. “Ha!” he shouted, nearly dropping the amphora he’d been etching. His heart raced as he looked up to see Marie smirking at him.

  “What?” she asked, clearly amused.

  “I thought you were going to work at the citadel,” Jack said, trying to steady his breathing.

  “I did. For ninety minutes.”

  Jack blinked, his hands freezing mid-motion. “Wait… ninety minutes?” His gaze flicked to the system clock, confirming her words. Slowly, he turned toward the wall of amphorae. Rows of neatly crafted pots stared back at him like evidence of a crime. “I-I must have lost track of time.”

  “I can’t believe you made this many in under four hours.”

  “Me neither,” Jack admitted, a hint of pride creeping into his voice. He rubbed the back of his neck sheepishly. “Guess the next step is to fill them, huh?”

  Marie didn’t bother answering, her silence a clear signal that crafting wasn’t her domain. Instead, she climbed back onto the carriage with practiced ease, her small frame moving confidently across the bulky vehicle. Jack couldn’t help but find the sight amusing. Marie always had that eccentric air—an adult woman dressed like a little girl, wielding an oversized arsenal with the attitude of someone twice her size. The juxtaposition was absurd, yet somehow, it suited her perfectly.

  As she hoisted herself onto the roof, Jack bit his lip to stifle a laugh. The mental image of her tiny, pigtailed figure commanding the battlefield from atop the carriage was too good. But he wasn’t about to let his amusement slip—he valued his life too much to risk Marie catching on.

  “Only a couple of waves until the first boss,” she called down from the top of the carriage. “It won’t be long before we need Amari to join us.”

  Jack nodded slowly, his gaze drifting to the fire and the row of amphorae he’d crafted. Were they ready? Would these amphorae even matter? The doubt lingered for a moment before he shook his head firmly. No time to overthink it.

  He started wrapping up his assembly line, grabbing the batch of etched amphorae he’d been working on and placing them into the fire to finish. Then, he began collecting the scattered amphorae, carefully stacking them in neat rows. Once finished, he glanced over at Marie, who was already deep in battle.

  Her bomb throws were speeding up, a sign the waves were growing in number and difficulty. Eventually, this first line of defense would break.

  Gretchen’s advice about mead aging echoed in his mind: shady places with stable temperatures. She hadn’t mentioned aging mead next to a battlefield, but that much went without saying. He needed a better spot—somewhere safe from monsters and fluctuating temperatures.

  Wave 8 cleared.

  +1 breach point.

  Marie jumped off the carriage, landing lightly. “Gonna log out. See you in a bit,” she said before disappearing.

  Jack didn’t waste time. He hurried to the battlefield to gather the loot. As he sifted through the remains, something unusual caught his eye: a new kind of roach. It was massive—five times the size of the others. Its carapace glistened like polished obsidian, and its mandibles clicked menacingly, towering over its smaller kin.

  “Okay, that’s new,” Jack muttered, reaching out tentatively.

  You’ve looted a giant roach.

  You’ve picked up 32 coppers.

  You’ve picked up 4x[Insect Fat].

  +5XP in [Butchering]

  “Oof! These are filled with fat, huh?” Jack muttered, tucking the loot into his inventory. He surveyed the field as he looted, the sheer number of enemies staggering—150.

  A quick message from Horace popped up: “Starting my break. You and Amari got this.”

  Jack sighed as he finished looting. “Argh! Almost at level 4!” He let out a frustrated groan as he checked his progress. Despite the massive wave, he was just shy of leveling up his minor skill.

  Well. It would have to wait until the next wave.

  Jack gave the Breach one last look, his gaze lingering on the fortress and the rows of amphorae. The looming thought of the boss fight weighed heavily on his mind, but for now, he allowed himself a brief flicker of satisfaction.

  “Logging out,” he wrote in the party chat.

  “Logging out, too,” Amari answered.

  Then, with a deep breath, Jack logged out.

  *

  Jack pulled off his helmet and stretched, a satisfying crack echoing as he rolled his shoulders. Hours in the game had left his muscles stiff, his body protesting the prolonged stillness. Restlessness prickled under his skin, a craving for movement he couldn’t ignore. Grabbing a hoodie, he headed downstairs, laced up his sneakers, and stepped outside.

  The crisp air struck his face like a splash of cold water, jolting his senses awake. He set off jogging down the block, his steps uneven at first as he adjusted to the rhythm of real life. The burn in his calves returned after a few strides—familiar now but less punishing than in his early jogging sessions. Progress. The cool wind on his skin, the steady thud of his sneakers on the pavement—it all felt grounding, pulling him back into his body.

  The usual park came into view, its paths busy with late-morning joggers and dog walkers. On impulse, Jack veered toward the playground, stopping at the pull-up bar. He stared at it for a moment, catching his breath.

  “Alright,” he muttered, rubbing his palms together. “Let’s see if I’ve got one in me.”

  He jumped, gripping the cold metal bar. It bit into his hands as he pulled with everything he had, his arms trembling and shoulders screaming in protest. He barely made it halfway before his grip gave out, and he dropped back to the ground with a thud.

  Jack sat there for a moment, panting and glaring at the bar like it had insulted his ancestors. “Guess that answers that,” he said with a self-deprecating laugh. Determined to salvage his pride, he rolled onto his stomach and dropped into a push-up position.

  Fifteen push-ups later, his arms gave out, burning and useless like jelly. Groaning, he hauled himself to his feet and started running again. His pace slowed, but he kept it steady, pushing through the final stretch back home. By the time he stepped inside, his lungs were heaving, and his shirt was plastered to his back with sweat.

  If you spot this tale on Amazon, know that it has been stolen. Report the violation.

  Kicking off his shoes, Jack headed straight for the shower. Hot water cascaded over him, loosening the knots in his shoulders and washing away the stickiness of exertion. He emerged refreshed, throwing on a clean shirt before heading to the kitchen for a quick lunch.

  Scrambling some eggs and toasting a slice of bread, he settled at the table, scrolling through messages as he ate. Rob hadn’t replied yet. Jack sighed. Looks like I’ll have to go to his place and talk to him face-to-face.

  He switched to browsing New Earth news and checking his auction listings. The money was trickling in. The remaining ocarinas and pot hives were selling steadily, earning him another hundred credits. Satisfaction flickered as he saw his bank account refill—especially after covering the rent for his dad and paying off the helmet rental company.

  By the time he finished eating and started brewing coffee, the clock on his phone caught his attention.

  “Good thing Amari said to take ninety,” he muttered, glancing at the time. “Couple minutes late,” he grumbled, shoving his plate into the sink.

  With a renewed sense of urgency, Jack wiped his hands, dashed back to his room, and climbed into bed. He donned the helmet, the familiar hum of the game system settling over him like a second skin.

  “Time to get back to it,” he said, logging in.

  When Jack spawned back into the game, a string of messages from his teammates greeted him. A quick glance confirmed he was the last to return.

  “Time to get to work,” Jack muttered. He stuffed all his amphorae into his inventory, his fingers moving quickly as he mentally mapped out his next steps.

  The first task was crafting a torch. Easier said than done in a rocky mountain environment. He scanned the area for materials, his eyes landing on a bushy plant perched on a hillside. It was an awkward climb, his boots scraping against loose gravel as he made his way up. Once there, he stripped off a few branches and carefully descended.

  Back at ground level, he grabbed one of the strips of cloth from his inventory. Smearing it generously with insect fat, he worked it into the fabric, ensuring it absorbed the oily substance. The smell was pungent, sharp enough to make him wrinkle his nose, but he ignored it. Finally, he pulled out his tinderbox, striking it until a flame caught.

  You’ve crafted 1x[Torch]!

  +50XP in [Bushcrafting]

  Now that he was set, Jack made his way toward what he hoped was the safest spot in the fortress for storing the mead.

  On his way, Jack couldn’t help but admire the changes in the fortress. Horace had clearly been hard at work. Wherever there had been gaps in the walls, Horace had filled them with debris and sealed them with sturdy wooden planks. Jack had always seen Horace as a tank, absorbing damage and holding the line during battles. But this was the first time he’d witnessed his crafting skills in action.

  “Hey, Jacky!” Horace called out, pausing briefly to wave.

  Jack grinned. “Good job on the walls,” he said.

  “Thanks,” Horace replied simply, already focused on his next task.

  The defenses were shaping up nicely, and the fortress was starting to feel like a place they could actually hold down, even against tougher waves. Jack nodded to himself in approval as he passed through the gates and toward the courtyard.

  The courtyard was still littered with corpses of soldiers and beasts alike. Where such sights churned his stomach just a few hours prior, Jack now found himself unfazed. It was strange how quickly he’d become desensitized to the carnage.

  At the edge of the courtyard, the well loomed—a gaping, uninviting mouth swallowed by shadow. Jack hesitated, realizing with a start that he didn’t have any rope. “Of course,” he muttered, shaking his head. “No rope and no grass to make one.”

  His eyes darted around until they landed on a rusted chain nearby, coiled like a forgotten snake. He tested its strength, pulling hard against the creaking metal. Satisfied it would hold, he secured it to a nearby pillar and began his descent.

  The well wasn’t deep—five meters at most—but the darkness seemed infinite. The air grew cool and damp as Jack descended, each step on the chain ringing out against the oppressive silence.

  Good thing I made that torch.

  Jack reached the bottom and took the torch from his inventory. The flickering flame banished the darkness, revealing the rough stone walls of the well. Jack took a moment to scan his surroundings. The space was wider than expected, the cool air thick with the scent of earth and stone. It seemed perfect for storing mead.

  Frowning, Jack raised the torch higher. Its light danced across the uneven walls, revealing a dark opening set into the stone—a tunnel.

  “What’s this doing here?” he murmured, stepping closer.

  The opening was wide enough to crawl through, its edges worn smooth by time. A faint, cold draft whispered out, brushing against his face. The logical explanation was that it was part of the well’s reservoir, maybe a channel for overflow.

  His heart raced as he remembered Horace and Marie’s talk of hidden caches. This was too strange to ignore. Maybe the tunnel led to something valuable!

  Jack crouched at the entrance, tightening his grip on the torch as he ducked his head and stepped inside. The passage was narrow and uneven, forcing him to stoop lower as he moved. His boots crunched on loose gravel, the sound ricocheting eerily down the stone corridor.

  “Alright. Even if this doesn’t lead anywhere, it’s all extra space for mead. So far, so good,” he muttered, his voice low and fragile in the heavy silence.

  The tunnel suddenly veered sharply to the left. Jack paused, peering around the bend, and stepped forward cautiously.

  Then he heard it.

  Faint at first, like the rustling of leaves. Whispers. The sound crawled through the tunnel, faint and disjointed, just out of reach of comprehension.

  “H-hello?” Jack called. The word echoed down the passage.

  The whispers stopped, and then there was the frantic sound of something scrambling deeper into the darkness.

  Jack froze, the torchlight quivering in his hand. His breath hitched, his pulse hammering in his ears.

  There’s someone here!