He descended further that next delve.

  He lacked the means to measure his depth, but he had long since passed the tunnels where simple rats subsisted off of scraps. The beasts were still rats, although they were even more misshapen than before, and much larger. The smallest came at the size of a small dog.

  The first pack he fought, he had been surprised by their weight and their ferocity. They appeared to have more cunning as well. He still killed them, but he had taken moderate injuries while doing so.

  Afterwards, it took him the better part of an hour to recover, and during that time he harvested his kills.

  The Dungeon Stones were larger, perhaps twice the size of the small pebbles that the lesser rats had carried. Even more exciting, at least to Nick, was the quality of their bones. They were larger, and the osseous material felt denser, responding more easily to his commands. He toyed with their spines and ribs, cleaning and merging each set into flexible bars for future crafting.

  He lost himself in the crafting, believing one place as secure as another.

  He lined the bars up lengthwise, and began to join them, although the joins still felt weak. As far as holding everything together though, it worked well enough, at least for carrying. The final assembly was almost as long as he was tall, and he thought it would make a fine spear, at least if he could strengthen it without making it too brittle.

  He was toying with different types of interlacing joints connecting the blocks when he heard voices.

  They were echoing from a branching tunnel above him.

  After pausing a moment, he shrugged it off and kept working to reinforce what was quickly becoming a partially segmented spear. He was playing with the idea of leaving several joints as hinges which he could exploit with his bone manipulation.

  But the echoes grew louder. He paused again, listening. He now heard individual syllables in their conversation. The direction they were coming from seemed a fraction brighter than before, though it was difficult to tell for certain.

  Still, there were several turns between him and them, by his estimation. Likely they would turn down a different passage… but what if they kept heading towards him? He bit his lip in an uncharacteristic display of nerves.

  These louts were presumably criminals, sentenced to the penal-colony as they were, meaning they must have been the unsavory sort.

  If he caught them by surprise and ambushed them, there was a possibility he could come out ahead of a violent confrontation. However, there was just as much, if not more, possibility that he would fail.

  The potential gains failed to measure against the definite risks.

  He collected his bones and gear and fled further down into the dungeon. He had been planning to descend anyways, this just meant he took less of a break than he had intended.

  Several turns later, without any sign of the party, and without any further beasts encountered, he paused once more to finish his spear. He was unable to design a hinge joint that would be practical in combat, so instead he smoothed the osseous matter into a single piece, with nary a trace of the previous shape of the bones.

  With his new spear in hand, he continued his descent and soon encountered another pack of the mutant dog-things.

  This pack of beasts was composed of somewhat larger specimens. The spear strained and splinted during the fight. On the last of them, the spear bent as the beast snapped its jaws about the shaft, even as it impaled the beast.

  Nick held the broken shaft dumbfounded as the beast continued through to latch its teeth around Nick’s chest and begin thrashing.

  It hurt, and it was startling to have his weapon break so suddenly, but that was not what caused him pause. Rather, it was a realization he had while the beast mauled him: Nick could feel the bones within the beast, the still living beast.

  A steak sized piece of meat tore from Nick before he snapped out of his reverie.

  The beast snarled, red mouthed and gristly, crouching to pounce.

  Nick reached out with that other-sense and felt the skeletal system within the beast… he gripped and twisted.

  The beast yelped and spasmed, falling to the side and flailing, foamy vomit beginning at its mouth.

  He had not managed to move the bones by much, shifting the mass within each bone by fractions of an inch. But not much distance was required to ruin the beast.

  While the beast suffered its seizure, Nick continued to examine these bones, testing the limits of what he could manipulate within a still-living specimen. He wondered if he had always been able to do this, or if it was a recent development.

  Eventually, the beast perished, and Nick collected stones and the choicest bones. He repaired his spear, added to it, and then departed and continued to descend.

  The beasts grew in size and strangeness and the fights grew in difficulty.

  Despite this, his pace was not slowed, for he grew as well. He improved his bone-craft, making better weapons and armor, including boots, sabatons, greaves, skirt, and arm guards. After a troll-like creature tore his ear off, he added a helmet as well. He also practiced with his ability to warp the bones within a still living enemy. He found that this only occurred once his claimed material met an enemy's skeleton.

  He likely spent days. Perhaps weeks. But eventually, his rate of growth slowed. His gains were either diminishing, or the improvements required more effort to achieve.

  This slowed his descent, but he remained without dismay. He considered that his needs were met, that he had abundant resources, and that he was still improving. It was not as though he would starve or die of thirst. It just took him longer to descend than it had before. Instead of choosing the most direct downward path, he pursued tangential side-paths that offered beasts of a similar scope.

  This became his purgatory. There was no sky and no means to keep track of the days gone past except for his own circadian rhythm, which seemed inconsistent at best. His body apparently regenerated from the damage that fatigue would otherwise cause.

  At least, he assumed his regeneration would account for it.

  Eventually though, a weakness began to form. Not terrible at first. More akin to standing up too quickly and feeling slightly light headed.

  He made note of it and continued his gradual descent.

  The further he progressed, the weaker he felt, and it was not merely in relation to his enemies.

  His hands had begun to tremble. He wondered if it was a psychological effect.

  He descended further.

  His chest ached and he felt short of breath. Enough time had passed that he was now very sure that the reason was external rather than him, and most certainly not because of some repressed traumatic experience or lack of social engagements. He reasoned that perhaps this deeping into the dungeon suffered from some form of invisible environmental hazard.

  Down he went, descending further, pushing past his weakness. Afterall, he could regenerate. Any problems would only be temporary at worst.

  The dizziness and vertigo became more prevalent. Oftentimes the tunnels seemed to be spinning about him. He found himself stumbling into walls as he went.

  He could not fight like this, not in this state.

  He paused, setting up an impromptu camp, bone stakes driven into the cracks of the stone ceiling and creating pitons for a makeshift hammock, well above what most creatures could reach. He rested there for some time, but the weakness did not abate.

  However, the weakness grew no worse than it already was.

  When it became apparent that he was not going to improve by waiting, he decided he was only wasting time by remaining where he was, and that descending further would be unwise. During the time that he had tried waiting the illness out, a suspicion had begun to form, and he decided to test it.

  He broke camp and began ascending.

  During this time, he avoided encounters wherever possible, keeping his growth constant. His experiment would be less conclusive if his godsmark grew while he ascended.

  He was growing famished and beginning to starve, he had been traveling for so long without fresh kills to eat. Days must have passed during this time. And despite his hunger… the dizziness and vertigo ceased.

  His suspicions seemed well-founded and his ire was roused. He took his anger out upon a goblin-thing that he ambushed.

  The ascent continued and his trembling stopped.

  Then, the weakness began to lessen.

  By the time he had reached the level of the dungeon that produced dog-things, he had returned to a level of normalcy.

  While not proven, the evidence weighed heavily enough that he came to a conclusion, and this conclusion angered him greatly. He wanted to swear, he wanted to rage, he wanted to kill whoever it was that sentenced him to this pit without even a mockery of a trial. Even if a means of escape existed in the depths, he would be unable to reach them, as he had been somehow leashed to the penal colony. Stray too far and this weakness would grow and eventually incapacitate him.

  And while he could not be certain the means used to leash him, he suspected it was the gem that had been carved from his chest, his ‘phylactery.’

  It was a complication to his eventual escape plans. If he were to find a means to escape, it would need to be through the fortress itself, where his gem was stored. That, or at least he would need to disable whatever means of control the warden of this prison used. Either way, he would need to return to the penal colony.

  Now that he knew he would need to return to town, he began to craft better armor, particularly a back and chestplate. He thickened his helmet and made a gorget. He had yet to find an adequate way to make the bone garments comfortable. He also made several knives meant for single use, sharp, thin, and brittle. He toyed with the idea of sneaking toxins into the pores of the material, but he had yet to find anything harvestable.

  Upon reaching the toll-takers at the top of the dungeon, he and they spent a moment in silence.

  His mouth was dry and his tongue ill-practiced for speech after so long by himself.

  He recognized the female though, and she recognized him.

  “Heh, been a while,” she said.

  He nodded.

  “Bet you got stronger too.”

  He nodded once more, still working at loosening his tongue.

  “Think you’re strong enough to get past us?”

  “M-maybe,” he said, but as he said this, he tossed one of his larger Dungeon Stones her way.

  “Good enough,” she said, before nodding him through.

  After a period of time spanning months, he finally returned to the penal-colony, all the richer in both resources and strength. He kept a hand on his spear and another on his reinforced bag of wealth.

  The hungry stares he felt from the town’s denizens followed him.

  The tower stood out amidst the center of town.

  It lacked ornamentation, simply a bleak stone edifice marked with portholes and balconies from which shots could be fired down upon the town’s residents. It was not the tallest building in town, but it was close. It stood all the more prominently as the field surrounding the tower was left open, populated only by transient stalls.

  The tower was also the only place that Dungeon Stones could be exchanged for chits, the local currency. In essence, the tower served as a money-exchange while also providing additional services.

  It was here that Nick traveled first, after arriving back in town. He did not pause along his journey, refusing to give any of the thugs a chance to close in or plan an ambush. His wariness paid off when he arrived at the tower without molestation.

  He reached the tower and was allowed to enter the bottom level. The fortifications were layered, and the stairs up to the next level were strongly guarded. The banking services were on the first floor, however, along with a shop and what looked like a tattoo artist.

  Nick ignored these alternative services, and exchanged his haul of Dungeon Stones.

  Stolen story; please report.

  When he filled the counter-top with glowing stones of various sizes, the clerk’s eyes widened a fraction.

  “A good haul,” the clerk said. “Probably should deposit most of it…” the clerk eyed Nick, “you got an account?”

  Nick shook his head.

  “Best to get one then.”

  “And the interest rate?”

  The clerk laughed. “No. But considering we don’t rob you either, it’s the best you’ll get.”

  Nick considered this before deciding to open an account. When the clerk charged the fees for opening an account and making a deposit, he felt he was receiving karmic justice. In the end, he grit his teeth and bore it, opening an account and depositing most of his earnings.

  However, he did keep enough on his person to splurge, at least so far as the town could accommodate.

  He found one of the best inns near the tower, one that would provide private rooms with a bathing service.

  The price was exorbitant, but well worth it. He found his room and he found the tub.

  Interestingly enough, he could feel the tub through his bone-sense, although it felt resistant to change, as though it had been molded then set of its own volition. Likely, there were multiple craftsmen in the town with the ability to shape bone. It devalued his own skills.

  Before he stripped his armor and relaxed, he locked the door and then jammed it for good measure. From there, he stripped off his armor, took off his worn and torn trousers, brushed off the dried flecks of gore, and then he slipped into a lukewarm bath.

  He relaxed. As he closed his eyes, let his mind wander, he tried his best to avoid dwelling on the wrongs that the universe had laid upon him. This effort was moot. His entire situation was an accumulation of injustices, each threading into another, all the way back towards that entity claiming to be a god named Thanatos.

  He could not help but feel wistful for his previous life. He should have been able to look back at the silk sheets and gourmet meals and he should have been able to find solace there, at least in the sanctity of his own mind. But when he did think back, he remembered how stressful he had found it. Board meetings, negotiations, laboring to manipulate both his position and his portfolio… he had been a CEO. He had found pride in his position, at least at the time. But he had been stressed. He had been obese. He had to dye his hair, and when it had begun falling out, he had sought vanity surgeons to make sure he looked the part.

  And then, there had been the protests against him and his company. The masses and have-nots had been riled up because of the way he had raised the price of insulin. The protests had turned violent, at times. It was madness, he had only been charging market-price for the medicine. The pharmacy was not a charity. It was his duty to improve the company’s profits, and the loss of goodwill was more than made up for by the increased price on the inelastic goods. It was basic economics. Had he not done so, he would have been outed, and his successor would have done the same, if not worse.

  But then some idiot had to go and murder him.

  Probably one of the foolish protesters, upset at their powerlessness in a world where conglomerates behaved rationally.

  But, still… a bomb?

  It had likely killed the other board members in the meeting with him.

  Such a waste.

  That should have been that, though.

  Just Nick slowly losing what made Nick Delaney Nick Delany. Ego death. A soul breaking down to dust. It sounded much more horrifying from the outside than it actually had been. When he had been there, in that place that defied any sense of continuity that he could understand, it had been numb, detached… he had been fine with it.

  Looking back at it from where Nick now rested, soaking in a tub, he felt some horror at the apathy he had then felt while being whittled away to nothing.

  A part of him wished he had never been found by Thanatos.

  Nick was not one for religion, and certainly not for dead and old, anachronistic deities that his patron had pretended to be. The Greek god of death? Seriously. The idea made Nick scoff. And that was another thing: reincarnation. An utter waste of resources. Ludicrous. Nick had never consented to this, to being reborn, at least, he had never consented to it while of hale mind. When Thanatos had dragged his partially eroded soul into its realm, Nick may as well have been under the effects of strong narcotics. Coercing a binding agreement from Nick while in such a state would have never been legal, should never have been legal, and just went to show how little these deities cared for consent.

  Forcing Nick to agree to anything while he lacked his mental faculties… It made him want to vomit, sick to his stomach.

  He forced these thoughts aside. Regardless of how he had gotten to this place, he was here now, and he could only affect what he could affect, and nothing more. He needed to look forward, towards plotting his freedom.

  In his current state, he had sufficient savings in his account to afford some liberties, such as taking stock of the town, its inhabitants, and the lay of the land. He expected there to be some hidden opportunities he could find with his prodigious experience in the marketplace.

  He splashed some water off of him, noticing the foul state of the bath water: murky with floating blobs and bits.

  Had he been that filthy? Gross.

  He finished scrubbing himself, but when he left the tub, he could in no way consider himself clean. Cleaner than when he had gone in, yes. But clean? No.

  That night, he slept in relative comfort. The next morning, he bought a meal in the common room and sat, listening as he ate.

  If he were to improve his station, then he needed to understand the nature of the land he was in. He would start with this penal-colony. Then, he would build up his capital and resources. Eventually, an opportunity for freedom would come, and then, he would seize it.

  He spent the day canvassing the main thoroughfare and the various markets.

  He made note of what was in demand, and what seemed to be in surplus. He made note of what the common people of the town bought and purchased. He was surprised to learn that the common inhabitant was not, in fact, a dungeon-diver. Most of the town had built up around a service industry based around the dungeon-divers, but most people were not active divers themselves.

  That was something he would have to think about later.

  One of the shops he passed, the very first he had visited, the one where he had been accosted by thugs, caught his eye. It was well off, affluent, and the shopkeeper seemed at ease despite the thugs loitering about. When Nick met the shop-keeper’s eyes, the both exchanged a respectful nod. Nick refused to purchase from that awful store, even if the clerk acted amenable now.

  Nick continued researching the town’s open market.

  After traveling the length of the market twice, he failed to find any obvious deficits. That is not to say he learned nothing. He noted that anything brought up from the dungeon was in surplus, and that anything brought down by the wardens was in demand. That was one opportunity right there, assuming he could find a way to either mimic or procure such items.

  After performing a day’s worth of research, Nick decided to perform some necessary shopping for himself. Well, perhaps not necessary, but his armor chafed and was uncomfortable, and he had promised himself that he would resolve that particular issue, even if it was more of a secondary issue.

  So, he returned to one of the carts he had passed by earlier that day. It was a merchant selling certain textiles. Folded cloth of various thread counts and material, all drab gray or brown and lacking dye. He found the material that seemed the best insulator and the best padding, and he exchanged a substantial portion of his chits to buy it. He then bought spools of thread. He could make his own awls and needles. He also bought a spool of wire. While he could connect bones and reinforce osseous material, wiring would go along ways towards making a flexible set of armor, along with improving his ability to craft weapons. At least he suspected. He would need to try and see what worked best.

  That night, he returned to the tavern, purchased a meal and another night’s stay, and he took another bath. He ended up cleaner than before, but still felt dirty and grimy. There was no soap available. He had forgotten to buy any.

  After taking time to line his armor with fabric, he decided that there was nothing else for him to do in town at the moment. Of course, he could have loitered about and attempted to learn something more, but he had to weigh that potential benefit for the time it would cost him, time that could be spent ‘farming’ the dungeon.

  It was still a marvel to him, the dungeon. The entire concept, just everything, was mad. Fantastical and insane. A penal-colony mining a dungeon full of beasts for the city built atop them all, as apparently the mega-cavern was immediately below Kwin, a capital city of whatever horrid empire claimed these lands.

  If he thought about it too much he would feel ill.

  As he descended, he exchanged cursory and brief greetings with the toll-takers, once again reminding himself to map out an alternative route.

  He descended into the dungeon once more.

  It became routine.

  He began tracking days by sessions spent in the dungeon. He would wake, eat, descend, fight, gain a marginal amount of strength, improve his skill, collect resources, ascend, and then repeat it all again the next day.

  Day after monotonous day.

  His savings account was growing heavy with a surplus of funds. He reinvested into gear and intelligence when he could, but he found that most expenditures were unnecessary. But this posed a problem.

  His money was not making money.

  The bank offered no form of interest rate or returns for his investment. In fact, they charged him for the safekeeping of his funds.

  He wanted a place where he could make his wealth work for him, but so far as he could tell, there was no formalized system of money-lending or investment. If he wanted to set up a business of predatory lending, he would need to provide his own accounting and leg-breakers. Considering the protection rackets currently in place, he doubted he could start this business without either an alliance with an existing gang or with extraordinary interest rates to account for the risk of debtor death or bankruptcy.

  He sought out other mechanisms that could improve his wealth. Currently the only reliable method he had was the dungeon. He could build a team, but then he would need to worry about backstabbing. He would also need to find suitable employees to hire, which was not an easy task. He also was reluctant to hire criminals, although he had little choice in that regard here.

  If he had to rely on the dungeon for wealth, and if he had to rely on solely himself, then he needed to invest his wealth in ways to increase his own power. Besides better gear, there were several options. All dubious for one reason or another.

  There were various chemical concoctions that could either temporarily or permanently enhance an individual. They were expensive, tightly controlled by the warden, and often came with side-effects. The more a person relied upon them, the worse those side-effects became. Especially for the permanent enhancements.

  Some individuals would take only a single enhancement, one for providing night-vision, and that person would gain night-vision, but also reptilian features, such as scales, claws on several fingers, and a loss of body-hair. Another would take an ‘elixir of strength,’ which caused bones to thicken and sometimes caused arthritis as well, although the person would also gain a substantial increase in strength.

  Apparently, elixirs of high quality would avoid such deviations, at least on the first time use. All bets were off on second time uses, even for elixirs of different types.

  Naturally, given the dubious nature of these elixirs, Nick decided to refrain from imbibing in them himself. Although he would consider paying for one for an employee, at least if he could be guaranteed that employee’s loyalty.

  But besides elixirs, the only other means to permanently enhance or improve a person’s ability in the dungeon would be to gain another ‘sacred art,’ or basically a magical tattoo, at least as Nick saw it.

  There was an artist that worked in the same building as the bank, and this artist also was always under guard, even more so than the savings vault.

  Nick perused the listing of available tattoos and their usual effects. The descriptions were rather lacking, but some of the names looked promising. He mainly wanted a means to enhance his greatest asset, his regeneration, which meant improving his body. This was fortunately the most common sort of tattoo offered.

  Still though, Nick hesitated to make such an investment.

  Something in his guts warned him against it. He mistrusted this archaic science, and he especially mistrusted the providers.

  He refrained from any permanent decisions and instead began a cursory investigation of people who had already received a ‘sacred’ tattoo. They were not always immediately identifiable, except in the case of several layabout thugs who went shirtless, despite the cavern’s chill air.

  The thugs obviously were proud of their defacement, and they drew some form of status from them, which meant that the community at least somewhat recognized the tattoos efficacy. Furthermore, there was no immediate sign that these thugs had suffered for their tattoos, and they were confident enough in their strength to act brazenly within the penal-colony.

  That was a mark in favor of the tattoos.

  All signs pointed towards these tattoos as a method to reinvest into himself, increase his power, and put his money to work.

  But, still… he remained dubious. He needed to learn more. He needed to observe those with tattoos to look for any low-level persistent problems or concerns. Having experience with the pharmaceutical industry, he was well aware of the deleterious long-term effects that might be difficult to observe.

  This brought him to another problem: he lacked the ability to wait around in town to observe these test subjects.

  He needed to purchase help, or hire an employee.

  There was one lout that came to mind.

  During these past few days, he had seen a starving child loitering in the alleyways. He suspected it was the very same one he had seen originally, however that seemed suspect, as Nick doubted any such individual would or could survive in such an abysmal state for such a long time.

  However, his observations were what they were.

  He went and sought out this pathetic individual and found the waif in one of the alleyways just off the thoroughfare. Along the way, Nick purchased several meat skewers, with bone used instead of wood.

  WIth this peace-offering, Nick sought out his potential employee and found them. The child was resting in the filth, under a layer of scraps of ruined and foul skins, was the child. A young boy, by Nick’s estimation.

  Of course, the starving child’s hungry eyes tracked the food, and while the lad was weak, he quickly seized on the meal and tore into it.

  Nick watched on while continuing to keep aware of his surroundings. He passed the rest of the skewers to the boy, one after another.

  When the boy finished, he gave Nick an overly and unwarranted look of suspicion.

  “Why?” the boy said in a croaking and weak voice.

  Nick scoffed in offense..

  “Why indeed,” Nick said, before smoothing his expressions and attempting to reclaim an air of geniality. “Is a reason required to help a soul in need?”

  The boy licked his painfully chapped lips.

  “People… like you, do.” the boy spoke haltingly. His neck throbbed slightly, a strange motion that was difficult to perceive beneath the layer of grime and rotten skins.

  Nick shrugged. The boy was not necessarily wrong. “Well, in this case, I think we can both profit.”

  The boy continued to gaze upon Nick with suspicion.

  Nick pushed on. If this failed, he could always find some other piteous soul to hire. However, he thought he would continue with this boy until all Nick’s tricks had been exhausted.

  “FIrst,” Nick continued. “Do you prefer food or chits?”

  Now, the boy looked confused. Off balance. A more neutral state than previously.

  “Food…?” the boy said slowly, before nodding. “Why?”

  Nick shrugged and gave a helpless smile.

  “I find myself in need of assistance, and I am willing to pay for it.”

  Now the boy narrowed his eyes.

  “What for?”

  “Nothing too strenuous,” Nick said. “Just, I need someone to keep an eye on a few people of interest.”

  “Who?” the boy asked.

  “Oh, nobody important, just those tattooed louts–”

  “Tattoos?” the boy repeated, unsure of the basic term.

  Nick could have slapped himself, because of course he would make the mistake of alienating by using an unfamiliar term. Nick recovered by implying the mistake was his own.

  “Sacred Marks, I suppose they are also called?”

  “-the gangs… you want me to spy… on the gangs?!” the boy seemed to be curling in on himself and further away from Nick, towards the gloom of the alleyway, sinking into the filth.

  Nick was on the verge of losing the prospective hire, which would then also leave Nick vulnerable to the boy informing the thugs that Nick had been asking about them. Nick needed to salvage this quickly. Best to do that by acting ambivalent.

  So, Nick waffled his hand back and forth.

  “No, not so much.”

  “Then…” the boy trailed off, confused.

  Nick gave a grin, somewhat smug, but not too much so.

  “Look, it’s that I have questions around the Sacred Artist the wardens employ, and I just want some general observations about the work. It doesn’t have to be anyone in particular.”

  “So, not the gangs?”

  “Not really. If you know someone else that has the markings, then feel free to watch them. I’m looking for general observations here. Perfectly safe, and easily within the bounds of what you already do, sitting here along the main thoroughfare.”

  After a moment's consideration, the boy agreed.