The dark pressed in, a physical thing, thick and tasting of wet rock and something metallic, something old, like rust and blood ground together over centuries. Borin Hart felt it in his bones, a familiar, hateful comfort – the crushing weight of maybe a mile of stone overhead, maybe more, who the hell was counting anymore down in this godsforsaken endless hole the System called ‘The Depths’? His lume-crystal, jammed into a crack in the tunnel wall, didn’t so much illuminate as violently stab a pathetic circle of visibility into the oppressive black, revealing sweating rock faces weeping mineral tears and the uneven floor slick with who-knew-what. Just another nameless tunnel, another dead end in the making, probably. “Great. Just friggin’ great,” he muttered, the words swallowed instantly by the profound silence, a silence so deep it felt loud, buzzing against his eardrums like trapped flies.
Each rasp of his breath plumed white, visibility bought with effort, a constant reminder of the chill that seeped not just from the rock but from the very marrow of the world down here. His pickaxe, scarred and familiar in his thick-fingered grip, felt heavier than usual – or maybe that was just the weight settling back onto his shoulders now that the brief adrenaline of clearing that rockfall had faded, leaving behind the usual sediment of bone-deep weariness and the sour taste of stale fungus brew from his waterskin. He ran a tongue over cracked lips. Tastes like despair. Funny, the things the System didn't quantify. No meter for hopelessness, just HP, Stamina, and the low, grinding thrum behind his eyes: [Abyssal Resonance Points: 48/75]. Still low. Always too damned low. Recharging felt like letting the pressure in, a controlled internal squeeze that threatened to pop his eyeballs if his [Pressure Tolerance: Low-Moderate] wasn't up to snuff. The Overload was a bitch, a skull-splitting migraine that blurred vision and invited things skittering just outside the lume-light to get bolder.
He hefted the pickaxe, letting its weight swing his torso, and slammed the point against the tunnel’s end. Thunk. Solid. No give. Not ore, not a hidden passage, just more damned rock mocking him. He spat grit. “Waste of friggin’ energy.” Energy measured in Stamina, yes, but also in that treacherous Resonance. Using it felt like tearing something loose inside, venting the pressure outwards in crude bursts of force – a [Pressure Lance] like a focused shove, a [Shockwave] like dropping a bag of rocks inside his own skull. Useful for breaking stone or crawler skulls, less useful when it left him shaky and vulnerable, the Overload warnings flashing angry crimson icons in the corner of his vision like some demonic traffic light: [WARNING: Resonance Overload Risk +15%].
Why was he even here? Slugging it out in the dark, fighting oversized bugs and things with too many teeth, chasing whispers? The Lode. The Last Lode. Place of Stillness. He almost snorted, a harsh, barking sound. Sounded like a fairy tale spat out by some half-mad Delver high on toxic spores. But the idea of it… stillness… a place where the pressure didn't try to crush your soul into paste, where the ghosts might finally shut up… Kev, Dimitri, young Anna… their faces swam in the edge of the light, accusing. His fault. His tunnel. His bad call. The System logged it coldly: [Status Effect Gained: Survivor's Guilt (Persistent)]. Yeah, no shit, System. Tell me something I don’t feel grinding in my gut every waking second. This Lode, this myth, it was penance maybe. Or just the only damned thing left to aim for besides his own grave. Deeper. Deeper. Always deeper. Maybe deep enough, the Stillness would be absolute. A final, permanent quiet. Now there was a retirement plan.
A scrape. Not his boots. Not dripping water. Chitin on rock. Sharp. Close. Borin froze, the pickaxe held low, every sense straining against the oppressive dark beyond the lume-crystal's meager reach. The low hum of his latent Resonance seemed to spike, a sharp ache blooming behind his temples as ambient pressure subtly shifted. [ALERT: Hostile Resonance Signature Detected! Proximity: Close!]. “Aw, hell,” he breathed, the air frosting. He hated crawlers. Nasty, clicking, multi-legged bastards that came out of cracks you swore weren't there a second ago. Fast, stupid, and armored like miniature, malevolent subway cars. And there was never just one. Never, never, never.
He risked a glance down. [ARP: 52/75]. Barely enough for a couple of decent shots, maybe one solid shockwave if he pushed it and prayed the Overload didn’t scramble his brains mid-fight. His hand instinctively went to the pouch where he kept the few salvaged [Resonant Crystals] – unstable, single-use bursts of ARP, like snorting pop rocks made of pure anxiety, but better than nothing.
Another scrape, closer now. A low click-hiss that sounded unpleasantly wet. He could smell it now, underneath the damp rock tang – a scent like burnt ozone and spoiled meat left out in the sun too long, a stench that spoke of things that shouldn't exist. Synesthesia, the fancy word was. Down here, it just meant Trouble Smelled Bad. Hyperbole? Maybe. But truth felt thin and stretched down in the deep dark. Paradoxically, the familiar fear was almost… steadying. Cleared the head faster than cheap fungus brew.
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“Alright, handsome,” Borin muttered, shifting his stance, weight balanced, pickaxe angled defensively. “Come meet the welcoming committee.”
It burst from a fissure to his left, a skittering horror of segmented carapace and wickedly barbed legs, mandible clicking like rusty shears. Not huge, maybe the size of a starved wolfhound, but fast, unnaturally fast, scuttling low to the ground, its multiple, simple eyes reflecting the lume-light like drops of oil. And behind it, crap, another one, slightly smaller, peeling off the ceiling like week-old paint. Two. Always two. Minimum.
Borin didn't wait. No time for fancy tactics learned in some sunlit academy. This was about survival, ugly and immediate. He roared, less a battle cry, more raw frustration given voice, and channeled the pressure, the ache, the Resonance. [Skill Activated: Pressure Lance!]. Cost: [15 ARP]. The air crackled, ozone sharp in his nostrils, and an invisible fist of kinetic force slammed into the lead crawler. CRACK! Not a clean kill. The blow struck the thing’s flank, sending it tumbling sideways with a screech of tortured chitin, but it wasn’t down. Its legs scrabbled, trying to find purchase on the slick rock.
The second one, the ceiling-dropper, was already airborne, launching itself towards him, mandibles wide, dripping some viscous fluid that probably dissolved flesh on contact. Forget fancy. Borin ducked low, swinging the pickaxe horizontally in a brutal arc. Not the point, the flat side of the head. Metal met carapace with a sickening thud-crunch. The crawler jerked mid-air, momentum carrying it past him to crash against the tunnel wall. It lay twitching, legs curling inwards, leaking thick, yellowish ichor that steamed faintly. One down. Maybe.
The first crawler was back up, faster than seemed possible, scuttling towards him, undeterred by the dent in its side. Its hiss was high-pitched now, furious. “Persistent little bugger, ain’t ya?” Borin grunted, backpedaling, keeping the pickaxe between them. He needed space. Needed ARP. He risked it. [Skill Activated: Internal Compression!]. Agony lanced through him, a deep, grinding pressure in his chest, his gut. [-10 HP, -15 Stamina]. But the reward: [+20 ARP]. Gauge jumped: [57/75]. Breath hitched. Stars momentarily danced in his vision from the pain. Worth it? Had to be.
He didn't wait for the crawler to close. Pointing his free hand, palm out, like some third-rate stage magician, he yelled, “[Pressure Lance!]” [-15 ARP]. Another invisible blow. This one struck true, center mass. The crawler buckled, emitting a wet, tearing sound. Its front legs collapsed. It wasn’t dead, but it was crippled, dragging itself forward with sheer, mindless aggression.
Borin stepped forward, boot slamming down hard on the creature’s fractured carapace, pinning it. CRUNCH. More ichor bubbled up. The thing spasmed. He raised the pickaxe high, ignoring the tremor in his arms, the ache deep in his sockets. The lume-light caught the worn metal, highlighting every scratch, every old bloodstain. He brought it down, point first, aiming for the cluster of eyes. Once. Twice. A third time for Kev, for Dimitri, for Anna, for the sheer bloody unfairness of it all. Thunk. Thunk. SCHLICK. The final blow punched through, sinking deep. The legs stopped twitching. Silence, save for his own ragged breathing and the wet gurgle from the ruined creature.
He leaned on the pickaxe, chest heaving, sweat stinging his eyes, mingling with the grime on his face. [Enemy Defeated: Depth Crawler x2] [XP Gained: 85] [Loot Generated: Chitin Fragment (Common) x3, Crawler Mandible (Poor) x1]. The familiar blue System prompts felt obscene next to the steaming gore at his feet. He nudged the second crawler with his boot. Still twitching feebly. Another swing of the pickaxe silenced it permanently. Better safe than sorry. Down here, 'sorry' usually meant dead.
[ARP: 42/75]. [HP: 185/210]. [Stamina: 130/180]. [Resonance Overload Risk: +5%]. Not great, not terrible. Alive. That was the main thing. He wiped a forearm across his brow, smearing sweat and ichor. The silence returned, heavier now, stained. He kicked a loose piece of chitin. “Happy now, ya bastards?” The ghosts didn't answer. They never did. Just watched from the shadows.
Right. Loot the crap, check the tunnel again – maybe that fissure the first one came from led somewhere useful – and keep moving. Deeper. Always deeper. Towards the Stillness. Or whatever fresh hell the Depths decided to throw at him next. He bent down, grunting with the effort, pulling his pickaxe free with a wet sucking sound. The air still stank. But he was used to it. Down here, you got used to anything. Except maybe the quiet. The quiet was always waiting.
