I walked in, package in hand.

Lord Mortreign sat behind a massive desk, looking exactly like the kind of guy who ran this place—calm, unreadable, and definitely used to people kissing his ass.

Too bad for him. I wasn’t great at that.

I strolled up and dropped the package onto his desk with a solid thud.

“One sketchy package, delivered straight to your desk. That’ll be five stars on Yelp.”

Silence.

The butler lady shifted slightly, like she was waiting to see if I’d just signed my own death warrant.

Mortreign didn’t react at first. Just stared at me, his fingers tapping lightly against the desk. Finally, he spoke.

“You find yourself amusing?”

“Eh.” I shrugged. “Someone has to. You guys are way too serious around here.”

He glanced at the package. He turned it once in his hands, inspecting it like he already knew what was inside.

Then his focus was back on me. “Who sent you?”

“Some shady teleporting bastard. Seemed like the type who collects body parts for fun.”

“Name.”

“Didn’t ask. Just told me to say ‘Excidium’ and drop this off.”

That got a reaction.

It was small—just the slightest pause before his fingers stopped tapping.

Then, with no change in expression, he snapped his fingers.

Two guards stepped forward.

“I have no use for disrespectful couriers,” he said.

I sighed. “Wow. Tough room.”

“Take him below.”

I started to raise a hand. “Okay, I get it. You want me to grovel a little, maybe apologize. How about we—”

WHACK.

Something slammed into the back of my head.

My vision went black before I even hit the floor.

I woke up with a pounding skull and the distinct feeling that I had been thoroughly screwed over.

My mouth tasted like iron. My head throbbed like I had spent the night headbutting a brick wall. I groaned, shifting slightly—only to feel cold metal biting into my wrists.

…Huh.

That wasn’t great.

I cracked an eye open. Dim light. Rough stone. The distant clink of metal striking rock.

I tried to sit up. Chains rattled.

Ah. Yeah. Definitely not great.

“Good. You’re awake.”

The voice was rough, impatient. A shadow loomed over me—a big guy, arms crossed.

A rusted pickaxe dropped next to me with a dull clunk.

“Get to work.”

I blinked at it. Then at him. Then back at the pickaxe.

“…Oh. Sweet. Do I get a union break, or is this one of those ‘work until you drop’ situations?”

No hesitation. THUD.

The guy kicked me hard in the ribs.

I groaned, curling up slightly.

“You talk too much,” he said.

“Noted,” I wheezed.

Around me, a few people glanced over. NPCs. Players. All of them filthy, exhausted, and keeping their heads down.

I exhaled, staring up at the cavern ceiling.

Okay. So. Step one: survive. Step two: get the hell out of here.

I sat there for a minute, getting my bearings.

The ache in my ribs hadn’t faded. My wrists were still chained. My head still felt like someone had played whack-a-mole with it.

So, yeah. Not great.

The guard was still standing there, arms crossed, looking unimpressed.

“Get to work,” he repeated. “Or I’ll make sure you don’t get a next meal.”

A case of literary theft: this tale is not rightfully on Amazon; if you see it, report the violation.

I glanced at the pickaxe lying next to me. Then back at him. Then back at the pickaxe.

A dozen bad ideas crossed my mind. Most of them ended with me getting my skull caved in.

I exhaled sharply, then held up my chained wrists with a flat look. “Kinda hard to work like this, don’t you think?”

The guard rolled his eyes but stepped forward, pulling out a rusted key. With a click, the shackles fell away, leaving raw, bruised skin beneath.

I grabbed the pickaxe, testing the weight. It was heavier than it looked, and rusted to hell. Great. Wouldn’t even make a good weapon.

With a grunt, I stood up, adjusting my grip. Then I swung at the rock wall.

CLINK.

The vibration rattled up my arms. The impact barely left a scratch.

Holy shit. That sucked.

Then—

[Pickaxe Proficiency +1]

I exhaled. Well, at least something was going up.

I tightened my grip and swung again.

CLINK.

Still weak. Still barely chipping the rock.

This was gonna suck.

I kept at it, swinging the pickaxe again and again. Each hit sent dull vibrations up my arms, my grip slipping slightly with every impact. The rock barely budged.

Around me, the other prisoners worked in complete silence. No talking, no complaining—just the steady, rhythmic clang of metal against stone. It was like a factory assembly line, except instead of making products, we were just slowly dying.

A loud THUD broke the pattern.

I turned my head slightly. An NPC had collapsed nearby, his body limp against the stone floor. His pickaxe slipped from his fingers, clattering against the ground. The moment it did, a shadow loomed over him.

One of the guards.

Lean. Scarred face. The kind of asshole who probably enjoyed this job way too much.

He nudged the fallen man with his boot. No response. The NPC just lay there, chest rising and falling in shallow, ragged breaths.

The guard sighed. Then kicked him. Hard.

“Get up, worm.”

The guy didn’t move.

Another kick.

Nothing.

The guard let out a slow exhale, like he was deeply inconvenienced by the fact that people could be exhausted.

Then he reached for the whip at his belt.

I clenched my jaw, my fingers tightening around my pickaxe.

This game really didn’t hold back, huh?

The whip cracked against stone, the sharp snap cutting through the low clinks of pickaxes hitting rock. No one reacted. Not even a twitch. The prisoners just kept mining, kept working, like it was normal. Like this was just another day.

I exhaled slowly, adjusting my grip on the pickaxe. I wanted to look away. Pretend I wasn’t seeing this. But my eyes stayed locked on the collapsed guy on the ground, his bony frame barely rising with each breath.

Another crack of the whip.

He flinched—barely—but the movement was enough to encourage the guard to keep going.

CRACK. Another hit.

Still no words. No protest. No one rushing in to stop it.

And that’s what got me.

Not the cruelty itself—I’d played MMOs before. I’d seen dark storylines, brutal NPC treatment, evil factions pulling this exact kind of shit. But those were just scripted scenes. This wasn’t a cutscene. This wasn’t an event designed to play out the same way every time.

It was real.

Or at least, it felt real.

The NPCs here didn’t just follow pre-coded behavior. They reacted. They learned. They adapted to what players did.

Which meant, at some point, someone had taught this place that this was normal.

Some player, some high-ranking asshole, had come through here and set the tone. They had let this happen. Encouraged it, maybe even participated in it. And now? Now it was just the way things worked.

I sucked in a slow breath, forcing my grip to relax.

Getting involved would be stupid. I wasn’t strong enough to fight back. Hell, I barely knew how this game’s combat system worked.

And yet—

A small rock bounced off the ground near the guard’s foot.

Not a direct hit. Just enough to break his rhythm.

The whip froze mid-swing.

The guard’s head snapped up, eyes scanning the prisoners, searching for the idiot who had thrown it.

I kept my head down, pickaxe swinging, acting like I hadn’t even noticed.

Silence.

A long, tense silence.

The guard’s nostrils flared. “You think this is funny?” His voice was dangerous.

No one answered.

He scanned us one more time. Then, just when I thought I’d gotten away with it—

CRACK.

The whip came down again.

But not on me.

On the unconscious prisoner.

Again. And again. And again.

By the third hit, the guy had stopped reacting entirely.

I clenched my jaw, grinding my teeth so hard my head hurt.

Yeah. That was about right.

This wasn’t just some edgy game mechanic. This wasn’t a scripted moment meant to make players feel bad before moving on with their quests.

This was learned behavior.

The guards weren’t just following lines of code. They were adapting. They were enjoying it.

Which meant pushing back didn’t make them stop. It just made them double down.

Fine.

I could wait.

I could play along.

But I wasn’t planning to stay here long.

The rhythm of mining slowed.

Not all at once. It was more like a ripple, spreading outward as one prisoner after another caught on. The constant clinking of pickaxes against stone, the dull grunts of effort—everything just… quieted.

I barely noticed at first. I was too busy pacing myself, trying not to waste energy. Trying to figure out if I even had a way out of this mess.

Then came the footsteps.

Whoever it was, they weren’t stomping around like the usual guards. They weren’t running, either. This was something else. Someone who moved like they owned the place.

I stopped mining. Just enough to turn my head slightly. Just enough to see.

And oh. Oh, shit.

[OVERSEER VALEN – LVL 68]

Not an NPC.

Not another prisoner.

A player.

And judging by the reaction of every poor bastard in this mine, he wasn’t just any player.

The guy looked like he had been carved straight out of the game’s concept art. Broad shoulders, dark iron armor that wasn’t just for show. No gaudy capes, no useless accessories—everything about his gear was functional. Designed for movement. For control. His sword hung loosely at his hip. Big sword.

His face? Scar running along his jaw. Cold, flat stare.

He stopped near a cluster of prisoners.

“Some of you are falling behind.”

He didn’t say it loudly. He didn’t need to.

One of the guards moved immediately, grabbing a prisoner and yanking him forward.

The guy was barely standing. Looked like he hadn’t eaten in days. He swayed a little but didn’t resist. Didn’t struggle. Just stared ahead like he already knew what was coming.

The Overseer studied him for a second. Then sighed, like this was nothing more than an inconvenience.

“You know what happens to those who waste my time.”

He drew his weapon.

No hesitation.

One clean swing.

The prisoner hit the ground in two separate pieces.

I didn’t move.

Didn’t breathe.

Not because I was trying to play it cool, but because my brain was too busy recalculating my entire goddamn survival plan.

The worst part?

Nobody else reacted.

Not the prisoners. Not the guards. Nobody even flinched.

No one recoiled. No one turned away in horror.

They just went back to mining.

Like this was normal. Like this was expected. And that? That was worse than the execution itself.

This wasn’t some edgy NPC playing a villain role.

This was a player. A high-level player.

And he had just killed an NPC like it was the most boring part of his day.

Then he turned. And his eyes landed on me. For a second, he just… stared.

Not mad. Not intrigued. Just… calculating. Then—

“New one.”

I didn’t answer. Not because I was being defiant, but because my brain was still running damage control. Trying to process what I had just seen.

The corner of his mouth barely moved.

“Won’t last a week.”

And just like that, he turned away.

The guards followed.

And me?

I forced myself to breathe.

Yeah. No. Fuck that. I’m lasting more than a week. You can put your shiny Level 68 credits on it.