Cal was interested in the system notifications, but he couldn’t look into it any further before Temp was awake, so he knelt beside the fallen warrior. The air was thick with the coppery scent of blood. Death had claimed this one.

"Sorry, bud," Cal murmured, his voice a low thrum in the silence, “but you won’t need these any longer.”

His hands moved with practiced ease, fingers deft as they unclasped the armor's fastenings. Each piece came free with a soft clink of metal against stone, the sound echoing faintly off the cave walls.

He examined the breastplate, gauntlets, and greaves with a critical eye. Dents? Cracks? Weaknesses that could spell his own end. They were solid and well-crafted. But not useful.

Cal settled on the long vambraces. They both remained undamaged, and could help him in a pinch when deflecting or parrying rogue strikes. He could have used some of the other pieces, but they were damaged, and would add unnecessary weight.

Armor laid aside, Cal's gaze lingered for a heartbeat on the face of the dead. A stranger. Yet not so different from himself — a soldier in a world that asked too much and gave too little back.

Cal's curiosity was piqued by the antlers perched atop the creature's head. It was a rare sight for him, as he had never encountered this particular sentient race before. Standing at 6 feet tall, the warrior was roughly Cal's size, but his appearance was unlike anything the young man had ever seen. Covered in a thick layer of fur that seemed to glisten in the ambient bioluminescent light, the man had a physique similar to a human, but with subtle differences that set him apart from any other species.

Cal's eyes were drawn to the spear propped against the cavern wall behind the warrior. Its shaft was dark wood, the grain polished smooth by countless hours of skilled hands. The metal tip glinted dully in the half-light, a lesser cousin to adamant, no doubt, but obviously forged with care.

"Craftsmanship's decent," he muttered, his voice absorbed by the stone around him. He reached out, fingers closing around the shaft. It felt solid, reliable.

He hoisted it, testing its weight. The balance was near perfect, the weapon an extension of his own arm. It wasn't adamant—nothing could rival that mythical metal's strength—but it had a deadly grace to it. In this place, the technology did not seem to reach the heights of Anu’aris, but still a good spear might be the difference between life and death.

Cal had been fighting at a disadvantage with the smaller range knife. Although it was long for a knife, it was not ideal as a hunting weapon. Armed with a spear, Cal could fight stronger beasts despite not having a dedicated combat style for it.

"Better than nothing," Cal conceded, twirling the spear with a flick of his wrist. He imagined its arc cleaving through the air, finding the weak spots in a beast’s armor. A small nod, almost imperceptible, acknowledged the warrior's choice. He had learned foundational spear technique as a component of his basic training, so Cal was certain he could adapt.

"Let's see how you handle," he said, settling into a fighter's stance. He lunged forward, thrusting the spear at an unseen adversary. Smooth. Quick. Effective.

"Good enough for the monsters in these depths," he decided.

With a final swing, he let the spear settle on the wall, its presence a silent promise of battles yet to come.

"Let's see what else you've got," he mused, his sentimentality tucked away. His fingers trailed over the fabric beneath the armor, searching for hidden pockets, secret compartments. Cal Run never overlooked an advantage, never squandered a resource. Not here. Not ever.

"Every edge counts," he whispered, though there was no one to hear.

Cal's gaze settled on a glint of something unusual. Beneath the warrior’s undershirt was a small bag tied around an inner string, its fabric dark as the void. Cal knelt, his curiosity piqued. He held the item, the texture of the bag course beneath his fingertips.

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"Odd," he murmured. As Cal opened the bag and reached inside, it seemed to swallow his hand and then his elbow and then his shoulder, yet it remained light, almost insubstantial. His arm extended further and further, with no end to the cavity in sight. Not once did the bottom greet his searching fingers. A bottomless bag was not just rare; it was a treasure that defied the laws of both space and matter—a pocket of infinity crafted into existence. Although Cal was aware that some of the strongest figures in his world could do the same with the power of their soul, this was strength made modern. It would be extremely convenient if he could get it to work.

The problem was he found nothing inside. He couldn’t locate anything and his arm was starting to freeze. It was as if Cal was reaching outside of space. His arm felt like it was on the verge of succumbing to entropy itself, and he immediately removed it from the bag.

He pulled his hand free, turning the bag over. Where seams should have been, there was only smooth continuity. No clasps, just a simple string for closure and an opening that breathed darkness. He held it up, squinting against the dim light that struggled through the cave’s gloom. Nothing revealed its secrets to him, no markings or runes to hint at its crafting or use.

"Temp might know," Cal thought, though the AI companion was silent. With a sigh, he tucked the bag into his own gear, feeling its weight—or rather, the absence of it—against his side.

"Another mystery," he spoke to the silence, "for another time," then sighed. Cal could not help but fluster at the list out the mysteries that he had yet to solve, and he knew he would have to dedicate time with Temp to answer these unknowns. That or find a living person next time.

Cal could not find any other treasures on the warrior. If he was right, then all of this man’s possessions would be hidden away in the bag.

Cal’s gaze then shifted to the leather-bound volume that the fallen warrior had given him—a tome of journeys. The scent of aged parchment and spilt blood mingled in the air as he opened it again with anticipation.

The pages were a canvas of ink and color, vibrant even in the cave's muted light. Cal opened one of the most recent maps, and it folded out of the journal. When sprawled out, Cal noticed it was dotted with X’s and annotations and icons in a language that teased at the edges of his understanding.

Cal’s eyes darted from ridge lines to riverways, each stroke of cartography a silent story waiting to be heard. "Treasure here, danger there," he muttered, following the trail of hastily drawn icons and notation that hinted of peril.

Cal folded the map up and looked further inside. A bestiary unfolded before him, creatures sketched with an anatomist's detail; their vulnerabilities laid bare beneath the artist's precise hand. Claws, fangs, scales—all rendered with such care that Cal could almost hear the whisper of wings or the rasp of hide against rock. The warrior was a budding artist. A shame he ended up in this profession.

He turned to another page. Beasts leapt from the paper, frozen mid-snarl, mid-flight. Each drawing was annotated with arrows and circles, pinpointing the failings in nature's armor—the very knowledge that might tip the balance between predator and prey.

"Soft underbelly, joint weakness..." His voice was a hush, reverence mixed with calculation. If Cal did not have Temp, this would have been extremely valuable. Even still, with many of the species in the book unknown, this knowledge is as good as a blade.

With each flip of a page, Cal charted the fallen warrior’s journey. It was longer than expected, and he suspected that the other hunters had only arrived several weeks before he had.

Reading through the journal, Cal sensed opportunity—routes of survival and paths to power. His resolve deepened with the weight of the book in his hands, a tangible link to the world that now claimed him. He could guess at the strengths of the creatures based on their images and target them to prioritize his search for organs.

Temp may need to learn this language, but this is a good start.

Cal's thumb paused on a page dense with script, his gaze sharpening. The text was a cipher of spirals and lines, its meaning elusive. It was a system of glyphs unfamiliar to him. It may be another language, but even that was curious because it was the only part written in such a cryptic fashion.

He would have to rely on Temp for much of this translation; algorithms could untangle the script where human eyes failed. The amount of written language as well as the visual depictions should be sufficient to build a working lexicon.

He again left this thought for later.

Cal closed the book with care, its contents etched into his memory. Treasures awaited, beasts to be slain. His path was a labyrinth, but with this guide, he felt the walls recede ever so slightly, the shadows less consuming.

Cal adjusted the strap of his newly acquired bag, its mysterious depth unfathomable. A soft clink echoed as he secured the spear to his back. Cal put on the vambraces and tucked the book against his side. Finally, Cal grabbed Temp, and took a final glance at the warrior—silent, still.

He moved with new purpose. The air grew colder, the breath of the cave sounding out with renewed whispers. He could feel the weight of the subterranean world pressing down upon him, a reminder of the dangers that lurked within its bowels, but Cal finally felt ready.