CHAPTER 3 — “The Goblin’s Tax” #4
┌─────────────────────────────────────────────────┐│ CURRENT STATUS ││ Velthar (Healer, Level 3) │├─────────────────────────────────────────────────┤│ HP: 48/65 │ MP: 14/18 ││ STR: 10 │ AGI: 12 ││ INT: 14 │ WIS: 16 ││ DEX: 13 │ LCK: 4 ││ ││ Skills: ││ \[Basic Bandaging\] Lv.
1 ││ \[Herb Sense\] Lv.1 ││ \[Weed Identification\] Lv.
1 ││ \[Poultice Crafting\] Lv.1 ││ ││ Companion: Johnson \[?
??\] ││ ││ Traits: ││ \[Fragmented Soul\] --- 80% mana capacity sealed ││ └─ Mana recovery rate: 0.
3% (unknown src) ││ ││ "Still pathetic. But measurably less pathetic.
││ That's what we call 'progress.'" │└─────────────────────────────────────────────────┘
Mana recovery rate: 0.3%.
I stare at that line.
That wasn’t there before. Something’s changed. Something’s coming back to me, slowly, like a leak in reverse—power trickling back through whatever connection the Mary Harvest ritual created.
Interesting, Johnson says, clearly reading my status over my shoulder somehow. Your soul’s patching itself. That’s not supposed to be possible.
“You know about the ritual?”
I know about a lot of things. Ancient creature, remember? But the Mary Harvest is old magic. Blood magic. The kind that’s supposed to be permanent.
“Then why—”
The dungeon. Johnson’s eyes are distant, thoughtful. You built this place. Your signature’s all over it. And you built it with your mana, which means every inch of these floors is technically still yours. When they split your power, they couldn’t take the part you’d already invested here.
“The dungeon is… giving it back?”
Slowly. Very slowly. But yes. Johnson’s nose twitches. The deeper you go, the more you’ll recover. The seal on Floor 4 and below? That’s your failsafe. Your past self was smarter than you look.
I think about that. About past me, centuries ago, building a backup plan for a betrayal I didn’t see coming. Setting traps and locks and recovery systems into a dungeon I’d then forget I created.
Paranoid genius.
Or just paranoid.
Either way, I’m grateful.
“I need to get to Floor 10,” I say.
Eventually. First you need to not die. Which means leveling. Which means clearing floors. Which means not running off half-cocked because you got a power-up notification and felt optimistic.
“I don’t feel optimistic.”
Good. Optimism is for people who haven’t been betrayed by everyone they love. Johnson hops toward the road that leads to the village. Now. Are we going to tell the peasants about their reduced monster problem, or are you going to sit here brooding all day?
I push myself to my feet.
My body aches. My mind is reeling. And somewhere deep in my chest, there’s a spark of something I haven’t felt in two hundred years.
Hope.
Not much. Just a flicker. But it’s there.
“Let’s go,” I say.
Finally. I was starting to think you’d grown roots.
We head for Millbrook, the setting sun at our backs, and I try not to think about how much everything is about to change.
The tavern goes quiet when I walk through the door.
It’s the blood, probably. I tried to clean off the worst of it at the well outside, but there’s only so much you can do with cold water and no soap. I still look like I lost a fight with a butcher shop.
Eight faces turn toward me. Nine, counting the bartender.
Johnson hops in behind me and immediately claims an empty chair, settling onto it like a throne. No one comments on the rabbit. They’re too busy staring at me.
“Floor 1,” I say into the silence. “Cleared. Boss dead. Spawn rate should drop about forty percent for the next few days.”
More silence.
Then Garrett stands up from his corner table. Those old eyes take in the blood, the scratches, the exhaustion written across my face. He looks at Johnson, sitting on his chair like he owns the place.
“You did it alone?”
“I had help.” I gesture at Johnson. “This is Johnson.”
Charmed, Johnson says. No one reacts, which means he’s choosing not to broadcast his telepathy. Probably smart.
Garrett crosses the room slowly, age apparent in every step, and stops in front of me. He’s close enough that I can see the question in his eyes—the same question from last night.
What are you really?
“You’re not what you seem,” he says quietly. “I said that yesterday. Still true today.”
“Does it matter?”
“It might. Depends on what you’re planning.”
I meet his gaze. Hold it.
“I’m planning to clear that dungeon,” I say. “All of it. Every floor, every boss, every spawn point. I’m going to tear it open and take everything inside it.”
“Why?”
“Because it’s mine.”
The words come out before I can stop them. Too honest. Too revealing. But Garrett just nods, like I’ve confirmed something he already suspected.
“Thought so.” He turns back to his table, picking up his ale. “You’ll need supplies. Better gear. Information about what’s below Floor 3.”
“Granny Thorn said she’d tell me tomorrow.”
“She will. She knows things about that dungeon that nobody else does. Her grandmother was here when it was sealed.” He takes a long drink. “Come find me after. I might be old, but I remember how to swing a sword. And I’m not ready to die in bed.”
I like him, Johnson says in my head. He smells like blood and bad decisions. My kind of human.
“Thank you,” I tell Garrett.
“Don’t thank me yet. We might all die horribly. But at least it’ll be interesting.”
I find a table in the corner, collapse into a chair, and try to process everything that’s happened in the last twelve hours.
Woke up in a dead man’s body. Found a dungeon. Cleared a floor. Acquired a telepathic murder rabbit. And apparently inspired a retired adventurer to consider un-retiring.
Not bad for my second day of being alive again.
Johnson hops from his chair to my table, settling next to my elbow.
You’re thinking too loud, he says. It’s annoying.
“Sorry.”
Don’t apologize. Just think quieter. His nose twitches. What’s the plan for tomorrow?
“Talk to Granny Thorn. Get information. Start on Floor 2.”
And after that?
I look out the tavern window, at the darkening sky, at the stars starting to emerge.
Somewhere out there, Dario is sitting on a throne. Persephone is preaching about light and love. Gorath is commanding armies. Sylva is teaching my spells. Anton is watching everything from the shadows.
They think I’m dead.
They’re wrong.
“After that,” I say quietly, “I’m going to take back everything they stole from me.”
Good. Johnson’s voice is warm with approval. That’s what I wanted to hear.
The bartender brings me ale without being asked. I drink it slowly, letting the warmth spread through my chest, and I don’t think about the future.
Not yet.
Tonight, I just survived.
Tomorrow, I start building something worth fighting for.