He didn’t stop to admire the lantern-lined streets or the quartz-veined walls. He went straight to the Weary Pickaxe Inn.
Inside, the noise of travelers and miners hit him like a wave—laughter, clinking cups, rough voices—but it all felt distant. He found Eins and Zwei at a quiet corner table. A bowl of stew and a thick slice of bread were already waiting, with a mug of something dark and bitter beside it.
Eins didn’t ask questions. He just nodded at the seat.
“You’re back,” he said. “Sit. Eat.”
Null sank into the chair like his bones had turned to lead. He ate mechanically at first, then slower, letting the heat of the food climb back into his limbs. When he finally spoke, the words came out tight.
“I found the Matriarch.”
Zwei leaned forward, elbows on the table, expression open but sharp. Eins stayed still, like an anvil waiting for the blow.
Null told them everything—how the early tunnels felt easy, how his body moved like it had done it a thousand times. How the Matriarch’s tag had made his stomach drop.
[Quartzback Matriarch - Lvl. 28 - Rank C]
He described the first charge: too fast to track, too heavy to stop, the impact that launched him into the cavern wall. He described the moment he saw the weak point—the tiny joint, the perfect opening—and how his dagger scraped uselessly because his body didn’t have the strength to make the strike matter.
“My instincts were perfect,” Null said, voice rough. “But my body couldn’t cash it. I knew what to do. I just… couldn’t do it.”
Eins drank from his mug, then set it down with a quiet thud.
“That’s the lesson,” he said. “The gap.”
Null frowned. “Gap?”
“Between knowing and paying the price,” Eins said, voice low and firm. “Your hands remember. Your frame can’t follow. That gap will get you killed if you pretend it isn’t there.”
Zwei’s tone was softer, but no less serious. “Most people spend years learning that difference,” he said. “They spend decades refusing to admit it. You saw it in one fight and lived.”
Null stared into the stew as if the answer might float to the surface. The shame was still there, but it was different now. Less like failure. More like measurement.
Eins tapped the table once, slow. “You didn’t lose,” he said. “You measured yourself. Now you know what you need.”
Null let out a breath he didn’t realize he’d been holding.
Eins’s eyes narrowed slightly, studying him the way he studied flawed steel. “Your head’s heavier than your wounds,” he grunted. “You should log out. Rest the real body. We’ve got one full day before the caravan moves again.”
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Null blinked. He hadn’t told Eins the time dilation. He hadn’t told Eins anything about the capsule, or clocks, or the way sleep in the real world bled into strength in here.
“I…” Null started.
Zwei watched him with a stillness that didn’t match his usual cheer, like he was waiting to see which way the truth would fall.
Null swallowed. “Fine. I’ll be back.”
He finished the last of his meal, stood, and left the table. The upstairs room felt too quiet after the noise below. He lay down, stared at the ceiling for one long moment, then whispered the command.
“Log out.”
The inn dissolved.
—
After Null left, Zwei’s expression shifted, bright eyes turning hard.
“He said it like it’s normal,” Zwei murmured. “And you said it first.”
Eins didn’t look up from his mug.
Zwei leaned in. “Why?”
Eins’s jaw tightened. Just once. Then his voice came out like a hammer strike.
“Not now.”
Zwei held his gaze for a second longer, then exhaled through his nose and leaned back. The question wasn’t gone.
It was just waiting.
—
Ethan opened his eyes to the quiet hum of his apartment, the capsule canopy lifting with a soft hiss. The exhaustion followed him out. Not physical soreness—something deeper. Mental fatigue, like his brain had been running at overclock for hours.
He drank water. Washed his face. Sat down at his terminal.
The global feed was a mess of clips and highlights, most of it noise. He skipped it and went straight to what he’d started trusting more: the player forums. Raw panic. Raw truth. No marketing polish.
One thread was still pinned near the top.
[Forum Thread: Ghosts, Ghosts Everywhere! >.<]
Posted by: Plum
A new update sat at the top, time-stamped minutes ago.
Posted by: Plum
Help! Please, someone help me! The priest’s talisman did nothing! I went back to the graveyard to finish the quest, and it wasn’t just ghosts this time. There were… bodies. Old official robes. Pale green skin. They hopped. One of them nearly grabbed me. I logged out shaking. What are these things?!
Replies rolled in—half useless, half cruel.
[Reply: lol why are you in a graveyard if you’re scared]
[Reply: try a stronger talisman?]
[Reply: pics or it didn’t happen]
Then one answer, buried halfway down, cold and specific.
[Reply: InkScroll]
That’s a Jiangshi. “Hopping corpse.” Old lore. Don’t let it touch you. Don’t let it pin your breath. If you’re alone, don’t go back in. Find a competent NPC handler or a party.
Ethan leaned back, staring at the screen longer than he meant to.
Plum’s fear was real. Not “game scary.” Real. The kind that crawled into your chest and stayed there after you shut your eyes.
He thought of the Matriarch again—how fast it moved, how his body reacted, how his mind couldn’t keep up. He thought of that helpless moment where the perfect strike meant nothing because the strength wasn’t there.
Then he thought of players like Plum, alone, trapped in quests they couldn’t handle, and players who would laugh at them for it. The world didn’t care. The System didn’t care.
A new resolve settled in him—not noble, not dramatic. Practical.
If he didn’t get stronger, he’d die.
If he did get stronger, he could choose what kind of strong he became.
Ethan shut the forum tab.
He stood, stretched, then stepped back into the capsule like it was a decision he’d already made days ago.
The canopy closed.
Darkness returned.
—
Null sat up in his room at the Weary Pickaxe Inn, the morning light of Sunstone Crossing spilling in through the shutters. His body felt crisp, responsive—no lingering dizziness, no crawling nausea. Just readiness.
He didn’t waste time.
He left the inn and crossed the street to the best forge in town, the Sunstone Anvil—an honest, soot-stained workshop with thick stone walls and a chimney that breathed steady smoke. Inside, a grizzled Dwarf with a beard like iron wool looked up from his ledger as Null approached.
Null placed a sealed letter on the counter.
The smith broke the seal. His eyes flicked across the mark, then snapped up.
“…That’s the Guildmaster’s.”
Null didn’t explain. He didn’t need to.
The Dwarf cleared his throat once, suddenly respectful in a way that felt almost uncomfortable. “Private room’s in the back,” he said. “Use what you need. Don’t blow up my forge.”
Null stepped into the private workshop and shut the door. Silence wrapped around him—clean, focused silence.
He laid out what he had: chitin plates, quartz shards, scraps of leather, ore. He looked at his torn gear, then at his iron dagger. They were adequate. They were also a reminder of the Matriarch’s scrape and the way his blade had sung helplessly across armor it couldn’t pierce.
He struck flint. Fed the forge. The coals brightened.
Then Null lifted the hammer.
And brought it down.