The walk to Ironvein took Null along the eastern arteries of Volundrheim, through a tunnel lit by a steady glow of embedded lantern-crystals. The heat of the Heart Forge faded behind him, replaced by cool, damp air scented with raw stone and metallic dust. Soon the passage opened into one of the city’s extraordinary industrial chambers—a vast cavern where the Mining Guild ran its operations.

  Dozens of Dwarves moved with machine-like precision along metal rails, pushing ore carts or sorting rocks into bins. Their boots thudded in steady rhythm against stone, creating a pulse that echoed across the cavern. Null felt momentarily overwhelmed. This wasn’t a simple mine—it was a complex ecosystem, a world within a world, carved into the mountain by hands that understood stone better than most understood their own skin.

  A thick-bearded foreman sat behind a heavy desk of riveted iron plates, scowling at paperwork with a face carved in perpetual displeasure. The nameplate read BORIN IRONSPINE – SHIFT FOREMAN. Null approached, holding out the quest contract from the Adventurer’s Guild.

  Borin grunted, gave the paper a cursory glance, then stamped it with a seal that looked like it had crushed dreams before. “Drifter? Of course. They always send the wide-eyed ones down here. You’ll be wanting a pickaxe then?”

  “Yes,” Null said.

  “Five copper an hour. Deducted from your pay if you’re broke.” Borin flashed a humorless smile. “Don’t worry—the Guild always gets its cut.”

  Null couldn’t help thinking, Even in a fantasy world, capitalism survives.

  The foreman reached beneath the desk and slammed down a battered pickaxe. The handle was splintered, one side of the iron head was chipped, and the whole thing looked like it had lived through three wars.

  Null blinked. “Is… this safe?”

  “It’s what laborers get.” Borin leaned back, unimpressed. “Good tools are for Guildsmiths. If you want better, earn it.”

  Tamping down irritation, Null took the tool and entered the mine.

  The main tunnel stretched forward in a wide arc, reinforced with stone beams and buzzing with activity. Miners shouted warnings; ore carts rattled past; the glow of crystals cast long, flickering shadows on the walls.

  But Null barely noticed any of it.

  His attention was locked on the pickaxe. Something felt off—an imbalance he recognized without knowing how. His hands moved on autopilot. He found discarded wire near a tool rack, wrapped it around a crack in the handle, tightened it with methodical precision. A smooth stone became his hammer; a few taps reset the wedge holding the head.

  When he finished, the tool felt… right. Solid, balanced. Better than before.

  Null stared at it uneasily. Ancient Crafting… or something deeper?

  He descended into a quieter side tunnel, away from the eyes of experienced miners. The walls here glimmered with reddish veins—iron-rich stone. A good spot.

  Null gripped the pickaxe and swung.

  The blow landed poorly—angled wrong, too much arm, too stiff. Vibration shot up his bones.

  “Okay… this is harder than it looks.”

  He tried again. Still bad.

  On the third swing—

  Something shifted.

  His grip tightened instinctively. His stance widened. His hips turned with the motion. The pickaxe arced through the air with a clean, precise sweep guided by instinct he didn’t recognize as his own.

  CRACK.

  A chunk of iron ore broke free, clattering onto the ground.

  You could be reading stolen content. Head to Royal Road for the genuine story.

  Null froze, then slowly exhaled. Muscle Memory again…

  He began mining in a steady rhythm. The strikes came naturally now—each swing drawn from perfect angles, every blow landing exactly where it needed to. He could see fractures beneath the surface, recognize weak seams and rich deposits before striking.

  It was eerie. Exhilarating. Terrifying.

  He didn’t notice the figure watching him from the shadows until a voice cut through the quiet.

  “That’s fine form you’ve got there, lad.”

  Null jumped, spinning around with his pickaxe raised.

  A Dwarf stepped into the lantern light, hands lifted in a peaceful gesture. His work clothes were simple, his pickaxe masterfully forged, and his eyes warm with curiosity.

  “Easy there,” the Dwarf chuckled. “If I wanted to rob you, I’d have done it before you fixed that sorry excuse for a pick.”

  Null lowered his weapon. “Sorry. I didn’t hear you approach.”

  “You were focused.” The Dwarf inspected the ore vein. “Good eye, too. Mind if I give you a tip?”

  “Please.”

  The Dwarf demonstrated a single swing—effortless yet powerful. Stone cracked cleanly as if it had been waiting for him.

  “Let the weight of the tool work for you,” he advised.

  Null imitated the motion. It clicked instantly. The next strike released a perfect wedge of ore. The Dwarf nodded in approval.

  “Better.”

  They fell into a steady pace, working side by side. They talked between swings—Null asking about minerals and dwarven mining habits, the Dwarf asking about Drifters and the world beyond the mountain.

  It was surprisingly comfortable. A simple pleasure of shared work.

  A loud growl shattered the moment.

  Null froze. His stomach lurched. A new icon flashed in his HUD: [Satiety – Low].

  The Dwarf burst into a hearty laugh. “The mountain always takes its due. Come, lad. Break time.”

  They settled in a small alcove near the main tunnel. The Dwarf produced a cloth-wrapped bundle and unfolded it to reveal thick slices of roasted meat, dark bread, and hard cheese.

  “My wife packs enough for two. Eat.”

  Null accepted gratefully. The food was simple, hearty, grounding. As they ate, the Dwarf’s gaze drifted to the obsidian dagger at Null’s waist.

  “That’s an interesting blade,” he murmured. “Mind if I take a look?”

  Null handed it over.

  The Dwarf turned it carefully in his hands, tracing the pressure-flaked edges, the wrap of leather, the knotted binding.

  “Well now… this is a piece.” His voice softened with genuine admiration. “Rough, yes. Primitive even. But the technique—flawless. The spirit of the craftsman is strong in this. You forged it?”

  “I did.” Null felt a spark of pride.

  “You have a gift,” the Dwarf said simply. “A rare one.”

  His eyes grew more serious. “So what brings a gifted lad like you to this mountain? Most Drifters stick to the easier zones.”

  Null explained everything—Barcus, the teleportation, the quest for Eins, and finally the humiliating encounter with the receptionist at the Heart Forge.

  The Dwarf’s expression darkened like thunder.

  “That’d be Balin,” he growled. “A fool who judges by coin and cloth, not by callus and craft.”

  He placed a firm hand on Null’s shoulder. “Listen well. Don’t let him turn you aside. His insult was worthless—but his advice was not. A craftsman speaks with his hands. Go to a forge and shape something. Then return. Try again. Show him what work looks like.”

  The sincerity in his voice surprised Null. It felt… grounding. Trustworthy.

  They finished their meal and parted—Null to finish his ore collection, the Dwarf to delve deeper into the mine.

  Null filled his crate quickly, using his unnatural efficiency. He returned the pickaxe to Borin, who stared at the intact tool with an expression of suspicion.

  “You didn’t destroy it?” Borin muttered. “Huh.”

  Null accepted his meager pay—minus the rental fees, of course—and made his way to the public workshop.

  The forge was a chaotic echo of the Heart Forge: noisy, crowded, filled with aspiring smiths and the sharp scent of heated metal. Null rented a station, gripped the tongs, and let his instincts lead.

  Heat.

  Hammer.

  Fold.

  Quench.

  Shape.

  When the work was done, he held a simple iron dagger. Clean lines. Balanced weight. Sharp edge. Not a masterpiece—but unmistakably competent.

  His heart raced as he walked back toward the Heart Forge.

  He expected another humiliation. Another dismissal.

  Instead, the moment he rounded the final corner, a furious voice echoed through the stone.

  “You shame this forge! You insult the craft! Turning away a man because his clothes are plain? Judging a blade by its sheath instead of its edge?”

  Null froze.

  The voice was familiar.

  He peeked around the column and saw Balin cowering behind the reception desk—while the Dwarf from the mine stood before him, eyes blazing like forged steel.

  “M-master Eins—I didn’t know he was—!”

  Oh.

  Null’s breath caught.

  That Dwarf… that was Master Eins.

  The Dwarf turned—and when he spotted Null, his fury melted into the warm, welcoming smile Null now recognized.

  “There you are, lad!” Eins called. “Come in, come in. No need to skulk about.”

  Null stepped forward, stunned.

  Eins clapped a heavy hand on his shoulder. “You’ve worked hard today.”

  Then he returned his gaze to Balin—voice dropping into icy calm.

  “You judged him by rags instead of skill. That is not our way.”

  Balin trembled like a kicked puppy.

  “You’ll report to the slag pits at dawn,” Eins continued. “Haul charcoal and waste until humility finds you. Now go.”

  The receptionist fled.

  Silence settled.

  Eins turned back to Null with gentle pride. “Now then… I’m Eins. And I believe you were looking for me.”

  Null swallowed, nodding.

  He had found his first path forward.