The North End Cave was no longer a dungeon to the man known as Grid; it was a recurring nightmare with no wake-up call.
It had been twenty days since he accepted the S-grade quest from Earl Ashur. Twenty days of agony, hunger, and the persistent smell of damp limestone.
Grid stood at the edge of the "Second Threshold," a jagged cavern bridge suspended over a lake of boiling acidic sludge. His current level sat at a miserable 66. He had started this journey at 73.
"Twenty-five," Grid croaked, his voice cracking from thirst. "That's twenty-five times I've seen the gray screen. Twenty-five times I've felt my soul being ripped out and shoved back into a poweess body."
He looked up at the ceiling of the cave, his face twisted in a mask of pure, unadulterated hatred. He didn't see the rock; he saw the invisible faces of the people who had designed this hell.
"MORONS! SADISTS!" he screamed, shaking his fist at the cavern roof. "What kind of balance is this? Is your mother a Frost Ghoul? Did a Cave Spider raise you? Why is a Level 120 elite guarding a bridge for an S-grade quest?! DO YOU WANT ME TO QUIT? I WON'T! I'LL SUE YOU! I'LL BUY YOUR COMPANY AND FIRE EVERYONE!"
High above, nestled in a crevice of the rock, the Stealth Assassin sent by Earl Ashur was no longer taking notes. He was eating a piece of high-quality jerky and watching with the rapt attention of a man at a circus.
For the first week, the Shadow had been disgusted by Grid's incompetence. For the second week, he had been bored. But now, in the third week, he had reached a state of morbid fascination.
'He's doing it again,' the Shadow thought, watching Grid attempt to parkour across a series of floating stones.
Grid jumped. He missed. He flailed his arms like a dying bird before plunging into the acid.
Sizzle.
"Aaaand... there he goes," the Shadow whispered. "He'll be back in two hours. That was a particularly creative scream this time. A solid 8 out of 10."
The Stealth Assassin realized he was actually starting to enjoy this. He had seen heroes fall with dignity and villains die with a curse, but he had never seen a man fail so consistently and so loudly, only to return with even more spite than before. It wasn't bravery; it was a level of stubbornness that bordered on a psychological disorder.
Two hours later, a Level 65 Grid trudged back into the cavern. His armor was gone—dropped during a previous death—and he was wearing basic linen clothes. He looked like a beggar who had lost a fight with a lawnmower.
"I'm going to do it this time," Grid muttered, his eyes bloodshot. "I'll crawl if I have to. I'll—"
He stopped.
Just past the Second Threshold, hidden behind a cluster of stalagmites, something was making a heavy, wet thumping sound. Grid crept forward, holding his rusted iron sword with trembling hands.
It was a Frost Drake, a Level 200 field boss. But it wasn't the majestic predator it should have been. It was covered in deep, cauterized gashes—likely the work of a high-level mob fight that had failed to finish the job.
Its wing was torn, and it was coughing up blue, frozen blood. Its HP bar was a tiny, flickering sliver of red.
Grid's eyes didn't fill with pity. They filled with the light of a man who had just found a winning lottery ticket in a gutter.
"You..." Grid whispered, a terrifying grin spreading across his face. "You're dying, aren't you? You're suffering?"
The Drake let out a weak hiss.
"GOOD!" Grid roared, lunging forward. He didn't use a skill. He just started stabbing the Drake's neck like a man possessed.
"DIEDIEDIEDIE! GIVE ME YOUR EXPERIENCE! GIVE ME YOUR LUCK!"
The Shadow Assassin watched from above, his jaw dropping. 'No way. The idiot found a wounded Level 200 boss? The luck of the devil...'
With a final, pathetic gurgle, the Frost Drake burst into a massive explosion of white light.
[Your level has risen!]
[Your level has risen!]
[Your level has risen!]
[Your level has risen!]
...
[You have reached Level 79!]
Grid stood in the center of the light, his body trembling as the lost stats flooded back into his frame. Not only had he regained his lost levels, but he had surpassed his starting point.
And there, amidst the dissipating light, lay a shimmering item.
[Drake's Frozen Heart (Rare)]
Description: A rare material used for crafting high-tier ice-element weaponry.
Market Value: Approximately 15 Gold.
Any other player would have used the 15 gold to buy a decent set of armor or a Rare-rated sword to make the remaining eight thresholds easier.
The Stealth Assassin watched as Grid sprinted back toward the entrance of the valley, heading for the nearest trading outpost.
'Finally,' the Assassin thought. 'He'll gear up. He'll become a real warrior.'
An hour later, Grid returned to the cave. He wasn't wearing new armor. He wasn't carrying a better sword. He was carrying a massive, bulging sack over his shoulder.
He sat down at the entrance of the first threshold and opened the bag. Inside were hundreds of loaves of Black Moldy Bread—the cheapest, lowest-quality food in Patrain. It restored minimal hunger and often gave a "Nausea" debuff, but it cost almost nothing.
"I sold the heart for 14 gold," Grid muttered, stuffing a piece of the gray, hard bread into his mouth. "I spent 10 silver on this bread. That leaves me with 13 gold and 90 silver profit. If I buy a sword, I might lose it when I die. But if I eat this bread, it's already in my stomach. They can't take it from me!"
He chewed the moldy bread with a look of intense satisfaction, even as a notification popped up: [You are feeling nauseous.]
"Cheap... efficient..." Grid mumbled, his face turning slightly green. "I'll save the gold. I'll pay off my debt. I'll buy a car. Who cares about the pain? Pain is temporary, but gold is forever!"
The Shadow Assassin slapped his forehead so hard it echoed.
"He's a lunatic," the Shadow whispered, recording into his report. "Lord Ashur, the target has regained his strength through a fluke of nature. However, his mental state remains abysmal. He is currently eating garbage to save money. I fear that if he actually finds the book, he might try to eat the pages to save on dinner."
Grid stood up, wiped the moldy crumbs from his chin, and looked toward the darkness of the Third Threshold.
"Eight more," Grid said, his voice full of a dark, miserly power. "I don't care if I die a hundred more times. As long as I have my moldy bread and my gold, I'll reach that book. And then, Earl Ashur... you'd better have my payment ready."
As Grid marched back into the depths, his stomach growling and his level reset to a respectable 79, the Stealth Assassin followed, no longer out of duty, but because he wanted to see just how much more moldy bread a man could eat before his soul gave up.
Grid is pushing forward, fueled by greed and garbage. Meanwhile, Arthur has reached the outskirts of Winston.