Chapter Eleven: As Long as Life Endures, the Mining Never Ends

“Oh, you’re here to pick up Elder’s blood analyzer.” Although I hadn’t said a word, the eccentric alchemist Edgewell immediately saw through my purpose. I had no idea how he managed that—perhaps, just like the inexplicable knowledge in my own mind, it was a sort of innate instinct.

“I can’t give it to you just yet. There’s still a small component unfinished. I need some special materials. If you can get them for me, I’ll have it ready for you in no time. You’ll need to go to the abandoned mine in the west of the city and find a mineral called quartz jade—white, gleaming stones, unmistakable. Use this pickaxe to mine them, fill up this sack, and don’t forget to bring a torch. But you’d best be careful; a colony of giant bats is said to be nesting there now.”

Though he phrased it as a request, he gave me no chance to refuse. No sooner had he finished speaking than he produced, from who knows where, a pickaxe, a large sack, and a torch, thrust them into my hands, and immediately turned away, leaving me standing aside as he dove back into his mad and dangerous experiments.

Holding the tools, I stood awkwardly, unsure what to do. By custom—though I had no idea how I knew such etiquette—I ought to bid the owner of the house farewell before leaving. But watching him so absorbed in his work, I was afraid to interrupt.

After an awkward pause, I finally steeled myself to say goodbye—when suddenly, a bitter, burning smell filled the air. My battle-honed instincts bristled with the sense of danger. In the next instant, a searing red burst blazed before my eyes, followed by a wave of heat scorching my face. An explosive roar shattered the air, thunderous in my ears. All I managed was to dive for the floor, head covered, as fragments whistled past, grazing my scalp.

When the world quieted, I dared to lift my head and look around. The room appeared hardly changed—after all, chaos was its natural state, and the explosion had done little to worsen it. Black smoke still billowed from the iron rack on the workbench. Edgewell’s singed attire and soot-blackened face were just as before.

“Don’t worry…” He grinned, baring white teeth. But his smile inspired no confidence—whether a madman or a fool whose brain had been addled by explosions, this was certainly how they would look when they smiled.

“…Just a minor mishap,” he continued, utterly unperturbed, as if all this were perfectly ordinary.

At once, I abandoned all social niceties and fled Edgewell’s house at a frantic pace. I swore that not even a dragon could drag me back into that place. Say farewell to him? Not a chance. I didn’t want to stay in that cursed place a moment longer—well, to be honest, I didn’t dare. I’m not so terrified of death, but to be killed by a flying, cracked bowl during a lunatic’s explosion—a senseless, inglorious demise—is something I simply cannot accept.

Following Edgewell’s directions, I left through the west gate of Capnavia. Night had fallen; the streets were nearly empty, both within and beyond the city walls. Only a few aimless wanderers crossed my view, their eyes vacant, their pace hurried.

With fewer people about, the wild beasts outside the city had grown bolder. Yet now, the lower-tier creatures lurking by the gate posed no threat to me. Even passing close to them, they no longer pursued me as they once had—I supposed it was because my soul’s strength had far outstripped theirs. Still, I kept my distance, especially from the flocks of hens huddled near the city wall.

Guided by the magic map, I followed a narrow path to its end, dispatching a few stray wild dogs that failed to judge their opponent’s strength, and at last found the entrance to a crumbling mine.

It was clearly abandoned. The wooden awning over the entrance was badly rotted and thick with cobwebs, but still sturdy. Inside, the passage was braced with massive timbers, and a pair of long iron rails ran along the floor, stretching from the mouth into the pitch-black depths. This practical design was the work of the dwarves—born craftsmen who, with such ingenuity, could swiftly haul ore to the surface.

A few giant bats fluttered near the entrance, low enough that their monstrous ears and ugly fangs were plain to see. Despite their fearsome appearance, these so-called “Giant Bats” were only level three and posed little challenge. Not wishing to provoke a swarm, I hugged the wall as I approached the mine. Only three bats noticed me, and I dispatched them with ease.

Inside the tunnel, I lit my torch. Its light was weak, illuminating barely twenty paces ahead and behind. The flickering glow danced against the stone walls, lending the space a peculiar sense of oppression. Before long, a cluster of crystalline white stone caught my eye—quartz jade, my quarry. Setting my torch aside, I took out the sack and pickaxe and went to work. The stone proved harder than expected, sending shudders up my arms, but I soon had it in the bag, which I then stowed in my magic backpack before moving on.

Deeper in, the bats grew more numerous and formidable. After a long trek, burdened with ever more ore, I encountered twin level-five “Vampire Bats.” These massive, red-furred creatures could drain my life force with their bites—a dangerous opponent indeed. This was the limit of what I could handle; if not for the life potions Bull Million had given me, I’d never have made it this far.

One more piece of ore would fill the sack. Determined, I pressed onward, soon spotting a shining chunk of quartz jade. Delighted, I dug it free, fulfilling my mission. Just as I did, a faint clanging drifted from deeper in the tunnel.

Drawn by curiosity, I followed the sound and soon saw, around a bend, a squat, powerfully built figure with a long, red beard plaited into braids, wielding an enormous iron pickaxe as he hacked at the wall. The pick was at least twice the size of mine, and the wielder was so short his head barely reached my chest. The disparity between his small frame and the massive tool made for a comical sight—I half expected to see him flung away by his own swing.

His stature and features marked him unmistakably as a pure-blooded Highland Dwarf. Goldstone Fortress, northeast of Capnavia, was a dwarven city, less than three days’ journey away. It was hardly surprising to find a dwarf in these parts.

Humans feel loneliness more keenly in dark, cramped spaces, especially with deadly, bloodsucking beasts nearby. So, finding a companion with a kindred mission here filled me with warmth.

“Hello,” I greeted him, approaching with a friendly wave. “I didn’t expect to find anyone else here.”

“Mining is the best thing of all…” he replied without glancing up, his hands never pausing, his words brimming with passion and devotion to his labor.

“Oh? How’s the yield? This must be an abandoned mine—are there still any treasures left?” I asked, curious.

No sooner had I spoken than the dwarf burst into song, his booming voice ringing with pride: “We miners have strength—hey, we miners have strength…”

It was clear he took immense satisfaction and pride in his work, though his enthusiasm was a bit overwhelming.

“How long have you been here? I mean, you look like you’ve been at this a long time…” I ventured.

“To mine or to destroy—that is the question worth pondering…” he replied, suddenly grave and philosophical. His words were weighty, provoking reflection. If one word could capture the essence of his speech, it would be: evasive.

“Hey, are you alright? Are you okay?” His responses worried me. He didn’t seem deranged, but nothing he said matched my questions.

“I throw myself at the ore like a starving man at bread!” he declared, ignoring me entirely.

“Did you not hear what I said?” I was close to being driven mad by this obsessive miner. What I’d hoped would be a meeting of like minds turned into a barrage of nonsense.

“I’ll devote my finite life to the infinite pursuit of mining!” he vowed solemnly.

And so, we had a bizarre, perplexing conversation. Throughout, this rough-looking dwarf spoke to me in what could only be described as poetry—every word rich with meaning, yet utterly irrelevant to the matter at hand. Most remarkably, whatever he said, it was always a rhapsody in praise of mining and the miner’s occupation. In his telling, mining was the noblest and most glorious profession in the world, a life draped in honor and splendor. To be a miner, in his words, was to be “a noble person, a pure person, a moral person, one who has transcended base interests, one who benefits the people.”

Had anyone witnessed our exchange, they would have seen a curious scene: a human warrior in armor, utterly bewildered, peppering the air with futile questions, while before him, a ragged dwarf miner, utterly unmoved, chiseled away at the rock, replying in a slow, deliberate cadence. There was an air of conversation between us, but I hadn’t the faintest idea what he actually meant.

I didn’t know how this situation had come about. Perhaps this stone-obsessed fellow simply didn’t understand me, or perhaps my wits weren’t quick enough to follow his leaping thoughts.

In other words, the strange dwarf miner before me was either an idiot or a great philosopher—in truth, the difference between the two is often a matter of perspective.

During our conversation, a few vampire bats approached. I watched them warily, but every time they neared the threshold of danger, they would abruptly turn and drift away. After several such instances, I realized we were standing in a blind spot of the bats’ patrols and were in no danger from them here.

Eventually, I gave up on the pointless dialogue, no longer expecting any useful information from this dwarf. He gave me a strange feeling—he didn’t seem like a free-spirited wanderer, but more like the silent, taciturn natives I had once been. Only when I spoke first would he reply, and unlike most natives, he replied in all sorts of ways, yet never made any sense.

Out of habit, I said farewell as I left. He replied in a ringing, righteous tone, “Mining represents the requirements for the development of advanced productive forces, the forward direction of advanced culture, and the fundamental interests of the broadest group of players!”

My head throbbed at his words, and I hurried out of the mine, leaving behind his indefatigable figure swinging the pickaxe. The way he worked, I wouldn’t be surprised if he dug through the entire majestic Wuzig Mountains and connected a road to the distant western lands.

Oh, and by the way, this fellow had an utterly peculiar name: “AFK Mining to Level Up an Alt”…

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