Staring at the three in front of him, Norris swallowed the last mouthful of soup. His fingers scratched faint lines into the wooden table without realizing it.
“You sure ran fast!” Fylin slapped the tabletop, making his bowl jump half an inch. “We stood up for you, and you—”
“Fylin!” Vela clapped a hand on her shoulder, then turned to Norris. “Don’t mind her. She just talks too much. No malice.”
“I do not talk too much…” Fylin muttered.
“I… I know.” Norris kept his head down, voice barely audible. “Thank you…”
Then he suddenly shot to his feet, old boots kicking over the stool. “S-sorry, I have to enter the dungeon tomorrow, so I—”
He nearly ran out the door, vanishing into the night.
“What the hell, now it looks like I bullied him,” Fylin grumbled.
Being feared by the very person she tried to help left her frustrated.
Vela patted her shoulder. “Come on. He said thanks before he left, didn’t he?”…
Norris knew they meant well. But he just couldn’t handle people like them.
He was a gutter rat—only in unnoticed corners did he feel safe.
Any gaze, whether kind or cruel, filled him with fear.
He knew he had problems, but there was a reason.
Anyone carrying a debt big enough to turn them into a slave any day—wasn’t it natural to have issues?
Some were born in Rome. Others were born beasts of burden.
He was the latter.
Thanks to his deadbeat gambler father.
That man’s early death had left Norris, still underage, to sign his crooked name into the baron’s dusty ledger—accepting a debt of thirty-two gold coins.
Here, no debt died with the debtor. Death might silence a gambler’s breath, but not erase the parchment at the notary. A father’s debt was a son’s to repay.
Norris could only be thankful his father’s incompetence had kept the debt under a hundred.
By law, those who failed to pay were enslaved to their creditors. His father had been “lucky” to drink himself to death before that point.
As for fourteen-year-old Norris, the United Kingdom’s laws were merciful enough to allow him to begin repayment at sixteen—installments of two gold every three months, with interest. Forty gold in five years.
So, to avoid the “full experience of slavery,” he’d started saving at fourteen.
But by the first repayment, all his savings had already been swallowed.
With barely enough strength to scrape by as the lowest adventurer, he had no real way to earn that much.
At seventeen, he should’ve become a slave already.
But fortune had finally glanced his way.
The Pujis had cleared the fifth floor of monsters. Even weaklings like him could safely mine cartloads of magic crystals there.
Thanks to the Pujis, he wasn’t on a slave ship bound for the islands.
Now all he wanted was to rush back into the dungeon, to dig out another load of crystals.
…
The next morning, he shouldered his basket and pickaxe and hurried to the dungeon.
At the entrance, he noticed faint traces of mycelium creeping along the stone.
Other adventurers seemed not to notice—or perhaps had grown used to it.
By now, fungus sprouting anywhere was hardly surprising.
Rumor said it had spread to the sixth floor too, where Pujis were locked in battle with slimes.
None of that mattered to him. All he needed was to mine crystals, repay debts, and squirrel away a few silver coins.
Even scraps of savings were precious to him.
So he followed behind another party, thick-skinned, sneaking down to the fifth floor. Alone, he’d never survive.
His pickaxe struck sparks from the stone. As always, it took him nearly two days to fill his basket with crystal ore.
Just as he neared the tunnel mouth, something went wrong.
“Damn it! Crystals everywhere!” a harsh voice bellowed, shaking dust and fungus loose from the ceiling.
A bad feeling gnawed at Norris.
Another raspy voice answered: “We should’ve come here sooner! Quick, grab everything!”
When Norris emerged, he saw two leather-armored figures frantically scooping up loose crystals.
“You… you shouldn’t. The Pujis will come…” he warned.
They wouldn’t care if he got caught in crossfire.
“Hah?”
One man sneered at the sight of a bronze weakling, shoving him to the ground.
“Jealous, huh? Can’t stand others picking what you missed?”
They clearly assumed his haul was stolen, too.
As Norris fell, his pickaxe slipped free, spinning through the air.
It landed square on a Puji’s shelled cap.
The shell split, the Puji collapsed limp.
Norris went pale—he’d killed a Puji!
He snatched up his spilled crystals and bolted for the exit.
The others knew what that meant. After a heartbeat of shock, they reacted fast.
“Shit, a dead Puji!”
“Run! They won’t swarm instantly!”
“That kid killed it! Not us!”
Their curses followed him as they grabbed their loot and sprinted. Passing Norris, one of them deliberately tripped him.
He crashed down hard, his basket spilling crystals that clattered against his skull.
“You deal with the consequences of your own mess!”
Their voices faded as they fled.
But Norris knew the truth: killing a Puji had consequences.
He had to run!
Yet ahead, the two hadn’t made it far. From the fungal carpet, seven or eight Pujis burst out, leaping onto them. Explosions shook the cavern.
The blast rocked the walls. Norris hugged the stone to endure the shock, never noticing the boulder above until it fell—
…
…
He drifted in and out.
He tried opening his eyes, but they were too heavy. Only a sliver of light came through.
He tried moving his arm, but found it wedged in a crack at an impossible angle, encased in dried, clotted blood. The stench of iron filled his nose.
His body was pinned by rubble, numb and unfeeling.
Am I dying?
Terror surged—the primal fear of death.
But then, like a lantern guttering out, memories flickered past.
Debt collectors ripping away his last copper, gazes treating him like prey.
Adventurers tormenting him at will, leaving him only retreat.
The thief who stole his coin, then beat him bloody with his friends when he demanded it back.
Maybe… letting this miserable life end wasn’t so bad.
But strangely, the last image was of the girl who had tried to stand up for him.
What did that mean?
He didn’t have time to wonder. His mind was unraveling, his awareness slipping into the void.
He was dying.
In the final haze, something touched his neck.
A voice he had never heard before spoke in his head:
“Sorry to interrupt your death, but I just wanted to ask—are you still interested in living?”