After the initial excitement of the dungeon road opening, Elmore found his valley bustling more than ever, as people from nearby towns flocked to see the modern stone town or see people openly and happily using their skills. His own trips into the dungeon had been challenging but fruitful. The group had managed to bring down one of the larger, armored insects that lurked in the deeper parts, dragging its massive exoskeleton back to the valley. Locals and blacksmiths alike examined it with fascination, debating how best to repurpose its dense, metallic shell for tools, armor, or maybe even something more ambitious.
The influx of tourists made life in the valley feel crowded. On family days with Ash and Edward, Elmore could feel eyes on him, both curious and admiring. It wasn’t necessarily unpleasant, but it was strange to think how much his home had changed in so short a time.
At the latest town meeting—the first since Charleston’s war declaration—Elmore addressed the crowd, his tone firm but encouraging. He stressed the importance of preparation and growth, urging his people to level up however they could. The dungeon was open, and while the deeper parts might be too dangerous, the initial tunnels were accessible and already rich with Aither-imbued flora and minerals. "If the dungeon’s too much, then hunt in the woods," he advised. "Go in big groups. Stay smart, stay safe, but make sure you’re getting stronger."
He’d also instructed the blacksmiths to ensure that every resident had access to basic iron or steel weapons and armor. While mithril was a far-off goal, he promised that as soon as they had enough of the rare metal, they’d work on supplying everyone with better gear.
As the meeting continued, a wiry man with a twitchy demeanor and his rotund wife approached the throne. The pair bowed low, and the man held out a small vial of reddish-brown liquid, the contents thick and slightly shimmering.
“We’ve, ah, figured out a bit of a use for some of the, uh, substances we found down there,” the man began, referring to the dungeon entrance. “This here—it’s a sort of quick-healing salve. Pour it on a wound, and it’ll make our healing even faster. Instant, near enough for small stuff.” He cleared his throat, adding, “It’s tricky to make, though. Takes time, and it only keeps for a day.”
Elmore nodded thoughtfully, intrigued by the man’s ingenuity.
“We’d be willing to sell it at a fair price, especially to you and your group, Chief,” the man continued, his eyes darting between Elmore and the vial. “Given you’re the ones going deepest in there, figured it’d help to have a town backing our best fighters.”
Elmore thanked the couple, paying particular attention to the mention of the salve’s short shelf life. “Anything that can keep our people safer is worth considering. We’ll make sure your efforts are supported.” Elmore Recognising the couple from his residents notes the man being Elrick Dashh and his wife Maggy Dashh elmore guessed they finally found a use for Alchemist and Chemist skills respectively no doubt aided by the mans Plant Bond skill.
Next, groups of bakers, tailors, and other tradespeople stepped forward, each presenting their ideas to Elmore. A baker suggested producing rations with extended shelf life, something hearty and portable for those venturing into the dungeon. A tailor offered to craft more durable clothing for the townsfolk, reinforced with materials sourced from the forest’s tougher creatures. Each suggestion reinforced a common theme—this was a community ready to pull together, each person offering their skills to support their collective strength.
Finally, the blacksmiths stepped forward, and Elmore’s attention sharpened. Will, the new head blacksmith, looked exhausted but pleased.
“Chief,” Will began, “we’ve finally finished smelting all the mithril you collected. At this point, we’re able to outfit you and your crew with full mithril weapons, and we’ve got enough left for your armor. easily” He scratched his beard, adding, “It’ll take us a couple more weeks to finish crafting the rest of the mithril into mining equipment so that we don't need your help every time, but we’ll get it done.”
Elmore nodded, a small smile touching his lips. “Good work, Will. That’s the kind of craftsmanship that keeps this place going.”
Will dipped his head, and the blacksmiths returned to their place among the crowd.
As the meeting wound down, Elmore offered his thanks to each group, encouraged everyone to keep innovating, and reminded them all of the importance of staying vigilant. As he looked out over his people, he felt a swell of pride—these were no mere townsfolk anymore; they were fighters, builders, and creators, each of them rising to the occasion in a world that demanded nothing less.
Weeks later Elmore made his way to the forge to collect his new gear. The blacksmiths, looking eager and a bit proud, unveiled his upgraded plate armor—a beautifully crafted blend of sturdy mithril plates riveted over his old, familiar leather armor. The plates shone with a subtle, silvery/cyan light, the surface tough yet smooth, polished to an otherworldly sheen. Elmore ran his hand along it, feeling the solid weight of the metal that somehow felt light against his touch. It was as if the armor itself recognized him, fitting like an extension of his body.
The blacksmiths didn’t stop there. Alongside his new armor, they presented an array of weapons: swords, axes, and, to his surprise, boxes of shotgun shells filled with mithril plugs and birdshot. The shells glinted in the light, and Elmore couldn’t help but smile at the unexpected bonus. He’d never even considered how effective mithril could be in a shotgun. And laying beside the large wooden box of shells what parts for his shotgun to replace the old iron for a mithril body keeping the old wood stock.
He looked back to the blacksmiths, nodding appreciatively, and then asked, “What about rifle rounds?”
Will, scratched his head, a note of apology in his tone. “Chief, we don’t have the machinery to make rifle ammo here. If we’re going to stock up like that, we’ll need some more modern equipment, and probably some extra metals that don’t grow in these parts.”
Elmore nodded thoughtfully, weighing the possibilities. “I’ll see what we can do about importing that gear. Meanwhile, let’s keep building our stock here.” Turning to Will again, he added, “And get a message to my father—ask him to help set up mithril digging equipment. I want to start upgrading The Beast. Engine, transmission, eventually maybe the whole thing if we can swing it.”
With that, he loaded the weapons and armor into the back of his truck, feeling the satisfaction of progress. The preparations were coming together, slowly but surely.
---
Driving down to the Dungeon, Elmore took in the sight of families emerging from the tunnels. A few parents carried baskets filled with glowing mushrooms, their phosphorescent colors lighting up small faces as children proudly held jars containing strange insects. One man, bloodied and scratched but grinning, held up a massive, emerald-green centipede that squirmed within a makeshift net. It was clear that his people had taken his words seriously; they were exploring, fighting, growing stronger in their own way.
Stolen from Royal Road, this story should be reported if encountered on Amazon.
Elmore parked The Beast and joined his men at the dungeon entrance. The air buzzed with quiet excitement as he handed out the new weapons, watching each man’s face light up as he held his mithril-forged blade or axe. He could feel their confidence growing, grounded in the knowledge that their tools were now worthy of whatever threats lay ahead.
“We’re not pushing in too far just yet,” Elmore said, his tone direct but calm. “We’re training first. We’ll drill until everyone here can empower these weapons without a second thought.” He thumped his chest plate. “I need to get the hang of this armor, too—figure out if I can channel Aither into it.”
In the days that followed, Elmore and his men dedicated nearly every waking hour to training. They worked relentlessly, spending twelve, sometimes sixteen hours a day doing nothing but learning to channel Aither in their new weapons. Every swing, every stance, every movement was a lesson in focus and control. To Elmore’s surprise—and a bit of frustration—it took weeks for his men to start consistently empowering their weapons. But as time went on, he noticed a pattern that intrigued him.
When they finally succeeded in channeling Aither, the power they wielded wasn’t nearly as potent as his own. The realization hit him gradually: his men, while strong, didn’t have his level of intelligence. He’d pushed his intelligence stat to the limit, and he was beginning to suspect that Aither manipulation was closely tied to mental acuity. Intelligence, he theorized, might be the very foundation for controlling Aither effectively.
Once they grew comfortable with the basics, a visible shift happened in his men. At first, their strikes were uneven, the Aither fluctuating with each swing, but gradually, they reached a point where they could empower their weapons with every strike. He had to admit, watching them at full strength was awe-inspiring.
A man with near-superhuman strength swinging a mithril axe into a creature the size of a rhinoceros and watching it explode in a shower of green ichor was unlike anything he could have imagined. Even more impressive was Brent, shifting into his wolfman form, moving at speeds nearly faster than the eye could follow, cleaving through swarms of iron-shelled bees with lethal precision. These sights, once the stuff of nightmares or fantasies, had become a routine part of their lives—mundane in its own strange way, a reflection of who they had become.
Eventually, Elmore managed to learn how to empower his armor, feeling Aither surge through the plates, strengthening them to the point of feeling nearly invincible. With this newfound skill and confidence, the group agreed it was time to press deeper.
Months passed as Elmore and his men pressed further into the vast, eerie expanse of the Dungeon. The creatures they encountered in these deeper caverns were unlike anything they had seen. The first encounter with a centipede the size of a bus left the men rattled, its many legs clicking with a nightmarish rhythm as it lunged at them. Then came the pack of jumping spiders, each one as large as a wolf, racing at them as fast as horses. Despite their training, the sheer ferocity and size of these beasts brought out more than a few yells and curses as they hacked and shot their way through the creatures.
But over time, the initial shock wore off, replaced by a gritty resolve. The group grew accustomed to the monstrous chitin and predatory eyes lurking in the shadows, learning to face down the horrors that awaited them. They’d drag a makeshift trailer deep into the dungeon, battle through whatever nightmarish creature came their way, and fill the cart with a grotesque collection of body parts—pieces of armor-like shells, crystalline insect limbs, and chittering mandibles. They’d retreat only when exhaustion or the dwindling stock of healing vials forced them back.
In those relentless months, progress was steady and hard-earned. Some of his men leveled up, the gains in strength and resilience visible in their endurance and skill. Word spread that several other townsfolk had also leveled, their determination spurred on by Elmore’s call for strength. And Elmore himself could feel it—that subtle hum of energy signaling he was close to leveling up once more. It wasn’t just his own progress but that of his entire valley that lifted his spirits, as more and more people grew strong enough to face the challenges of this Aither-warped world.
The weekly meetings had become a staple of the community, a time for everyone to share updates, grievances, and ideas as they adapted to life alongside Aither. Elmore had just returned from another exhausting expedition into the dungeon with his men, each of them dirtied and bruised, but visibly stronger. The meeting hall was buzzing with the usual energy, townsfolk exchanging stories of their recent experiences, of new skills unlocked or creatures encountered in the woods. Even the children listened in awe as the seasoned hunters recounted tales of oversized beetles and web-spinning spiders that glinted like gemstones under flashlight.
Elmore took his seat at the front, still wearing his dust-covered armor, which now bore a few fresh scratches from a particularly nasty encounter with a beetle the size of a small car. The meeting began as usual, with people discussing the allocation of resources, progress on the mithril-infused weapons and armor, and updates from the valley’s craftsmen and tradespeople. He nodded along, fielding questions and giving his input where necessary, his voice steady as he encouraged everyone to keep pushing their limits. He could see how the valley was transforming into a community of strength and resilience, and he couldn’t help but feel pride in how far they’d come.
Suddenly, the doors burst open, slamming against the walls with a force that made everyone in the room jump. A stranger strode in, his presence as unsettling as it was commanding. He was tall, with sharp eyes that scanned the room with a look of impatience and disdain. His clothes, though weathered, hinted at an elegance from the outside world—a world untouched by the roughness of Elmore’s valley.
Behind him followed two guards, clad in matching dark armor, their faces obscured by helm visors, each carrying weapons that looked remarkably well-kept, almost pristine. The hall fell into a tense silence as the stranger stopped just a few paces from Elmore’s throne, his gaze fixed directly on him.
Elmore leaned forward, his eyes narrowing as he studied the man who’d just disrupted his meeting. "Can I help you?" he asked, his voice calm but with an edge of authority that let the newcomer know he wasn’t intimidated.
The man cleared his throat, a faint smirk tugging at his lips. “Elmore, Chief of this… valley,” he began, his tone dripping with an air of condescension. “I come representing interests that extend beyond your quaint little settlement.”
Elmore raised an eyebrow, his patience already wearing thin. “And who exactly are you to barge in here unannounced?”
The man chuckled lightly, glancing around the hall as if taking in the simplicity of the place. “Ah, where are my manners? My name is Mathis, and I represent a throne far beyond your borders—a community that has established itself as a formidable force. We’ve heard rumors, you see. Rumors of a hidden dungeon, of resources pouring out of this valley, of a place where Aither seems to flow like a river.”
Elmore felt a chill run through the room, the townsfolk murmuring among themselves as Mathis continued, his voice smooth and self-assured. “I am here to extend an… invitation. Our ruler, the Governor of Charleston, has taken an interest in your operations. He is most eager to forge an alliance—one that would grant you protection, supplies, and a more formal role in the new order of things.”
Elmore’s eyes hardened at the mention of Charleston. He’d expected outside interest eventually, especially with how his valley’s reputation had been spreading, but the appearance of a representative from Charleston—the very throne that had declared war on him—was unexpected.
“An invitation,” Elmore repeated, his tone cold. “From the same Charleston throne that declared war on us? Funny how your Governor thinks he can just walk back in here with open arms.”
Mathis’s smirk faded, replaced by a calculating look. “That declaration, Chief, was more… preliminary than anything. You can see it as a challenge, a test of sorts. Charleston has a vested interest in those who can hold their own. Consider this an opportunity to join our ranks rather than oppose us. A merger, if you will.”
Elmore’s gaze swept over the room, catching the eyes of his men, his family, his people. The tension was palpable, every person in the hall watching him, waiting to see how he would respond. He stood, his voice echoing in the silence as he addressed Mathis.
“You come here with talk of alliances, but we know what Charleston’s alliance looks like. It looks like submission. You think my people will kneel to someone who has done nothing for them, someone who sends you in here to make veiled threats?”
Mathis’s expression shifted, a hint of annoyance flashing across his face. “Chief Elmore, do not misunderstand me. This is a generous offer. Charleston’s resources could make your lives easier. Your people wouldn’t need to risk their lives in that dungeon or struggle to defend themselves against the creatures that lurk within.”
Elmore crossed his arms, his gaze steely. “My people are stronger than you think. We don’t need your Governor’s charity, and we certainly don’t need his protection.”
Mathis held his gaze for a long moment before nodding slowly, his expression cooling to a mask of indifference. “Very well,” he said, his voice calm but with an undercurrent of irritation. “But consider this a warning, Chief. Charleston doesn’t take rejection lightly. And we will be watching.”
Without waiting for a response, Mathis turned on his heel, his guards following closely as they exited the hall, leaving behind a tense silence. As the doors closed behind them, the murmurs began to rise, and Elmore looked out over his people, meeting their questioning and worried expressions.
“Listen up, everyone,” Elmore called, his voice clear and reassuring. “Charleston might be watching us, but we’re not going anywhere. We’re stronger than they know. And if they want to bring war to our valley, then we’ll be ready for them.”
The crowd erupted in cheers, the fear dissipating, replaced by a fierce determination. Charleston might have sent its emissary, but Elmore knew that his people were ready to stand strong, and together, they’d face whatever came their way.
