The day was calm, one of those rare, peaceful Sundays where Elmore felt almost like a regular man, just walking his family through town on the way to get lunch. Edward was darting ahead, chasing after Ditzy, while Ash walked beside him, her gaze sweeping over the bustling street, filled with the mix of townsfolk and curious visitors that had become part of their daily life. The air was filled with chatter and laughter, the kind of lively hum that made the valley feel like it was thriving.
But as they made their way past the town square, Elmore’s eyes fell on a pair of strangers who didn’t fit the scene. A man in armor and a woman in a sharp suit, clipboard in hand, were moving through the crowd with a certain air of purpose, the kind that made his instincts bristle. He’d learned long ago to trust those instincts.
Elmore turned to Ash. “Stay close. Let’s find out who these two think they are.”
They approached the strangers, Elmore keeping his tone as polite as he could muster. “Morning,” he greeted them, nodding toward the clipboard. “Not every day we see folks walking around with one of those around here. Care to explain what you’re doing?”
The woman barely looked up, offering nothing more than a dismissive wave of her hand. “It’s nothing you need to concern yourself with,” she muttered, brushing him off without so much as a second glance.
A spark of anger ignited in Elmore’s chest, but before he could say anything, Ash stepped forward, her gaze sharp and unforgiving. Elmore saw the familiar glow of her Silver Tongue skill illuminating her mouth as she spoke, her voice pointed and clear.
“If you can’t show respect to the chief of this land, then you’d best leave—and make sure it’s for good.”
The woman looked up sharply, eyes narrowing as she studied Ash, seeming to realize for the first time who they were dealing with. She adjusted her glasses, clearing her throat as her expression shifted to something more cautious.
“My apologies,” she said, a forced politeness in her tone. “We didn’t mean to offend. We’re merely conducting some inspections. Routine work—nothing that should trouble you.”
Elmore’s patience was running thin. “I don’t care who you’re with or what ‘inspections’ you think you’re entitled to.” he replied, voice hard. “This is my land. You don’t have the right to inspect anything here without my permission. So unless you’re prepared to tell me who sent you, I’d suggest you leave—now.”
At this, the armored man finally turned to face him, his eyes cold and steady as he introduced himself.
“I am the Guildmaster of the Adventurer’s Guild,” he said, each word dripping with disdain as he held Elmore’s gaze. “And when the war with Charleston is over, you won’t be alive to enforce your little rules. Go ahead—ban us. But we’ll be back.”
Elmore clenched his fists, anger coiling like a tight spring in his chest, but he took a calming breath, glancing briefly at Edward and Ash before speaking again. Only for the Aither to respond to his rising anger and a new screen formed slightly hazy saying. the options being even more strange than normal, less totally random like before but now a describable strangeness.
The Organization Adventurer’s Guild has declared an intent to settle in your land what is your stance
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“You know what?” He let the words hang in the air, his voice dangerously calm. “Consider it done. I hereby excommunicate you and your guild from my land. You’re no longer welcome here, and that includes every last one of your people. So go—leave my valley. You won’t be back.”
As soon as the words left his mouth, Elmore felt a peculiar shift in the air, as though the very land itself had accepted his command. The Guildmaster and his companion visibly stiffened, a notification flashing in their Aither systems that they’d been excommunicated. An unseen force seemed to press against them, subtly yet insistently pushing them toward the edge of town.
In an instant, the effect rippled out to others in the crowd. People Elmore hadn’t even realized were affiliated with the guild—some carrying packs or weapons, others in plain clothes—were suddenly forced to follow, faces turning from shock to outrage as they stumbled out of town. Some shouted in protest, others claimed they hadn’t even brought their cars and demanded to be allowed back.
The Guildmaster twisted back, a fury lighting his face as he fought against the force urging him forward. “This isn’t over!” he shouted, his voice carrying over the commotion. “We’ll be fighting alongside Charleston for access to that dungeon. You have no right to keep it all for yourselves—there isn’t another one like it in America!”
Elmore stood firm, watching as they were slowly forced out of sight. The town square, once lively and bustling, now echoed with tension, but Elmore stood tall, his gaze unwavering.
“Let them fight all they want,” he murmured, mostly to himself. “We’ve done just fine on our own, and we’ll continue to do just that.”
As the last of the Guildmaster’s people disappeared from view, the valley seemed to breathe a collective sigh of relief. Elmore looked down at Ash, who met his gaze with a fierce, unwavering smile. They were in this together—come what may. And now, with one more threat handled, they could finally get back to what truly mattered: protecting their home and preparing for whatever came next.
The months that followed were filled with nothing but hard, backbreaking work. Every able-bodied person in the valley took part, contributing to the enormous efforts required to defend themselves against Charleston and the growing shadow of governmental pressure. The miners had become so proficient in mithril extraction that it was no longer a rare resource but an expensive commodity, fueling a surge of production like the valley had never seen. Weapons, armor, tools—mithril had become the very lifeblood of their community. But with that abundance came a new layer of danger.
Rumors began to spread. Travelers, merchants, and curious onlookers who came to see the dungeon or trade in the valley were quick to realize that mithril wasn’t just a fantasy legend but a tangible reality here. It didn’t take long before word spread outside the valley, sparking both envy and fury from those who had yet to get their hands on even a scrap of the precious metal. Soon enough, murmurs reached the ears of those in power. People outside Elmore’s rule became frustrated and, eventually, resentful, knowing that a resource as valuable as mithril was being hoarded.
The weight of their displeasure brought government attention into the mix. When federal officials caught wind of this hidden resource, it was a quick leap from curiosity to intervention. They saw the war with Charleston as an opportunity, shifting their support to Charleston under the pretense of maintaining “resource equity.” To Elmore and his people, it was nothing less than a betrayal—a clear indication that the government was siding with Charleston, no doubt hoping to secure a portion of the mithril for themselves. The reality struck like a heavy blow; this wasn’t just a small-town standoff anymore. The federal government was backing Charleston.
The shift terrified the valley’s residents. Every week, whispers ran through the town about what the government might send, about how much more Charleston would bring, about how Charleston’s forces had only grown stronger. But Elmore’s people were nothing if not resilient, and with the abundance of mithril came the means to protect themselves. They armed themselves, clad in armor that no outsider could even imagine, and steeled themselves for what was coming.
In the midst of this growing tension, Elmore’s thoughts returned to the dungeon and the resources it held—specifically, the glowing crystals embedded in the vast ceiling of the underground expanse. These crystals had called to him ever since he’d first seen them, suspended high above like stars, glinting with the potential of something even greater than mithril.
With the help of his team, Elmore devised a plan to reach those crystals. It took over a month of planning, multiple trips into the dungeon to survey the area, and a carefully constructed pulley system to safely bring the crystals down. They mined a few crystals, each piece proving even harder to extract than mithril, requiring precision and immense force. But finally, after days of effort, the first crystal was pried from the ceiling and lowered to the ground.
When Elmore brought the crystal back to town, its very presence changed everything. Unlike mithril, the crystal wasn’t just strong—it seemed to resonate with Aither itself. In the presence of the crystal, tools and weapons imbued with Aither grew even more powerful, their energies amplifying in a way that Elmore could feel deep in his bones.
The blacksmiths immediately set to work, experimenting with the new material. With time, they found that weapons and armor crafted with crystal inlays or components gained unique properties, holding a deeper connection to Aither. For those with a high intelligence stat, the effects were especially potent. The valley was buzzing with excitement; they now had something that could give them a definitive edge, something no one else had, beyond the normal strength of mythril the super metal that it was.
Elmore himself took a crystal shard and had it embedded it in the handle of his pickaxe. The moment he infused it with Aither, he felt the pick surge with power unlike anything he’d wielded before. It felt as though the crystal didn’t just channel Aither; it enhanced it, amplifying his control and creating an almost fluid bond between him and the weapon. Each swing struck with unparalleled force, and his tools now cut through the dungeon’s hardest materials with ease.
With this new edge, Elmore’s confidence grew. He gathered his men, each equipped with newly forged crystal-enhanced mithril weapons, armor and explained what this meant. “We’re not just fighting for our valley anymore,” he told them, his voice resonant with the strength he felt in his bones. “With these crystals, we’re fighting for our future. This war won’t end in Charleston’s favor. We’ve got something they can’t even imagine.”
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As the war drew closer with every passing day, the valley’s preparations had reached a fever pitch. Elmore and the blacksmiths had unlocked a new level of lethality, learning that by powdering the crystalline fragments and mixing them with gunpowder, they could create a propellant for firearms that unleashed an incredible amount of force. However, the first trials resulted in shattered barrels and detonated firing pins, an explosive lesson in the raw power they were wielding. So, they adjusted, crafting barrels, firing pins, and the inner workings of their firearms entirely from mithril. The townsfolk contributed as well, harvesting and drying the dungeon mushrooms to create fireproof stocks. These weapons, a blend of ancient resources and newfound materials, were nothing short of revolutionary.
With the one-year mark on the horizon, Elmore felt the weight of expectation and uncertainty pressing on him. He had leveled up to five, inching toward six, and yet he sensed a barrier—an invisible wall he wasn’t sure he could overcome before Charleston’s forces arrived. In an effort to break through, he and his men were planning to return to the dungeon, pushing further into the colossal cavern than they had dared before.
That morning elmore strolled out to his throne and sat down feeling the weight of his land on his shoulders. Drinking his coffee as expensive as it is now he really savors it. Paring it with a cigarette and leaning back looking up at the green mountains and just letting himself exist for a while. Once his cigarette ran out he took a breath and brought up his status
---
Elmore
Level 5:
Ruler level:3
- Strength: 15/50
- Endurance: 10/50
- Dexterity: 7/50
- Agility: 8/50
- Intelligence: 40/50
- Resistance: 10/50
- Vitality: 13/50
- Aither: ???
Points Available: 20
Tabs:
[Seat of Power]
- True Land Ownership:LV1
- Aither Laws:LV2
- Aither Taxes:LV2
- Population: Subjects:4160
[Tokens]
-immoral structure: 1
Elmore leaned back into the bone-crackling comfort of his throne, the echoes of the last few days of brutal fighting and planning still vibrating in his muscles and bones. Across his vision, the familiar, ghostly web of his HUD shimmered to life, clearer and cleaner than it had ever been
before.
He exhaled slowly through his nose, tapping a rough, calloused finger against the side of his coffee cup. Twenty points. Twenty precious pieces of raw power, waiting to be hammered into shape.And the first, most obvious temptation loomed before him like a sweet old devil whispering in his ear—Intelligence. His most sharpened tool. Sitting at 40/50 already. A mere ten points would take it to its maximum, crowning him as a true mental giant among men.
He rolled the thought over and over in his head like a stone in his palm. The appeal was there, no doubt; but... a war was coming. Real war. Not a scuffle, not a backwoods raid. Blood would spill, fire would burn, and bone would snap. He needed his body to match the mind he already carried. He needed to survive, and brute smarts weren’t gonna keep a blade from slicing into his ribs. With a grunt and a final nod to himself, he shoved that easy path aside. Intelligence would have to wait until level six.
That left the basics. The physical foundation.Strength called to him next. It was an easy, simple kind of decision, and sometimes simple was the smartest way to go. "Strength solves a lot of problems before they even start," he muttered aloud to no one in particular. With a flick of his eyes and a brush of his finger against the projected interface, he slid 5 points into Strength, bringing it from 15/50 to a healthy 20/50. Good. Now he'd hit harder, carry more, and batter through trouble a little faster when words—or bullets—failed.
Next was Endurance.He pondered it, tapping his boot heel idly against the bone floor.It had its value, no doubt. Being able to work long, grind harder, survive the slog.But honestly?He already could pull a full day of work with nothing but a mild ache at the end. Endurance would be important—but not today. He set that one aside for a future version of himself to worry about, maybe level 7 if he lived long enough.
He pulled up Dexterity next.Elmore's lips twitched into a wry smile."Fine motor skills, huh?"
With the way things were goin’, from manufacturing finer weapons to possibly performing delicate repairs or wielding smaller, deadlier weapons, he could see it.And hell, getting it up to 10 just felt right—a clean number, a polished edge.He spent 3 points, bringing Dexterity to 10/50, and nodded to himself in satisfaction.
Agility followed. He chuckled, thinking about how, not too long ago, a man of his size doing backflips would've seemed like the punchline to a bad joke. Now? Now he could damn near tumble with the best of 'em. Still...He wasn't about to start trying out for any acrobat troupes. A little more couldn't hurt though. He threw 2 points at it, raising Agility to 10/50 as well. Just enough to keep him quick when it counted, but not so much he was wasting good points.
Resistance. Armor was armor. Good armor had saved his life already more times than he could count. But he wasn’t dumb enough to think every strike would hit leather or mithril. Some were going to get through. Some would always get through. Three points into Resistance—10/50 up to 13/50—felt like a good insurance policy. Enough to not be stupid, but not overkill either. "You can’t plug every hole in the boat, but you can patch the big ones," he muttered, shifting his weight on the throne.
That left Vitality. He stared at it a long while. The echo of old pain tingled up the side of his jaw where twilight had halfway ripped it off. And dull throb in his guts where a hole, the size of a damn coffee mug, had once gaped open, leaving him bleeding and gasping for life on the stone. Yeah. Vitality had saved him before, even when skill, armor, and strength had failed. He didn’t hesitate this time. All the remaining 7 points slammed into Vitality, dragging it up from 13/50 to a satisfying, solid 20/50.
The stat screen blinked twice, then glowed a deep, golden orange. He leaned back, studying his handiwork with a slow, heavy sense of approval.
---
Elmore
Level 5:
Ruler level:3
- Strength: 20/50
- Endurance: 10/50
- Dexterity: 10/50
- Agility: 10/50
- Intelligence: 40/50
- Resistance: 13/50
- Vitality: 20/50
- Aither: ???
Points Available: 0
Tabs:
[Seat of Power]
- True Land Ownership:LV1
- Aither Laws:LV2
- Aither Taxes:LV2
- Population: Subjects:4160
[Tokens]
-immoral structure: 1
Better. Not perfect, not by a longshot, but better. Stronger. Tougher. Faster. Exactly what he needed to be with the battles to come.
The moment he triggered it, the world folded inward like a fist closing around a stone.For half a heartbeat, Elmore felt as if he’d been plunged into a vat of molten lead—heavy, choking, searing pain bursting through every nerve. His muscles spasmed against the throne, tendons locking up so hard he thought his bones might snap under the pressure. His lungs screamed for air but he held his breath, gritting his teeth, every fiber of his body howling in protest.
Then came the pull.
Not a gentle draw, but a savage yank, like a rope tied to his soul had been jerked tight. His skin itched and burned all over, thousands of tiny fires dancing beneath the surface, muscles coiling and swelling, veins thickening with new blood, bones knitting themselves denser, stronger. Every scar, every old injury flared white-hot as his body reinforced what had once been broken and weak.
There was a crack from deep inside his chest, and Elmore barked a short, surprised laugh between clenched teeth. It didn’t hurt—not really. It was more like... growing pains, just on the wrong side of mortal.
Strength filled him like water flooding an empty vessel. His fingers twitched involuntarily, gripping the throne’s bone armrest so hard it creaked again in protest. His heart hammered against his ribs, hard and steady, like a war drum.
His senses shifted too. His hand-eye coordination sharpened until he could almost feel the arc of a fly's wings twenty feet away. His legs buzzed with potential energy, the idea of running—not just moving—hunting—thrumming in his calves. His skin grew just a shade tougher, a little less yielding, like it was no longer willing to simply accept what the world threw at it. And deep inside, in the hidden hollows of his body, the sheer stubborn will to live—the burning fire of Vitality—roared higher, a furnace stoked to white-hot fury.
The whole ordeal lasted maybe ten seconds. Maybe an eternity. Hard to tell.
When it finally ebbed, Elmore sagged back into his throne, a sheen of sweat prickling his forehead, his chest rising and falling in slow, deliberate pulls of air. He wiped his mouth with the back of his hand and grinned—slow, wolfish, and deeply satisfied.
He felt alive. More alive than he had in months. Like he could tear a tree out by the roots if he set his mind to it. Like he could run until the horizon burned away.
Slowly, he opened his eyes. The mountains still loomed in their endless green rolls. The cigarette butts still scattered at his feet. His cold coffee still sat waiting on the armrest.
But he was different.
He reached out, picked up his coffee with steady hands that felt both alien and perfectly his own, and took a slow, thoughtful sip. It was bitter as sin now, but he didn't mind. Bitterness was part of life. Part of war. And Elmore was getting ready for both.
Weeks later they eventually reached the far wall of the vast chamber, discovering an imposing, ancient tunnel. Its entrance loomed like the mouth of some great beast, dark and unyielding. Elmore hesitated; they were already at the edge of their endurance, and the passage ahead felt like an abyss waiting to swallow them. But time was running out. He steadied himself, signaling his men to follow. Together, they crossed into the tunnel.
As they walked, the air grew colder, thick with a damp, foreboding stillness. Suddenly, a thunderous crash reverberated through the passage as a massive stone slab dropped from the ceiling, sealing off the way they had come. Their flashlights flickered, casting uneasy shadows against the walls as they exchanged glances, each man gripping his weapon more tightly. The tension was palpable; they were trapped.
Then, without warning, an enormous flame erupted in the center of the chamber ahead, its colors shifting between hues of pearl, emerald, and violet. Sparks cascaded from it, like ethereal webs of lightning arcing to the walls, forming patterns too intricate to comprehend. As the webs connected to the chamber’s edges, something impossible took shape: towering brassieres ignited, illuminating an underground coliseum. Rows of seats stretched around them, filled with spectral shapes faintly visible in the eerie glow, as if spirits from ages past had gathered to bear witness.
Above, the ceiling sparkled like a starry night, crystal fragments and glowing ooze casting an illusion of a sky made of gemstones. The sight was breathtaking and terrifying in equal measure. Every instinct in Elmore’s body screamed that they had walked into something far beyond typical for this dungeon.
From within the heart of the flame, a shadow began to coalesce, dark and foreboding, stretching into the form of something immense and powerful. It seemed to pulse, as though breathing with an ancient, almost sentient awareness. The flames parted, revealing a towering figure clad in armor that seemed both stone and shadow, its eyes gleaming with an unnatural light.
Elmore’s heart pounded as the figure stepped forward, every movement a cascade of resonant energy that crackled across the room. He knew without needing words—this was not just another dungeon creature.
The being’s voice, when it finally spoke, rumbled like the earth itself, reverberating through their bones.
“Who dares enter the Hall of Trials?”
Elmore and his men exchanged glances, every fiber of their being alert. Elmore stepped forward, his voice steady, though his heart raced. “i am a chief of my people from the valley above, i seek strength to protect our people and my men follow me.”
The guardian regarded them, the smoke and void flickering in its eyes. “Only those of unwavering resolve may proceed. Prove your worth… or be consumed by the flames!”
The coliseum’s walls seemed to pulse, rows of seats filling with spectral figures watching in silent anticipation. Elmore tightened his grip on his mithril-imbued ax, feeling the Aither surge through it, connecting with the crystal embedded in its handle. He could sense the weight of this place, the layers of power that coursed through the air, and realized they had stumbled upon a trial that would test them beyond mere strength.
As the guardian raised its colossal weapon, a blade forged from both stone and flame, Elmore and his men braced themselves. This was a fight unlike any they had faced, a battle not just for survival but for purpose. With every ounce of courage and skill, they prepared to face the guardian of the Hall of Trials, the shadows of countless warriors watching from the darkened stands above, as the flames surged higher and the battle began.
---
Elmore
Level 5:
Ruler level:3
- Strength: 20/50
- Endurance: 10/50
- Dexterity: 10/50
- Agility: 10/50
- Intelligence: 40/50
- Resistance: 13/50
- Vitality: 20/50
- Aither: ???
Points Available: 0
Tabs:
[Seat of Power]
- True Land Ownership:LV1
- Aither Laws:LV2
- Aither Taxes:LV2
- Population: Subjects:4235
[Tokens]
-immoral structure: 1
