Ethan took a step back, expecting the rasp of claws or the rush of something breaking free. Instead, dirt poured across his boots, shot through with fibrous roots that snapped under their own weight. A sheen of moss clung to some of the chunks, faintly luminous in the shadows.

  “What the hell…” he said.

  The light cut deeper than soil. Behind the spill, etched into the newly exposed wall, were glowing shapes, bathing the area in strange light. They weren't cracks or resin, but perfect geometric lines arranged in tessellations, their edges glowing a soft, impossible green. They looked like writing, but was no script he had ever seen. The design was full of angled curves and repeating triangles, with spirals that folded back on themselves. The glow pulsed faintly, as if aware of his gaze.

  CelestOS: Analysis… in progress. Data consistency error. Glyphs do not match recorded Veslayan alphabets. Semantic correlation: 2%. Reliability: negligible.

  “Glyphs? That’s what you’re calling them?” Ethan stepped closer. Unlike the shimmering, crawling resin veins, these were static. They were simply hard-coded into the stone. “Well it’s not like they’re naturally made I guess.”

  CelestOS: Correction. No tool marks identified. Formation process indeterminate.

  Ethan reached out a hand. His glove hovered an inch from the glowing surface. The light brightened, barely, and he snatched his hand back like it had burned.

  “Yeah. Indeterminate my ass.”

  Ethan froze, his breath shallow. The glowing shapes pulsed once more—and then, as if a switch had been thrown, the light drained from them. Lines unraveled into nothing, fading faster than he could blink. The wall in front of him was just stone again, dark and ordinary, with only a trace of soil spilling out.

  His stomach tightened. “What did we just do?” he muttered, taking a step back. His heart pounded in the silence, waiting for the shriek of something waking, for claws raking free from the wall, for the punishment that always seemed to follow discovery on this planet.

  Nothing came. Only the faint crumble of dirt and the smell of wet moss.

  CelestOS: Congratulations. You have successfully broken reality. Would you like to file a warranty claim?

  Ethan barked out a laugh that cracked into nerves. “Not funny.”

  CelestOS: Correction. Extremely funny. Data supports humor as effective stress relief in 73% of expendable asset cases.

  Ethan rubbed his faceplate, forcing himself to look back at the spill. Roots poked out from the breach like snapped wires. Moss glittered faintly. It wasn’t a trap he just had to let himself believe that.@. Just dirt. Real dirt.

  His heart gave a sharp kick. “This is real dirt, holy shit. That’s good, right?”

  CelestOS: Indeed. In order to harvest efficiently, a specialty tool is required. Please consult available conversion options.

  [Ex Nihilo Conversion Available: Shovel | Input Mass: 2.1 kg | Power Cost: 0.6% Reserve]

  “Perfect,” he said. “I need a shovel just to touch dirt. What's next, do I need to craft a lawn chair just to touch grass?”

  CelestOS: Correction. Celestitech does not endorse unauthorized recreational seating. Lawn furniture is classified as non-essential infrastructure.

  ”look, whatever. Can we make food with this dirt? Is that something the ex nihilo can do?”

  CelestOS: Affirmative. Organic particulate detected. Trace microbial colonies confirmed. Nutrient density exceeds planetary baseline by 114%.

  Ethan’s throat tightened. Tightened as his stomach growled. When was the last time he had eaten?

  CelestOS: Additionally. Trace microbial colonies detected. Airborne humidity trending upward. [Ambient Humidity: +4% | Condensation Likelihood: Moderate]

  Ethan swallowed. “So there’s water close, too? Fuck yeah, I hit the jack pot.”

  He sat back on his heels, chest still tight with exhaustion, the afterburn of cranking the rig making his arms shake. The dirt was cold in his palms and damp enough to darken the glove seams. He rubbed it between his fingers just to feel it smear, to prove it wasn't some resin trick waiting to crawl into him.

  The CMS hummed faintly against his chest, the suit HUD flickering as it registered the change. This wasn't just dust or stone; it was organic matter.

  [Ex Nihilo Conversion: New Material Detected – Biomass]

  [Available Recipes Expanded]

  Ethan’s breath caught. “Wait, hold on. You’re saying…”

  CelestOS: Affirmative. Organic substrate provides baseline for caloric synthesis. Asset Ethan may now fabricate consumables.

  His knees almost buckled. He hadn’t realized how thin he’d been running until the word hit him: consumables. Food. Real food, not just nutrient bars or slurry.

  The HUD blinked again:

  [Ex Nihilo Conversion Available: Nutrient Bar | Input Mass: 1.5kg Biomass | Power Cost: 0.4% Reserve]

  Ethan groaned. More nutri-bars. As if he hadn’t been choking down those dense little bricks of dried nutrient slurry for the past week? two weeks? Ah however the fuck long it had been. His own handiwork spat out of CelestiCraft like punishment wrapped in foil. He could almost taste the dry, chemical tang coating his tongue, the way it stuck in his teeth and turned to paste if he chewed too long.

  This content has been unlawfully taken from Royal Road; report any instances of this story if found elsewhere.

  His stomach twisted, not from hunger but from the thought of eating another one. He laughed, sharp and bitter. “Perfect. Spend half my life cranking that damn machine, and all I get for my trouble is another box of nut-flavored drywall.”

  CelestOS: Correction. CelestiCraft? Nutrient Bars exceed industry standards for caloric density and jaw durability. Please enjoy.”

  “Yeah, I’ll enjoy it when I can throw one at something’s head instead of eating it.”

  “Yeah, I’ll write a glowing review,” he said. His hands trembled as he scooped more of the soil into a heap, greedily calculating how much biomass he could strip before power reserves nosedived.

  The glyphs behind the dirt pulsed again, casting faint green lines across his gloves. He saw it and registered the unease, but the hunger was louder.

  He gathered up what moss he could and toggled the hud refresh.

  The HUD blinked again: [Biomass Collected: 0.6kg]. Not enough. He’d need more than twice that for a single bar.

  “Figures,” he said. He kept scooping, flinging handfuls into a rough mound while ignoring the ache in his shoulders. The suit hummed each time the nanos dissolved matter into weightless icons on his HUD. The counter crawled up to 0.9, then 1.1, then 1.3, before it stalled when the moss gave way to bare stone.

  “That’s it?” His hands scrabbled at the wall, nails dragging on rock. “Don’t you do this to me. Don’t you tease me with salvation and then cut the line.”

  CelestOS: Correction. Biomass substrate is finite in this pocket. Estimated total yield: 1.4kg.

  Ethan’s throat went dry. “That’s not enough.”

  CelestOS: Affirmative. Deficit: 0.1kg. Conversion unavailable.

  He sat back hard, soil dust puffing around him. He stared at the mound in front of him as if it might grow legs and walk away. One-tenth of a kilo. He was one fistful short of survival. Maybe he could make a shovel and try again later.

  He barked a laugh. “Right. Just dig deeper. Into the wall that looks like an alien circuit board. What could possibly go wrong?”

  CelestOS: Advisory. Probability of catastrophic encounter: 63%. Survival requires calculated risk.

  He leaned his head back against the rig, staring up at the jagged ceiling. Hope and dread tangled in his chest until he couldn’t tell which was heavier. A food bar, a single bar, would be enough to put fire back in his limbs and clear the fog from his head. All it would cost was one more descent into the unknown, one more chance to wake something that hadn't been disturbed in centuries.

  The glyphs pulsed again, brighter this time, as though listening.

  He pushed to his feet, slow and unsteady. His legs trembled under him, starved muscles threatening to buckle, but he forced them straight. “Fine. One more risk. One more wall. If there’s food behind it, I’ll dig until my hands break.”

  CelestOS: Affirmative. Logging statement as: renewed asset commitment.

  “Log this,” Ethan said, picking up the crude pick. His grip tightened, knuckles white around the rough handle. Hope had been dangled in front of him and yanked away, but it was enough. Enough to make him swing again and to remind him that as long as he could move, he wasn't finished.

  The pick came down against the glyph-lined wall, sparks flashing where stone met the alien glow. The cave seemed to exhale around him, a low tremor that rippled through his boots.

  And he swung once more.

  Ethan stared at the soil again, chest heaving. Damp earth and thin moss glistened in his light, the faint shimmer of green so painfully alive it made his stomach twist. He wanted to fall on it and scoop it into his mouth like a starving animal, or to press it into rows, plant something, and coax a meal from its roots. The ache in him screamed for it.

  But the HUD still hovered in his vision: [Biomass Collected: 1.4kg / Conversion Requires: 1.5kg].

  It was close, mockingly so.

  His hands curled into fists, grit grinding into his palms. “Cruel,” he said. His voice rasped, a mixture of a laugh and a snarl. “Life right in front of me, and I’ve got to walk away. That’s Celestitech for you.”

  CelestOS: Correction. Celestitech would recommend product optimization prior to consumption. Improvised agriculture without infrastructure remains statistically fatal.

  “Yeah,” Ethan said, shoving himself upright. “I know.”

  He forced his eyes off the patch of moss, wrenching his gaze back to the walls. Neither want nor hunger would keep him alive. Only the Fabricator, with its cold promise of endless labor and output, could do that. Food would come later, if he didn't collapse first.

  He dragged the auto-pick Mk.II to a fresh wall, the machine’s stone wheels groaning as he shoved it into place. The picks rattled in their slots. They were dull-edged from hours of abuse but still serviceable. His fingers trembled as he wrapped them around the crank, the blisters on his palms screaming as they met the handle.

  CelestOS: Advisory. Ex Nihilo direct conversion efficiency: 34 to 41% under current reserves. Projected Fabricator assembly reduces per-unit energy cost by 62% and unlocks modular processing.

  “So we build the damn factory again, and I won’t starve?”

  CelestOS: Affirmative. Efficiency precedes survival.

  “Five thousand,” he whispered. “That’s all that matters.”

  And he began to turn.

  The rig came alive with its familiar rhythm of three picks pounding in staggered succession, thud-thud-thud, shaking stone loose in dusty avalanches. Shards clattered at his feet, and the HUD counter ticked upward, slow and merciless.

  [Rough Stone: 1487/5000]

  He ground his teeth and cranked harder. The rig groaned, but the picks kept swinging. The cavern filled with the echo of work, each blow a dull heartbeat that drowned out the fear, hunger, and exhaustion.

  Minutes bled into hours. His arms burned, every turn of the crank a flare of pain from shoulder to wrist. Sweat stung his eyes. He thought about Maria to keep going, about her laugh, and the way she’d once told him that stubbornness was his only real superpower. She hadn’t meant it as a compliment, but it was all he had left.

  [Rough Stone: 2680/5000]

  The counter mocked him, its digits crawling like insects across his vision. He lost track of time. His legs quivered. The blister on his palm tore open, blood slicking the handle, but he didn't let go.

  CelestOS: Advisory. Vital signs deteriorating. Probability of fainting exceeds 41%.

  “Shut up,” he gasped, his voice raw. “Keep the numbers coming.”

  The rig hammered on. Dust choked the air and coated his tongue. Every breath felt like swallowing sand. His head throbbed with the rhythm of the machine, each strike reverberating through his bones.

  [Rough Stone: 3749/5000]

  His muscles failed him. He dropped to one knee but kept cranking, every turn dragging the picks down into the wall. He barely noticed when his vision narrowed to black at the edges, the HUD blurring. All that mattered was the next handful of stone and the next tick on the counter.

  [Rough Stone: 4623/5000]

  His body screamed at him to stop. His stomach cramped so hard he almost doubled over, but he clenched his jaw and forced another turn. Then another. The rhythm carried him forward when his willpower faltered.

  [Rough Stone: 4971/5000]

  Nearly there. He couldn't breathe or think. His world had collapsed into the creak of the crank and the thunder of stone breaking.

  He gave one last violent turn. The rig slammed down, the wall burst apart, and shards scattered like glass. The HUD blinked as the counter rolled over at last.

  [Rough Stone: 5000/5000 — Quota Complete]

  Ethan collapsed against the rig, chest heaving, his arms limp at his sides. A wild laugh burst out of him, ragged and broken but real. “Five thousand,” he whispered, tasting the words like victory. “I did it.”