Jack barely noticed the miles slipping by. His thoughts were too loud. He couldn't stop thinking about his father’s condition, his mother's tears, and the ticking clock pressing down on him.

  Stacked on top of that were schemes for earning coin and leveling up at record speed, each idea more reckless than the last.

  Part of him wanted to be outside the game, beside his parents. But what good would that do if he couldn’t fix anything? He needed results. He needed a way to save his father.

  The urgency made the journey dissolve around him. Snowy’s heavy march, the rustle of wind through tall grass, the distant scent of woodsmoke—each came and went without sticking. Fields turned to forest, bridges spanned quiet rivers, and winding roads cut through ruins. Then, ruins became forests, and forests became fields again until the landscape gave way to something darker: Ashengate.

  From a distance, it looked like a shadow—an unnaturally dark smear against the wall of the Ring. When the clouds shifted and moonlight spilled down, Jack saw why.

  The entire city was carved from black stone, which sucked in the moonlight. Low, boxy buildings clustered near the massive outer wall like mushrooms growing near a tree.

  The walls themselves, white in Embersgate and Pearlsgate, were here buried beneath a thick coat of soot. Only thin streaks of white showed where rain had cut through, leaving pale veins.

  Ashengate smelled like smoke. Dozens of chimneys stabbed upward from squat buildings, releasing even more blackness into the night.

  But not everything was grim. Torchlight flickered across the city, wavering like tiny stars trying to hold their ground against the weight of night. Above them, the real stars watched in silence.

  “Here we are, Snowy,” Jack said, while patting her.

  Riding an eremotherium into the city would draw too much attention. The last thing he needed was to catch the eye of IronIre’s scouts or sympathizers. News of the Slayer’s defeat had probably already raced through their guild like wildfire. If the Slayer had already hunted their team so eagerly, what would happen now?

  His ears burned as he recalled some of the insults he had thrown at him. The Slayer had to hate his guts right now.

  Or maybe that wasn’t the situation at all. Maybe the Slayer picking an impossible fight and dying wasn’t that rare. With his personality, it had to be a common occurrence. Maybe no one in his guild cared.

  Still, Jack wasn’t going to risk it.

  He guided Snowy away from the road, circling toward the farmland until he found a small patch of woodland, quiet and empty.

  “This’ll have to do.”

  He dismounted and patted her side. “You have to stay here, okay? I’ll come for you as soon as I can. I know we just reunited, and this is terrible timing, but—”

  Snowy turned her back on him mid-sentence, flopped down with a heavy whump, and began snoring like a sawmill.

  He gave her a final scratch behind the ear. “Well… at least I know she won’t be moving anytime soon.”

  The bees had to stay outside the inventory. If he left Snowy here guarding them, it would more likely deter anyone from damaging the pot hives. At least, that was his hope.

  A part of him wanted to curl up beside Snowy and forget everything for a while. But there wasn’t time.

  He turned back toward Ashengate and walked the rest of the way.

  The road led him into the slums first. Here, the darkness made them look even scarier. It was all narrow alleys, leaning shacks, and the kind of silence that made every shadow feel like it was watching.

  A shutter banged in the wind. Somewhere close, a floorboard creaked under a foot that wasn’t his.

  He didn’t dare linger.

  So he ran—terracoated sandals slapping cracked stone, [Dash] flaring each time it came off cooldown. Whatever beggar, pickpocket, or shady vendor had been waiting in the wings only caught a blur as Jack raced past.

  Eventually, the road widened. Cracked stone gave way to clean cobbles, and the buildings shifted from crumbling wood to orderly stonework. He’d reached the heart of Ashengate.

  Here, the city’s true colors emerged. What looked black from afar was, up close, a patchwork of dark brown, dull gray, and deep charcoal. The stonework seemed to swallow the light, leaving the streets lit but never bright.

  Player gear gleamed sharper here, as if the city itself polished every imbuement. In other zones, the glow of imbued items might blur into fog or shadow. But here, every shimmer stood out, every glow vivid against the gloom.

  Jack didn’t slow to admire it. Head down, pace steady, he wove through players showing off loot, NPCs haggling over prices, and guild recruiters barking promises too good to be true.

  He checked the coordinates he’d found online, turned once, then again, until the sign came into view:

  Ashengate Real Estate Agency

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  The building stood on a broad street not far from the heart of the city, respectable but not the kind of place nobles would stroll past on their way to the palace. Its facade was built from smooth black stone. Smoke puffed steadily from a brick chimney, and warm light spilled from large windows, giving it an inviting look.

  A bell chimed as he pushed open the door.

  The office was modest but well-decorated—warmth from a hearth near the back, a detailed city maquette in one corner, and a sprawling wall map of the city.

  A painting hung between two tall bookshelves: the city in daylight. Jack admired it for a moment. Instead of a pitch-black shadow, during the day, the city apparently became a swirl of black, brown, and grey strokes that refused to blend. Above the walls, half a dozen volcanoes erupted in vivid color. Jack tilted his head.

  Volcanoes? Is that why there’s so much ash here?

  Three NPCs worked at their desks, quills scratching like insects. One was mid-conversation with a player. Another, noticing Jack, rose smoothly to greet him.

  The man was middle-aged, with sideburns reaching his chin and a pointed nose that balanced a pair of spectacles. “Welcome, sir. Can I be of assistance?”

  “Yes, please,” Jack said, settling into the chair opposite him. “I’m looking to rent a house. Something between the slums and the center, if that’s available.”

  The realtor leaned forward, smile widening. “Well, you are a famed artist and a hero favored by the king. Your reputation precedes you! It would be my honor to assist.”

  Jack coughed, caught off guard. His fame was starting to have real perks. He wasn’t about to complain.

  The realtor pulled a thick ledger across the desk and flipped it open. “So, what are your requirements?”

  “I want something modest,” Jack said. “Room for four decorations and a workshop. I’m a beekeeper, so a yard for hives would be ideal.”

  “That’s all?” the realtor asked, brows lifting.

  “That’s all.”

  The NPC leaned back, studying him anew.

  “Something wrong?” Jack asked.

  “No, no,” the man said quickly. “Just… I assumed someone of your stature would prefer something nearer the center. More space. Prestige.”

  Jack shrugged. “Modest is fine.”

  “Modest… modest…” The realtor flipped pages, muttering under his breath. “Not the manor. Too grand. Not the townhouse—already let. Ah. Here we are. A simple one-story with a hearth. Thirty square meters, small private patio out back. Right on the edge of the city, three blocks from the main road, bordering the slums.”

  “How much?”

  “Normally, five gold per month. But for you… four. How does that sound?”

  “Perfect.”

  The realtor pulled open a desk drawer and lifted out a heavy iron keyring. He sorted through it with a practiced hand until he found the right key, then placed it on the desk with a soft clink.

  You’ve paid four gold to Ashengate.

  You can rent a house for 30 days.

  He rose and pointed to the sprawling city map. “Your property is here.” His finger tapped a spot three blocks from the main road, right at the edge of the slums.

  Your map has been updated.

  “Thank you for your work.”

  “A pleasure. Let me know if you ever want to upgrade. Next!”

  Jack scooped up the key. It felt satisfyingly heavy in his palm. He stepped back out into the bustle of the street, then broke into a jog, following the map toward his new home.

  Three blocks off the main road, the city shifted. The polished storefronts gave way to weathered stone walls and poor-looking NPCs.

  And then he found it. His place.

  The house was a squat, one-story structure of brown stone. The shutters’ paint was peeling, and the wooden door bore a sun-bleached look that hinted at years of use. It was one step away from shabby, but still sound.

  The key slid easily into the lock. The hinges groaned as he pushed the door open. Inside, a single room waited. A hearth dominated one wall. The stone floor was worn smooth, the plaster chipped here and there. A pair of narrow windows let in a sliver of moonlight.

  He crossed the small room and found the back door. It opened onto a squared patio no larger than a bedroom. A thick layer of soot coated the ground, and a few weeds had begun to push through. Enclosed by a tall stone wall, the space offered complete privacy.

  It wasn’t much, but it was low-key, and—most importantly—his.

  Jack went back inside and took out the four vases with the etchings of the One-Eyes and the Bears. He placed them lined against one wall, rotating them each so the scenes faced outward. He stepped back and looked at them together.

  The [Retreat] skill icon flared in his vision, glowing faintly before settling into place.

  “There. Now I have somewhere to fall back into.”

  If he and his friends were ever in trouble, he could teleport straight here.

  With that settled, Jack locked the door behind him and headed for the marketplace. If he wanted to haul the pot hives all the way here without Snowy’s help, he’d need a wheelbarrow.

  *

  After placing the hives in the patio and having Snowy at the distance of a ‘Summon’ away, Jack headed toward Ashengate’s industrial quarter. The smells hit first—smoke, brine, and something metallic and sour beneath it all, like dried blood under old sun.

  The Butchering Association came into view—taller than the one in Pearlsgate but narrower. Iron pipes veined its surface, rattling with steam, while chimneys pumped smoke into the night air.

  Above the entrance, a rusted emblem of a cleaver and bone hook creaked in the wind.

  A commotion had gathered near one of the loading docks. A team of NPCs stood in a loose half-circle, arguing over how to fit a brontosaurus carcass through a door that was very clearly too small for it.

  “What if we back it in?”

  “You want the tail to go first?”

  “Better than chopping it in half.”

  Offering his assistance would probably trigger a quest, but Jack gave the scene a wide berth and slipped through the side entrance for players.

  He already knew the layout. Butchering Associations across the Ring varied in size and décor, but the bones were always the same.

  He descended quickly, made it past the meat locker, and the cauldron room until he’d reached the Manager’s office.

  The man behind the desk looked like an adult sitting in a kid’s chair. His knees stuck out awkwardly beneath the desk, and his long arms swept across the paperwork like a crane lifting debris.

  Jack inspected the NPC.

  Brindle.

  The name floated over his head in dull green letters.

  “Hello, Mr. Brindle,” Jack said.

  “Hi, fellow butcher,” Brindle said without looking up. “Bit swamped here. One sec… ugh, someone marked these ribs as Triceratops. This is ankylosaur! Fixing that… good.”

  This NPC was just as busy as Jumbo back in Pearlsgate. His quill scratched nonstop, answering players without once looking up. Jack found a spot against the wall near other players paging through their menus and pulled up the butchering XP store.

  The list spread out before him, dozens of glowing recipes flickering in neat rows. Last time he’d been here, he’d pushed [Bone Carving] all the way to level 8 and unlocked more recipes than he could ever use—daggers, masks, even full armor sets if he wanted.

  Now the counter at the top mocked him: 1,000,000 XP required for the next level. Even after everything he’d earned in the Breach, the bar wasn’t even close to full.

  He skimmed the catalog. There were endless options.

  As much as he wanted to buy everything, he couldn’t afford to scatter his focus. The first guide he’d read about crafting in New Earth was clear: specialization won in the long run. Horace shared that opinion, too—even though he could make many things as a carpenter, he focused on crafting shields.

  Jack closed his eyes for a moment. It was time for him to do the same.

  What should he specialize in?