The Guild Transportation Authority didn't exactly prioritize comfort when designing their rescue wagons. Hard wooden benches, the lingering smell of blood and disinfectant herbs, and suspension that seemed purposely designed to find every pothole on the road back to Ravengate.
I sat across from the covered bodies of my former party members, trying not to stare at the canvas shrouds. The rescue worker – Bram, he'd said his name was – sat at the front, occasionally glancing back at me with what I recognized as the standard look of pity reserved for traumatized survivors.
If only he knew.
My hand kept drifting to the hidden dagger at my hip, feeling its unfamiliar weight. I'd bought it with death points. Actual, tangible merchandise purchased with the lives of others. I should feel sick about that. Instead, I was already thinking of buying that Swordsmanship skill book.
What does that make me? A monster? A pragmatist? Or just another adventurer trying to survive in a world built on dungeon deaths?
The wagon hit another bone-jarring bump, and I winced as my recently healed wounds protested. The Guild's emergency healing had closed the gashes, but they'd done the bare minimum. Complete healing was expensive, and D-rank adventurers weren't worth the premium treatment.
"Almost there," Bram called back. "You need me to take you to the infirmary for a follow-up?"
"No, thanks. I'll manage." The last thing I needed was more Guild attention.
We passed through Ravengate's massive Eastern Gate, one of four cardinal entrances to the city. The city had exploded in size after the first dungeons appeared thirty years ago. What had once been a moderate trading post now sprawled in all directions, a chaotic hub of adventurers, merchants, crafters, and the countless support industries that thrived around dungeon economics.
I watched familiar landmarks pass by: the Broken Shield tavern where unsuccessful adventurers drowned their sorrows, the row of pawnshops where desperate party members sold equipment for emergency funds, the Temple of Five Faces where healers tended wounds for those who couldn't afford Guild rates.
Home, sweet home. A city built on the promise of dungeon riches, sustained by the reality of dungeon deaths.
The wagon finally stopped at the Guild Headquarters plaza, a vast open space dominated by the gleaming white tower of the main Guild complex.
"Registry office will want your report," Bram said as I climbed down. "East tower, second floor."
"Thanks for the ride," I replied, though my mind was already elsewhere.
I waited until the wagon continued toward the morgue facilities before turning away from the Guild towers. The registry could wait. I had more immediate concerns – like figuring out exactly what my new items could do, and planning my next move.
I needed information, and I knew just where to find it.
—
The Notice Board wasn't its official name, but everyone in Ravengate called it that. Located in a busy square about fifteen minutes from Guild Headquarters, it was where real dungeon business happened – away from the bureaucratic oversight of official channels.
The Board itself was a massive wooden structure, easily twenty feet wide and twelve feet tall, covered with hundreds of notices, maps, sketches, and warnings. Guild officials attempted to regulate it, but they were fighting a losing battle. For every official notice they posted or inappropriate one they removed, ten more appeared overnight.
I pushed my way through the crowd surrounding the Board. Adventurers of all ranks jostled for position, squinting at notices and arguing over potential quests. Merchants hawked dubious equipment from portable stalls along the periphery. Information brokers lurked in the shadows, offering "guaranteed" dungeon maps for premium prices.
The air smelled of sweat, leather oil, and desperation.
I focused on the section labeled "PARTY RECRUITMENT" – the most chaotic part of the Board. Colorful notices competed for attention:
"EXPERIENCED B-RANK TANK NEEDED FOR IRONVEIN EXPEDITION – PREVIOUS THREE TANKS DIED, GOOD HAZARD PAY"
"SEEKING HEALER FOR QUICK DIVE INTO WHISPERING CAVERN – NO DEATH HISTORY (THIS MONTH)"
"DESPERATE PARTY NEEDS WARM BODIES FOR TOMORROW'S CRIMSON LABYRINTH ATTEMPT – NO EXPERIENCE REQUIRED"
The last one caught my attention. The Crimson Labyrinth was a notorious level 3 dungeon with an unusually high mortality rate. Most parties wouldn't touch it without at least one A-rank member, yet someone was recruiting inexperienced adventurers?
Perfect.
I tore off the attached contact slip and pocketed it. The meeting point was listed as the Rusted Axe tavern, just a few streets away.
As I turned to leave, a bony hand clamped onto my shoulder.
"Jin Harker," a raspy voice said. "Back from the dead again, I see."
I turned to find myself facing Morrigan, one of Ravengate's most notorious information brokers. A withered woman who looked old enough to have personally witnessed the first dungeon appearance, she'd been peddling information at the Board for as long as I could remember. The dozen or so pendants and charms hanging around her neck clinked softly as she moved.
"Not quite dead this time either," I replied. "Just a close call."
Her rheumy eyes studied me with unsettling intensity. "Word travels fast. Kobold Warren claimed five lives, but spared Jin the Rabbit once again."
I winced at the nickname. "Lucky me."
"Luck, is it?" She cackled, revealing more gaps than teeth. "Been in this business too long to believe in luck, boy. Pattern recognition, that's my specialty." She tapped her temple with a gnarled finger. "And you, Jin Harker, are a pattern that doesn't fit."
Great. First Investigator Reyne, now Morrigan. Was I wearing a sign that said 'Recently Acquired Mysterious Powers, Please Interrogate'?
"Just good at hiding," I said, trying to move past her.
She shifted to block my path. "Hiding doesn't explain new accessories." Her eyes flicked meaningfully to my hip where the Kobold Fang Dagger was concealed. "Nice sheath. Distinctive markings. Wasn't on your belt yesterday."
Damn. I'd underestimated her observational skills.
"Salvaged it," I lied. "One of my party members won't be needing it anymore."
"Mmm." Her expression made it clear she didn't believe me. "And I suppose you just happened to find a single-dose rejuvenation potion too?"
My hand instinctively touched the pocket where I'd stashed the health potion. "How did you—"
"Bottle shape. Glass tint. The way it moves when you walk." She smiled, clearly enjoying my discomfort. "Information is my business, boy. Details matter."
I needed to get away from her before she noticed anything else. "What do you want, Morrigan?"
"Want? Nothing yet." She leaned closer, her breath smelling of herbs and something metallic. "Just making an investment in the future. You've become interesting, Jin the Rabbit. And interesting people eventually need my services."
"I'm really not—"
"Crimson Labyrinth expedition," she cut me off, nodding toward the contact slip in my hand. "Led by Thorne Blackwood. Failed treasure hunter. Gambling debts to the Iron Syndicate. Three previous expeditions, seven dead companions." She recited these facts like she was reading a shopping list. "Survival probability for tomorrow's attempt? Less than thirty percent."
I stared at her. That was exactly the kind of expedition I was looking for – high risk, high death potential, high point yield – but hearing it laid out so bluntly was unnerving.
"Why tell me this?"
"Call it professional courtesy." Her smile didn't reach her eyes. "Or perhaps I'm curious to see if you'll survive yet again. Patterns, Jin Harker. Everyone leaves them. Even rabbits."
She released my shoulder and melted back into the crowd with surprising agility for someone so ancient.
I stood there for a moment, processing. Morrigan hadn't asked for payment for her information, which was completely out of character. She never gave anything away for free. Which meant she expected to profit from this interaction in some other way.
I pulled out the contact slip again, re-reading the details. The Crimson Labyrinth. A desperate leader with a history of dead companions. Terrible odds of survival.
In other words, a golden opportunity for someone with my particular... ability.
The question was: could I really go through with this? Deliberately join an expedition I knew was likely doomed, with the explicit intention of collecting points from the probable deaths?
The Guild was already suspicious. Morrigan was watching me. Not to mention my recently healed wound. The smart play would be to lie low, avoid attention, take a few weeks of safe work until the scrutiny died down.
Instead, I found myself walking toward the Rusted Axe tavern, the contact slip clutched in my hand.
Sometimes survival means taking risks. Especially when the risk is primarily to others.
Maybe I really am becoming a monster.