The elevator didn’t work.

  Malachai climbed ten flights of stairs, dragging the weight of his gear and a body still stitched with the pain of fusion. Every step echoed off concrete walls, hollow and oppressive, and each level reeked of mildew, burnt plastic, and sweat-soaked fear.

  By the time he reached the top floor, he was coated in a fresh sheen of grime. The hallway was dark, lit only by the glow of a single emergency bulb flickering above a cracked exit sign. His assigned room was the last door on the left.

  Room 10-17.

  The key was a chipped plastic card with a strip too damaged to swipe. A soldier had grunted and handed him a rusted skeleton key instead.

  It fit.

  The door opened with a long metallic groan.

  The room was simple.

  One bed. Bare, no linen. A small sink in the corner. A cracked window. The carpet was gone, stripped down to flaking concrete. A single cabinet stood where a minibar might have once been. A cheap desk. No chair. On the desk, a dim wall outlet flickered beside something strange.

  A tablet.

  He shut the door behind him, locked it, bolted it with a broken pipe wedged between the handle and the floor. Then he sat on the bed, staring out over the balcony through the cracked window. The fog had swallowed half the city again.

  Then he looked at the tablet.

  It was matte black. Government issued. Half-melted along one edge, but functional.

  When he powered it on, only three applications greeted him. No icons. No background. Just a dull gray screen and block letters:

  [Dungeon Store] [Hollowed Guilds] [Dungeon Tracker]

  He tapped the first.

  [Dungeon Store]

  Weapons. Armor. Trinkets. Crystals. Some were crude—slabs of reinforced steel wrapped in barbed wire. Others were beautiful, likely looted from deep within Gate realms. Every item listed its origin, seller, and mana requirements. All priced in mana crystals.

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

  Malachai frowned.

  He didn’t have any.

  Not yet.

  He backed out, opened the next.

  [Hollowed Guilds]

  Dozens of banners loaded slowly. Names like:

  Ashwake — South Australia's flame-bound.

  Pale Hand — Darwin's death-surge elites.

  Towerless — Nomads out of Perth, lawless but dangerous.

  Sunless March — Those who rule what’s left of Melbourne’s undercity.

  And then Brisbane.

  Just one.

  Black Dagger

  The guild ruled by the S-rank himself. No leader name listed. No motto. Just a sigil: a jagged blade driven into a skull beneath a bleeding eclipse.

  He didn’t press it.

  Not yet.

  The last app blinked.

  [Dungeon Tracker]

  A map. Crude and grainy. It pulsed with red dots—open Gates. Orange meant unstable. Purple meant recently closed. Red meant active.

  Some pulsed with a warning:

  > WARNING: Unchecked dungeon break risk

  Each one listed a rank. Most were D or C. Few Bs. One in the outback was marked unreadable.

  His eyes lingered on it.

  But before that…

  He needed mana crystals.

  There was a knock on his door.

  He rose, claws on instinct, before catching himself.

  He opened it slowly.

  A clerk. Just a boy. Maybe seventeen. In worn grey overalls, holding a clipboard and a hand scanner.

  "You registered as Awakened," the kid said. Nervous eyes. Shaking fingers. "This room's yours as long as you pay."

  "Pay?

  "Mana crystals. Two a week. Minimal housing fee. You don’t pay, you get moved down. No protection."

  "And if I do pay?"

  "You get quiet. You get locks. You get food tickets."

  Malachai stared at him.

  The kid swallowed hard.

  "First week’s waived," he said quickly. "But... best get hunting."

  He walked off.

  Malachai closed the door.

  So that was the cost.

  Survival bought in the blood of monsters. Crystals carved from fallen horrors, their essence hardened and harvested.

  He would have to kill more.

  He would have to delve another Gate.

  And if the fog whispered true—

  He wouldn’t have to wait long.