I pulled the heavy cold-iron pickaxe from the locker, and as I turned the handle over in my grip, my sharp eyes instantly spotted a piece of crude, stained parchment taped directly to the shaft. Being a newcomer on this tier, the administration had obviously left this standardized orientation brief to lay out my daily quota.
I unrolled the note and scanned the stark, bureaucratic script:
INMATE 345: MINE 10 KG OF MINERALS. PLACE ALL ORE ON THE TREADMILL FOR SYSTEM PROCESSING. FAILURE TO MEET QUOTA WILL RESULT IN IMMEDIATE DISCIPLINARY ACTIONS.
I looked past the rows of lockers toward the entrance of the dark mining tunnels. Positioned right at the main nexus of the cavern was a massive, industrial conveyor belt… the "treadmill" mentioned in the note. The entire system hummed with a low, vibrant vibration, powered completely by an internal mana-core that tracked, weighed, and sorted the raw minerals hauled in by the prisoners.
My ultimate strategic objective was still burning in my mind: I needed to find a way to breach the boundary between this mine and the third level, Room 3-C, to answer the serial killer Inmate 217's invitation and finally locate Luke Granhart. But an elite infiltrator knows that patience is a weapon. To keep the guards completely off my trail and seamlessly blend into the general population as a brooding, calculating main character, I had to play the part of a compliant prisoner first. I needed to do the labor.
I hoisted the heavy pickaxe over my shoulder and marched deeper into the dark, sulfur-scented tunnels, the rhythmic clink-clink-clink of two hundred other convicts echoing off the damp rock. I navigated past the crowded veins until I found a relatively isolated, unworked wall of raw, glittering ore running directly beneath the ocean bedrock.
I squared my stance, raised the pickaxe, and brought it down with a heavy swing against the stone.
CLANG!
A shower of sparks flew into the darkness, but the pickaxe merely chipped a microscopic fragment off the reinforced wall. It was only then, as a sharp vibration shot straight up my forearms, that the harsh reality of my situation truly sank in. Operating under the oppressive weight of the Citadel's magic-dampening chains and strength-depleting collar meant my physical attributes were strictly capped at a baseline human maximum of exactly 100 stats. My supernatural, elite vampiric strength was entirely sealed away. This wasn't going to be an effortless task. If I could simply rip these chains off and shatter the dampening stones, my true, unsuppressed power would allow me to cleave this entire rock face to dust in a single strike. But doing so would instantly alert the high-stat guards and ruin the entire infiltration.
"No. I play the long game," I thought, my jaw clenching as I forced myself back into character.
Refusing to let the physical limitations break my edgy demeanor, I channeled every single ounce of my available 100-stat strength into a flawless, rhythmic swinging motion.
CLANG! SNAP! CLANG!
I used my advanced knowledge of structural leverage, striking the natural fault lines and microscopic fissures in the rock to maximize the damage of each blow.
It was grueling, exhausting, and completely backbreaking work for Keane's unexceptional human body. Sweat began to drench my orange jumpsuit, and my muscles burned with fatigue as the heavy ore slowly began to fracture and break away from the wall in dense, glittering chunks. But even as the physical strain mounted, my mind remained completely detached, icy, and sharp. The grueling labor occupied my hands, but it left my brain completely free. With hours left on the shift, I quietly used the time to systematically plan my next move, calculating exactly how I would navigate the dangerous factions waiting for me down on the third floor.
An hour of backbreaking labor slowly ticked away under the dim, flickering mana-lights of the cavern. My hands were blistered and my muscles throbbed, but through sheer technical leverage and unwavering discipline, I successfully broke off 5 kg of the heavy, shimmering minerals from the rock face. I hauled the glittering chunks over to the massive industrial conveyor belt, dumping them onto the mana-powered treadmill, which hummed to life and registered half of my daily quota.
The atmosphere inside the deep mineshaft was rapidly turning into a suffocating, subterranean hell. Cut off from the upper levels and pressed right against the ocean floor, the air was thick, stagnant, and entirely choked with the pungent odor of sulfur and the sour sweat of two hundred exhausted criminals. Keane's baseline 100-stat human body was reaching its thermal limit; my throat was parched, and I desperately needed to cool down.
I navigated through the dense stone dust toward the center of the mineshaft, where a large, communal stone basin sat. The water inside was stagnant and visibly dirty, contaminated by the grime of a hundred desperate convicts, but beggars couldn't be choosers in the Citadel. Bypassing the urge to drink the filthy liquid, I grabbed a dented iron bucket, scooped up a generous amount of the cold, murky water, and poured it directly over my head.
SPLASH.
The freezing water drenched my orange jumpsuit, sending a sharp, shivering shock through my nervous system that instantly cooled my burning skin. I wiped the wet hair from my eyes, maintaining my brooding, edgy composure.
"Hey, 345."
A sharp voice cut through the rhythmic clack-clack of distant pickaxes. My hand immediately dropped toward my pocket, expecting Inmate 222 to crawl out of the shadows to babble another deeply unhinged, traumatic anecdote about his childhood or his obsession with my sister Elicia. But as I turned my head, my eyes locked onto a different variable entirely.
Standing there was a cold-eyed, stone-faced convict with the number 100 stitched onto his chest. He was one of Inmate 217's elite cleaner crew from the cafeteria… the swift, tactical unit that had sanitized the scene after I broke the king. It was a brilliant structural realization: the serial killer's powerful syndicate wasn't just confined to the cell blocks, his network had highly trained enforcers strategically assigned across the labor details of the first and second floors.
"Come with me, 345, the boss wants a word with you. Now." Inmate 100 murmured, his voice low and completely devoid of emotion.
I stood up straight, letting the dirty water drip from the hem of my jumpsuit as I fixed him with a sharp, arrogant glare.
"Where to, 100? This is an active mineshaft. The perimeter is heavily guarded, and the security matrix won't allow us to leave this sector until our five-hour shift officially concludes at noon."
Inmate 100 didn't blink. He simply tilted his head toward the darkest, unworked perimeter of the cavern.
"Just come with me."
Recognizing a tactical opening when I saw one, I didn't press further. I gripped my pickaxe loosely and followed him as he skillfully navigated the blind spots of the overhead watchtowers, weaving deep into the absolute rear boundary of the mineshaft where the active mining stopped and the raw, jagged granite met the structural foundations of the fortress.
We arrived at a massive, iron-grated structural junction. Tucked behind a heavy outcropping of rock was a giant ventilation shaft.
Back during my intelligence-gathering phase, I had noted that the general ventilation ducts in the upper residential blocks were intentionally built small and suffocatingly narrow to prevent any possibility of a prisoner escaping through the ceiling. But here, deep within the ocean-floor mine, the rules of architecture changed. Because the air was naturally thin, toxic, and lacking in oxygen, the engineers had been forced to install a massive, heavy-duty ventilation system to keep the workforce from suffocating. The intake vent was easily large enough to fit a person of my frame.
Even better, it didn't connect to the upper surface where the scorching sunlight would turn my true vampiric form to ash. Instead, this specific auxiliary shaft cut directly straight down through the solid bedrock, leading straight into the dark, forbidden territory of the third level. The gateway to Luke Granhart was wide open.
Inmate 100 reached out, his calloused hand gripping the edge of the heavy iron ventilation grate. With a sharp, practiced twist, he popped the hidden emergency latches, swinging the massive barrier open to reveal the pitch-black, yawning void of the shaft.
"345, you better get moving, the boss doesn't give second chances. If you're late, you're a dead man." 100 muttered, his eyes darting back toward the distant hum of the mining treadmills.
I crossed my arms, maintaining my razor-sharp, edgy main-character composure despite the stale, freezing draft blowing up from the abyss.
"Tell me, 100. Where exactly does this shaft drop, and who is this 'boss' running your syndicate?"
A grim, humorless smile touched the enforcer's lips. "This shaft cuts straight down into the heart of the third level. But brace yourself, kid. Down there, the Citadel uses absolute magic-dampening bedrock walls. The secondary security matrix is a completely different beast. The moment you step out of this vent, the ambient suppression fields will force your physical attributes to plummet from a 100 baseline all the way down to a pathetic 10 stats. You're going to feel an overwhelming, suffocating weakness the second you hit the floor."
He leaned in closer, his voice dropping to a barely audible whisper.
"You're going down there to meet Don Anthony's top apprentice… Inmate 003. Otherwise known to the high-tier syndicates as Luke. Now get going. I'll patch the grate and guard the perimeter from this side so the guards don't notice a missing body on the treadmills."
A 10-stat suppression matrix.
I nodded slowly, my mind instantly processing the tactical layout of the lower tier. It made perfect architectural sense. The standard magic-dampening chains and strength-depleting stones I wore on the upper floors were designed for massive general population control. But the third level was a completely different ecosystem. While the second floor was crammed with five hundred low-level, petty criminals… like Keane Leon, whose baseline identity was nothing more than a fragile pickpocketeer, the third level was a high-security isolation sector. It was strictly reserved for only fifty of the most dangerous, politically radioactive, and lethal high-tier entities in the realm.
To keep fifty monsters from tearing the facility apart, the warden didn't rely on guards; he relied on environmental castration. Dropping an inmate's stats down to 10 meant a legendary warrior would have the physical output of a sick, frail child. Down there, a physical fight was mathematically out of the question. You couldn't rely on raw muscle or S-rank kinetic impact; you could only survive through pure, psychological domination and intellectual warfare.
"Perfect, that is exactly where a mastermind thrives." I thought
I didn't hesitate. I slid into the massive, dark opening of the ventilation shaft, the heavy iron pickaxe clattering softly against my shoulder. The pathway to my ultimate objective was clear. I was about to descend into the cold, high-security abyss to confront Luke once again… the legendary apprentice whose shadow loomed over my old guildmates back in Town Allure. I gripped the inner ridges of the metal shaft, let go of the edge, and allowed myself to drop silently into the dark, descending belly of the third level.