Chapter 69: Dangerous Idea

Time moved as slow as a snail when one is in extreme caution. And Kael had nothing but caution driving him right now.

Every step he took through the tunnel system felt like it had to be negotiated first, test the gravel, listen for a scrape that didn’t belong to him, check the minimap, breathe, move.

The metro air was stale and cold in a way the surface wasn’t, thick with rust and damp stone, and it made the back of his throat feel dry even though he knew thirst wasn’t supposed to matter here. His burns were healed, the arrow wound dulled into something manageable, but that didn’t mean he felt good. It just meant he was functional, and functional was the bare minimum.

He moved through the tunnel system making sure to keep an eye on the map, and in doing so he noticed something that he didn’t see before. It wasn’t just the usual clusters of red and green dots anymore.

The stations themselves, those side doors along the line, the sealed access points, the service entrances, had dots behind them. Shapes pressed up against the map like bodies behind thin paper. His fingers tightened on the crowbar without him noticing.

A few of the doors on the side of the station line had creatures inside them, though thankfully all of them were grayed red dots. Dormant. Sleeping. Waiting.

The sight alone made his skin prickle, because dormant didn’t mean harmless, it meant not yet. It felt like walking through a hallway where every closet had something breathing behind it.

They were all probably the Zombies that will soon burst out into this world and ruin it completely, the ones Baltak mentioned with that irritatingly casual tone,

’three more days left

.’ He thought.

Kael didn’t need a prophet to see how that ended: doors open, bodies pour out, and everyone on the first floor runs out of time.

And only one had a free passage that allowed one to traverse it without risk, and it was the same passage he took the first time to get into the metro system.

That detail stood out sharply. The Tower loved patterns, and patterns meant intention. This wasn’t a maze, this was a funnel. Every other door, every other path, was infested with dangers he couldn’t handle.

He saw it on the map: clusters of grayed red dots packed together, enough that if even one woke up, it would chain-react into a swarm.

The rest were all infested with dangers he couldn’t handle. Not now. Not with a crowbar and a growing list of enemies that wanted him dead for profit.

Kael kept his shoulders tight and his jaw clenched as he passed each door, resisting the urge to glance too long at the rusted seams and broken handles. Looking made it real. Moving kept it theoretical.

Kael moved rapidly and soon reached the final station before the dungeon. The lights here were dimmer, the air cooler, and the tunnel walls looked more scarred, long gouges in the concrete like something had dragged itself along the sides over and over. Without skipping a beat, he walked inside the opened hole on the side.

It wasn’t a clean entrance. It was a tear in the station’s structure, broken concrete and exposed rebar making a jagged mouth.

Just as he sat foot, a notification popped up.

[You found 1 Black Basilisk Scale]

He froze mid-step, reflexively looking down. It was under his foot, a piece of scale, he picked it up. The thing was hard, obsidian and very tough, cold to the touch even in his warm palm, like it didn’t want to share temperature with the world. It caught what little station light there was and reflected it in a dull sheen, almost oily.

He inspected it.

[Scale of the Black Basilisk of Getava.]

Durable material that can be used in crafting armor.

It has high resistance to fire.

“Looks like it was shed when it climbed up…” Kael muttered, turning it between his fingers. The scale felt like a promise and a warning in the same breath. Something that big moved through here regularly, and it left pieces behind like breadcrumbs.

And just as he was about to take another step into the dungeon, an idea seemed to not come to mind, but strike him like a hammer.

It wasn’t gentle inspiration. It was the kind of thought that slammed into place with a loud click, like gears finally meshing.

“Of course! Highly resistant to fire… this must be something that can be used to beat the Ifrit?” The thought began germinating into his mind, bright and dangerous. For a split second he pictured it clearly: the fire wave, the molten pit, the roaring Djinn-like monster, and him not having to flinch when flames rolled across him.

But then he soon shook his head. Reality pushed back like a cold hand on his chest.

“The tower wouldn’t be that foolish, I mean who the hell is a craftsman in this floor, only one with craftsmanship skills can create armor or leatherwear to use against that Ifrit…” He said it like he was arguing with the Tower itself. It made too much sense, which meant it was probably wrong. The Tower didn’t hand out solutions that clean unless it also handed out consequences.

The thought began morphing into something rather brave. It shifted shape, changing from this is a trap into this is a window. If this material existed here, then it was meant to be used by someone, somehow, maybe not now, but eventually.

“There should be no one else who can use it… at best it can be collected here and once one meets a craftsman at a community floor, then they can probably sell it… or use it…” Kael’s mind ran ahead, building a future where these scales were currency instead of protection.

A craftsman would pay for this. A clan would pay for this. An entire floor boss worth of preparation could begin with something as small as what sat in his palm.

“But…” he thought, and his gaze dropped toward his inventory as if he could see it through his skin. As his mind went to his hammer.

Or more like Brokk’s hammer which amplified craftsmanship and blacksmithing skills. The legendary item that wasn’t supposed to be in his hands yet. The thing that felt heavy not because of weight, but because of expectation.

“Can I use this?” he thought. The question hung there, absurd and tempting. For a moment his mind went to his own image wearing leather armor that had scales of this basilisk all over it, black as the night and protective of fire and flame, in a heroic battle against the Ifrit. He could almost see it: the scales layered like plates, reflecting firelight, the Ifrit’s inferno failing to bite. The fantasy tasted sweet.

He soon shook the idea out, almost violently, like shaking off a fever. “I can’t even sew a hole properly in my trousers. Let’s get down first and see what else we can get…” The last part came out more grounded, more practical. Dreams didn’t pay cores. Loot did.

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