1

"Hey, are you going to wake up or not?" That was my adoptive brother and best friend, Zack, shouting from somewhere near the doorway.

I groaned, rolling over. Every muscle in my body ached. I deserved the rest. "Sorry… overslept again," I muttered, dragging myself upright.

"Come on! We head out soon. Take a shower, would ya? Smell like old socks," Zack called, his grin audible even in his words.

I ignored him, shoving the thin blankets aside and swinging my legs off my makeshift bed. It was really just a wooden box with a thin, lumpy mattress on top. Dust hung in the air, clinging to the corners and the ceiling beams above, which sagged slightly from age. The walls were rough and chipped, gray plaster flaking in places, giving the room a permanent sense of wear. A single, cracked window let in a slice of pale morning light, weak and cold.

By the time I finished with the shower, my skin tingled from the sudden chill. I pulled on my worn, patched clothes, threadbare but clean enough to pass for decent. Water dripped from my hair onto the hard floor, mingling with dust and the faint smell of damp wood.

I glanced at the watch strapped to my wrist—six thirty-five. Zack and his father had already left. Being late was never good.

I picked up my rusty pick—more for habit than anything—and did a quick sweep of the room. A small table leaned to one side, cracked and scarred; a few crates doubled as shelves, holding whatever little we had. In the corner, a stack of tattered blankets served as a sitting area. Everything was functional, nothing decorative.

Straightening what I could, I stepped to the door and locked it behind me, the sound echoing faintly in the small, quiet house. The air smelled faintly of wood smoke and lingering dampness, a scent I was already too used to notice. 

Another day had begun.

My stomach growled in protest. I was starving. Passing by a few people carrying their own picks, some going the opposite direction, others moving the same way as me, I let out a long sigh.

My name is Eli Ryn. I’m seventeen years old. We live in a world built entirely around mining—everything revolves around it. People here, in this part, including me, exist in a place known as the Bottom, the very last level of this world. Life is hard here. Death and misery lurk in every corner. We mine to survive, to grow stronger.

My mother died years ago. I have no siblings. I’ve been alone ever since, taken in by Zack’s father when I was seven. As for my father… I don’t know. Rumor has it he ascended to the next level. One day, I’ll catch up to him.

I glanced up at the sky. It was blue, dotted with clouds. There wasn’t any ceiling overhead, despite this being the lowest layer. We all knew we were at the Bottom, but looking up, the surface felt distant, almost untouchable.

People spend their entire lives trying to consume something called Ascension Stones. As you might guess, they’re mined. Once a person consumes enough, they ascend, moving to the next level of this world. Stones like these are incredibly rare, and when someone finds one, it’s gone in an instant—consumed on the spot, because anyone holding it risks being killed.

I passed a crippled man begging for Sustenance Stones. He was in terrible shape. I didn’t have any to give—my own hunger gnawed at me. If he didn’t get some soon, he wouldn’t last the day.

Besides Ascension Stones, there are other stones one can mine: Sustenance Stones, Healing Stones, and countless other types, each serving a unique purpose in survival and strength.

I finally reached the entrance to the mines. The early-morning light hit dozens of miners already at work—men, young boys like me, all hunched over picks and tools. Bags hung at their sides, only a quarter full at most. Of course, none contained Ascension Stones. Nobody dared keep those; it was far too dangerous. People would kill for them in an instant. The best anyone could do was consume one immediately if they found it.

The air was thick with dust and the scent of sweat, and the rhythmic clink of stone against stone filled the cavern entrance. Some boys were arguing over a small vein of common stone; others silently toiled, eyes focused, hands moving with the kind of practiced precision that came from years of repetition.

I gripped my own rusty pick tighter, adjusting the bag on my back. Today, like every day, survival came down to speed, skill, and a little luck. 

...
..

.

Haaa!

Wham!

A solid punch slammed into the smaller man’s cheek, and he stumbled back, spitting out blood. The tall miner’s knuckles were red and scraped from landing blow after blow.

“Yeah! Get ‘em!” the crowd of miners roared, voices bouncing off the walls of the dim tunnel. Dust hung thick in the air, swirling around fists and boots as the two men circled each other.

I tried to edge closer, curious and tense. Less than two hours since the morning had begun, and already a fight had erupted. One tall miner had stolen Sustenance Stones from another’s bag while he’d gone for a break. Stones meant to feed a family—maybe their only meal of the day. The smaller man wasn’t about to let that slide.

He swung wildly, catching the taller man across the shoulder. A grunt, a bruise forming immediately, but the tall miner barely faltered. He came back with a vicious right hook to the smaller man’s jaw. Another sickening crack, blood trickling from the corner of his mouth. His eyes watered, but he refused to back down.

I could see every bruise forming, the purple spreading across cheeks, darkening under eyes, knuckles swelling and bleeding. Dust mixed with sweat, making their skin glisten under the weak light of the cavern.

The smaller man tried a desperate knee, but the taller miner grabbed it, twisting and throwing him to the stone floor. The sound of impact echoed in the tunnel. He rolled to one side, trying to land a punch, but his arms were already slick with his own blood. Another uppercut caught him in the ribs—his breath left him in a harsh wheeze.

I flinched as he hit the ground again, bruises already forming like maps across his body. Every strike left a mark, every dodge cost something. The tall miner’s face was slick with sweat, knuckles raw and bleeding, but he didn’t stop. This was survival.

Finally, the smaller man stayed down, gasping, face red, purple, and blue, chest heaving as he tried to catch his breath. The tall miner stood over him, victorious for the moment, eyes hard and wild. Around us, the miners cheered, jeered, and spat. No one intervened. No one cared.

I swallowed hard, stomach twisting. This was life at the Bottom. Brutal. Relentless. Unforgiving. 

"This is a dog eat dog world where you don't leave your stones unattended." He spat adjusted his gloves, picked up his pick and continued his work, the other miners also returned, leaving the beaten man alone.

A few hours in, I was deep in the tunnels. My arms ached, my back screamed, and my legs felt like lead. I had managed to gather fifteen Sustenance Stones and three Healing Stones—but, of course, they were all low quality. The high-grade ones were practically mythical down here. Every pick swing, every step deeper into the rock, reminded me why life at the Bottom was relentless.

My muscles could take it no more. I dropped my pick with a clatter, letting it bounce off the stone floor, and sank against a nearby boulder. The rough surface pressed against my back, and I let out a long, shuddering breath.

Opening my bag, my hand found its way to a dull green Sustenance Stone. With a practiced motion, I crushed it. A bitter, earthy taste filled my mouth as the green light seeped into me. My stomach grumbled less urgently, the gnawing hunger dulling slightly, though I was still aware of it. Survival down here didn’t mean satiation—it meant scraping by.

I let my gaze wander through the tunnel. A few other miners were working, hunched over, picking and shoveling as if they were nothing more than extensions of the rock itself. Faces smeared with sweat and dust, eyes empty from endless repetition.

Is this what my father had to do? I thought, staring at the dark veins in the rock. He had ascended, right? So he must have worked this hard, or even harder. I wonder…

A deep rumble cut through my thoughts. No, I didn’t just hear it—I felt it reverberate through the floor and walls.

“Shit.” I muttered, heart spiking.

Then it came—the sudden, bone-jarring roar of rock breaking. Dust exploded around me as pieces of the tunnel ceiling began to rain down. Miners shouted, some running, some frozen in place, their picks clattering to the ground. I barely had time to react before a jagged chunk of stone slammed a few feet from me, sending smaller debris skittering across the floor.

Panic surged. My hands clutched at the boulder I was leaning on, digging my fingers into the rough surface. Screams echoed from deeper in the tunnel as rock and dirt tumbled, cutting off the way back. The passage we had used to enter was gone, buried under tons of jagged rubble. Dust filled my lungs, making each breath a fight.

The miners around me were scrambling, some shouting for one another, others trying to dig through with bare hands. Shouts of pain and terror mixed with the constant crack of falling stone. A hammer-sized rock hit a man near the wall; he went down with a sickening thud.

I tried to move toward a clearer space, dodging falling debris, my stomach twisting in fear. The tunnel felt alive, collapsing around us, as if it had decided we were expendable. My mind raced: If we can’t get out, we’re done."