Chapter 14: Rising from the Ashes
Consciousness returned like a tide rolling in—slow at first, then all at once. Mike's eyes snapped open to darkness punctuated by faint, dancing red light. For a disorienting moment, he couldn't recall where he was or what had happened. Then memory crashed over him—the goblin attack, the tryclops, the explosive finale of their battle.
He was lying on hard stone. Not the ground where he'd fallen, but somewhere indoors. The air smelled of smoke and ash, but also of cool earth and stone. Groaning, Mike pushed himself to a sitting position, surprised by the relative ease of the movement. His body ached, but not with the searing agony he'd expected after such a battle.
Taking inventory, Mike patted himself down in the dim light. His clothes hung in tatters, burned and torn beyond any hope of repair. But beneath them, his skin was largely intact—where raw burns and lacerations should have been, he found only tender pink flesh. His head wound had closed, the gash on his side now just an angry red line. The familiar warmth of the level-up healing had clearly been at work, and at an unprecedented scale.
"Four levels at once," Mike whispered, remembering the cascade of symbols that had flashed behind his closed eyelids. "Level nine now."
He felt different—stronger, more alert, his mind sharper despite the lingering disorientation. The power boost was substantial, noticeable in a way the earlier advancements hadn't been. This wasn't just faster healing; it was a fundamental enhancement.
A flicker of light caught his attention. The red glow came from a narrow stairway leading up—firelight, still burning somewhere above. Mike realized he was in the underground storage area beneath his shelter, presumably moved there by someone or something after the battle.
Or perhaps he'd crawled here unconsciously in his final moments before collapsing? He couldn't remember.
Climbing unsteadily to his feet, Mike made his way to the base of the stairs. His ancient hammer hung from his belt, but his woodworking ring was still on his finger—small mercies in the chaos. The stairs led upward to what had been the trapdoor entrance to his shelter, now blown completely open, the floorboards around it charred and partially collapsed.
Mike emerged into the ruins of his home and froze at the destruction that greeted him.
The shelter he'd so carefully constructed was largely gone, reduced to blackened support beams and ash-covered stone. Daylight streamed through what had been the roof, illuminating a scene of devastation. Beyond the shattered walls, the broader ruins of Crafter's Haven showed extensive fire damage—newer wooden structures had burned completely while older stonework stood blackened but intact.
The most dramatic feature was the massive crater where he'd detonated the sap bomb beneath Rong—nearly twenty feet across and five feet deep, its edges fractured and scorched. Smaller craters pockmarked the ground where other explosions had occurred during the battle.
And bodies. Goblin bodies everywhere, some burned beyond recognition, others clearly killed by traps or weapons. The stench of death hung heavy in the still morning air—a nauseating mixture of burned flesh, spilled blood, and the strange chemical smell that leaked from the goblins' corpses.
Mike staggered to the edge of his ruined shelter, leaning against a partially intact wall for support. The full impact of what had happened washed over him. Everything he'd built over the past month—the defenses, the living space, the carefully organized supplies—all destroyed or severely damaged in a single night of violence.
"Maybe it's time to go," he said aloud, his voice sounding strange to his own ears.
The thought had been lurking in the back of his mind for days, even before the attack—the idea of simply leaving this place behind, striking out into the wilderness to find somewhere else, somewhere safer. The goblin siege and Rong's appearance had only confirmed his fears that Crafter's Haven was too exposed, too known to the powers of this world.
Mike made his way through the debris, salvaging what he could from the wreckage. His pack was miraculously intact, protected by the stone wall it had been leaning against when the fires began. He gathered the few tools that had survived, sorting through charred remains for anything usable. All the while, his mind worked through the possibilities.
He could head north, into the deep forests he'd glimpsed from the heights around the Haven. Or east, following the stream that had provided water during his early days here. The mountains to the west looked forbidding, but might offer caves or defensible positions against the creatures that seemed to dominate the lowlands.
"No way to know what's out there," Mike muttered, stuffing a salvaged knife into his belt. "Could be worse than here."
That was the problem—the uncertainty. In his month in this world, he'd encountered nothing but danger beyond the relatively small area he'd managed to secure. The Void Ripper on his first day, the wolves that had nearly killed him, and now the goblin army and its tryclops master. What other horrors waited beyond the horizon?
At least here, he knew the terrain. Had access to water, had identified food sources. Had discovered the underground chambers with their strange pedestals and interfaces. Had found the ancient hammer and the woodworking ring—tools that seemed connected to the deeper mysteries of this place.
As he continued gathering supplies, Mike found himself at the edge of the crater where Rong had stood. Something glinted among the scorched earth—a fragment of the crystal that had topped the tryclops's staff. Mike picked it up cautiously, half-expecting it to burn or shock him, but it remained inert in his palm. The piece was smaller than his thumbnail, yet somehow contained swirling patterns that seemed to extend impossibly deep within its structure.
"They came here for something specific," Mike realized, pocketing the crystal shard. "Something important enough to send an army."
The tryclops had spoken of artifacts of power—devices that enhanced abilities, focused energies, created wonders. Mike looked down at the woodworking ring on his finger, felt the weight of the ancient hammer at his belt. Were these what Rong had been seeking? Or were there other, greater powers hidden somewhere in the ruins?
And if these artifacts were powerful enough to draw the attention of an empire, might they also hold the key to finding a way home?
Mike made his way to the stone hatch leading to the underground chambers. Unlike his surface shelter, this entrance had survived relatively intact, the stone construction resistant to the fires that had ravaged the wooden structures. He descended the stairs, finding comfort in the cool darkness below.
The main storage area looked just as he'd left it, the carefully organized supplies untouched by the chaos above. Further in, the circular chamber with its seven pedestals remained serene and mysterious, the blue light from the interface casting gentle patterns across the ancient walls.
Something about this underground sanctuary strengthened Mike's resolve. This wasn't just a ruin he'd stumbled upon—it was a repository of knowledge and power that predated whatever empire Rong served. Something worth protecting, worth understanding.
"They wanted what's here," Mike said to the empty chamber. "Which means it matters."
The decision began to crystallize in his mind. Leaving might seem safer in the short term, but it meant abandoning the only real advantage he'd found in this world—the Crafter technology and knowledge contained within these ruins. If he stayed, he could rebuild. Could better understand the artifacts he'd already found. Could perhaps discover more about the system that governed this reality.
Most importantly, if these artifacts were as powerful as Rong had claimed, they represented his best hope of ever finding a way back to Earth. Back to Sarah and Jeremy.
Mike returned to the surface, looking at the devastation with new eyes. It would take considerable work to rebuild—but he'd done it once already, starting with nothing but determination and the clothes on his back. Now he had tools, materials, and a deeper understanding of this world's dangers.
"If I run, I might never find answers," Mike decided, surveying the ruins. "But if I stay..."
The rest of that first day passed in grim necessity. Mike gathered the goblin bodies, dragging them to a distant corner of the ruins for burning. The physical labor of moving dozens of corpses left his muscles screaming despite his enhanced strength, but the task had to be completed to prevent disease and scavengers.
By nightfall, Mike had cleared enough debris to create a small sleeping space in what remained of a storage shed. The roof was gone, but three walls still stood, offering minimal protection from the elements. He used a salvaged tarp to create a makeshift covering, securing it with stones and broken timbers.
Sleep came fitfully that night, the memory of battle still fresh, the sounds of the ruins settling around him triggering repeated moments of alertness. Despite his exhaustion, Mike woke before dawn, driven by a sense of urgency to begin rebuilding before any new threats could appear.
The next three days established a pattern—salvage, clear, rebuild. Mike focused first on creating a secure sleeping area, a simple one-room structure using the sturdiest stone walls that had survived the battle. The work was daunting, even with his enhanced strength and perception. What had taken weeks to build originally would require similar time to restore, especially working alone.
On the fourth day after the battle, rain came—a steady downpour that turned ash to mud and revealed new leaks in his hasty construction. Mike spent that day huddled in the underground chambers, using the time to study the interface more carefully. The symbols still eluded complete comprehension, but certain patterns were beginning to make sense—directional indicators, progress markers, warning signs distinguished by color and movement.
"Still can't read you properly," Mike told the shifting symbols, "but we're getting somewhere."
The system seemed to respond to his voice, the symbols shifting to form new patterns. These included visual representations that appeared to be suggesting modifications to his current building designs—improvements to structural integrity, more efficient use of materials, better defensive configurations.
By the end of the first week after the battle, Mike had established a basic living space above ground and begun working on rudimentary defenses. Nothing like the elaborate system he'd built before—just simple alarm triggers and barriers to slow any approaching enemies. The boom sap trees had survived the battle, their tough bark resistant to the fires, but the collection system needed extensive repairs before he could resume production of explosive weapons.
A week and a half after the fight with Rong, Crafter's Haven remained a shadow of what it had been. Mike's new shelter was functional but crude, with gaps in the walls patched by salvaged materials and a roof that still leaked in heavy rain. The defensive perimeter extended only around his immediate living area, leaving much of the ruins unprotected. Every day revealed new damage he hadn't noticed before, new challenges to overcome.
Yet despite the daunting work ahead, Mike felt a growing certainty that staying had been the right choice. Each day in the ruins, each interaction with the underground systems, brought small revelations—hints of knowledge and power that might eventually lead to understanding how this world worked. How he might navigate its dangers more effectively. How he might, someday, find a way home.
Standing atop a partially reconstructed wall on the tenth day after the battle, Mike surveyed his slow progress. The ruins still looked devastated to casual observation—which might actually serve as camouflage against future attacks. What mattered was that the core systems remained intact below ground, and his access to them secured.
"One stone at a time," Mike reminded himself, lifting another block into position. "Rome wasn't built in a day."
The empire that Rong had served was still out there somewhere, still potentially interested in what lay beneath these ruins. But when they came again—if they came again—they would find a more prepared defender than before. And perhaps, by then, Mike would have uncovered more of the secrets hidden in this ancient place—secrets that might prove as valuable to his quest for home as they apparently were to Rong's mysterious masters.
As the sun began to set on another day of labor, Mike descended from the wall to his simple shelter. There was still so much to rebuild, so much to understand. But for the first time since arriving in this world, he felt he might be on a path that led somewhere beyond mere survival.
Crafter's Haven was more than just a ruin—it was a starting point. And Mike was determined to follow wherever it led.