[Day 36]
We huddled in the narrow alley, the campfire's glow flickering against brick walls stained with old graffiti and new blood. The mountain of bodies beside us smoked faintly, a grim reminder that not every trade ends with a handshake.
[Adam]: How bad did it go for the two of you?
[Silk]: Report: Seventy percent of buyers initiated hostilities prior to the transaction. Ten percent concluded trade successfully, materials were acquired. Eighteen percent possessed no tradable assets. The remaining two percent offered biological offspring in place of goods.
I pinched the bridge of my nose, trying not to scream.
[Vlad]: You had it easy. Mine either ran screaming or offered blood for barter. Don't they know human blood's worse than garbage to me? It's like—like drinking sewer water! You can't live on that, Adam. I swear, if one more desperate idiot tries to hand me their neck, I'll—
He stopped, rubbing his temples.
[Vlad]: Gods… at this rate, I'll get diabetes. Or—hells—AIDS. I can't believe I have to say this out loud.
Silk stared at him, chewing a steak with the same intensity one might use to analyze battlefield logistics.
[Adam]: Well, at least you two didn't get swarmed by Sweepers. They came at me in waves—hundreds of them. Crawling out of alleys, sewers, and even rooftops. And now? Look around. Nobody's going to step within ten feet of someone camped beside a mountain of corpses.
I jabbed a thumb at the pile, flies already beginning to swarm.
[Adam]: So, any bright ideas for where we can trade that doesn't end in slaughter?
Silk swallowed, then tilted her head with mechanical calm.
[Silk]: Located potential hub: "Fixers Association and Offices." The name indicates a mercenary marketplace. Transaction probability: seventy-two percent. Violence probability: eighty-four percent.
[Vlad]: Eighty-four percent?! That's not a marketplace, that's suicide with paperwork.
[Silk]: Correction: structured suicide. With paperwork.
[Vlad]: …That's supposed to make me feel better?
[Adam]: Enough. If they buy, we sell. If they fight, we survive. That's the deal. And right now, we can't afford to sit here guarding a corpse pile. Pack up. We move.
[Later]
The streets bled into cleaner stone, neon bleeding down from high signs that shimmered in the smog. We stopped in front of a building that looked too polished for the district — black marble doors, gold filigree, and a stylized insignia etched into the glass:
[Association Branch Office — Fixers Registration & Case Management]
I couldn't decide if it looked like a guild hall or a slaughterhouse wearing perfume.
Inside, it was worse. Rows of clerks scribbled behind counters, typewriters clacking, pneumatic tubes hissing as contracts flew between rooms. On the walls, boards glowed with job postings — "Escorts," "Recoveries," "Eliminations." The smell of ink, sweat, and cheap cologne clung to the air.
We had come in with nothing but what we carried. And yet somehow, after hours of signatures, blood samples, and negotiations, the three of us stood in front of the board wearing brand-new badges.
Rank 3 Fixers.
Not rookies. Not legends. Somewhere in the middle of the food chain.
Vlad stared at his badge like it might bite him.
[Vlad]: …We skipped straight to Grade 3? How? Do you know how many people die before they even sniff Grade 7?
Silk turned her badge over in her hand, expression flat.
[Silk]: Observation: our survival rate exceeded baseline. Clerk stated, "commendable performance under duress." Also, the mountain of corpses expedited promotion.
I pinched the bridge of my nose.
[Adam]: So basically… they gave us credit for being lunatics. Great.
The clerk behind the desk smiled too widely, sliding a thick case file across the counter.
[Clerk]: Congratulations, Crimson Hoods Agency. You're now recognized by the Association. Welcome to the work that never ends.
[Adam]: …Great. Now, can we sell some things?
The clerk adjusted his glasses, eyes flicking up and down my frame like he was weighing me on invisible scales.
[Clerk]: It depends on the items you are selling. The Association permits standard trade of arms, provisions, and curiosities. Restricted goods will require additional clearance. Failure to comply results in fines… or retrieval.
[Later]
Vlad and I sat at the edge of the counter, contracts still wet with ink, staring down at the stacks of scrip and chits we'd just received in exchange for most of our weapons and food. The clerks had haggled us down mercilessly, citing "market saturation," "depreciation curves," and a dozen other words that made my teeth grind.
Silk flipped open a small, black ledger of her own, jotting with neat, mechanical strokes.
[Silk]: Collection complete. Net yield: profit margin of 5%.
Vlad groaned, dragging a hand through his hair.
[Vlad]: Five percent? That's it? Adam, we fought through wolves, Sweepers, and lunatics, and all we got was pocket change.
[Adam]: That's called fees, Vlad. Welcome to the Association. They bleed you dry on the front end and the back end.
Silk looked up from her notes.
[Silk]: Correction. The Association bleeds everyone. We have simply joined the cycle.
[Vlad]: Fantastic. We're official debt collectors who can barely collect for ourselves.
[Adam]: Vlad, we should be happy to make a profit at all. Most of the people we dealt with today were too poor to buy anything. Five percent is still a step forward.
I tucked the scrip and the ledgers into my pack, feeling the Guild's Manual pulse against my side like it was listening. My stomach knotted.
[Adam]: Now, let's go back to Skyblock. I still have to hand over ten percent of our profits to the Guild.
Vlad muttered, fangs glinting in the firelight of the alley.
[Vlad]: Ten percent to them, scraps to us. Brother, I'm starting to think the Guild is worse than vampires. At least with kin, you know they're trying to drink you.
Silk blinked, her face unreadable as always.
[Silk]: Clarification. The Guild consumes differently. Not blood. Not flesh. Value. And value sustains them longer.
Her words made the night feel colder.
The Manual in my inventory flared faintly, as if confirming her statement. Obligations eternal.
I sighed, pulling the strap of my pack tight.
[Adam]: Then we'd better keep trading. Because if we don't, the Ledger will come to collect.
The three of us mounted up, the Fixer district fading behind us like a bad dream, and the silver threads of Skyblock's void began pulling us back home.
The silver thread snapped, and Skyblock folded back into place around us — the castle walls, the mob tower, the quiet hum of villagers.
Text burned briefly across my vision:
[State: Profits made 5%]
[Profit Kind: Materials]
[Points Awarded: 156]
[Evaluation: Average]
[Tax and Fee: 3%]
I let out a long breath. Average. Not a failure, not glory. Just another number in the Ledger.
Vlad stretched his neck like a man unchained and, without a word, bolted toward the barn. Moments later, the panicked cries of cows split the air, cut short one by one. The smell of blood drifted sharply on the breeze.
Silk, in contrast, moved like a shadow to the lake. She sat down neatly on the dock, took out a fishing rod, and cast her line without a flicker of emotion — as if our venture into another world hadn't happened at all.
I stood alone in the courtyard, watching the smoke curl from the chimney, listening to the iron golems pace with heavy steps. The Manual pulsed against my side, heavier now, whispering wordless reminders.
[Adam]: …Average. We risked our lives for average.
I dragged the haul into the courtyard and stacked it neatly: two blocks of iron, one of copper, one of steel. But the numbers didn't add up.
[Adam]: Hnh. Missing iron… taken as tax.
The Ledger's cold fairness. Three percent, no more, no less.
I spent the rest of the afternoon trading with the villagers, haggling until their pockets rattled empty. By dusk, I had 143 emeralds gleaming in my pouch. Enough.
I opened the book. The pages unfurled like a black mirror, a single glyph pulsing:
[ENTER]
I pressed it. The courtyard dissolved.
The Soul Market stretched around me in impossible geometry — stalls curling into the void, lanterns flickering with ghost-flame, sellers with masks instead of faces. The air smelled of dust and promise.
I stopped at the first stall. A vendor cloaked in shadows leaned forward, words sliding into my mind.
[Seller]: Small spawn zone — 100 emeralds, or 10 points. Size: 9x9.
I slid the emeralds across, the man's hand swallowing them like water. A faint orb, pulsing with territorial energy, replaced them in my palm.
I kept moving, eyes scanning the stalls. There — a mod seller, his booth cluttered with glowing cubes and shifting code-lines.
[Adam]: Three random mod boxes.
Points vanished from my tally. Three cubes materialized, humming with restrained potential. I shoved them into my pack, resisting the itch to open them immediately.
Further down the twisting aisle, I found another seller — a hunched figure surrounded by ore samples, each glinting unnaturally in the lantern light.
[Seller]: Iron vein. Six points, forty emeralds.
[Adam]: I'll take it.
The trade was swift. The vendor pressed a jagged, rune-etched stone into my hand — the heart of the vein.
I closed my eyes, feeling the weight of everything I'd just bought. Spawn zones. Mods. Ore veins. Tools for survival.
Back on the island, I wasted no time. I expanded the terrain, carving a new section for the iron vein. As I set it down, the ground trembled faintly, and iron began to bloom from the ground.
Then I turned to the three random mod boxes, each pulsing with hidden potential. I opened the first.
[Tinker Construct Marginer]
The second box glowed next.
[Sunlit Valley Expanded]
Finally, the last box.
[Better and More Villagers]
I sat down and looked at the now more alive village as the villagers cut trees and worked with tools around them, some of them even went to fish, some built new farms with the dirt they had.
[Vlad]: Brother… It's actually… looking like a village again.
[Silk]: Observation: Efficiency improved by 47%. Food supply is secure. Defense enhanced.
[Adam]: Not bad. Not bad at all.
I stepped back, taking in the bustle of life. The clatter of axes against wood, the rhythmic splash of fishnets, the occasional laugh or shout of a villager — it all felt… alive. The void that had hung over the island for so long seemed to recede, replaced with something heavier, warmer.
[Vlad]: …I can't believe it. We actually did this.
[Adam]: We did. But don't get comfortable. This is only the beginning.
Silk tilted her head, scanning the village with mechanical precision.
[Silk]: Observation: Threats still present. Recommendation: Patrol routines and resource allocation improvements.
I nodded. She was right. Even with villagers and fields restored, the mobs, the Sweepers, and whatever other horrors lurked in the void weren't gone. But for the first time, I felt like we had a fighting chance.
[Adam]: All right. Vlad, keep an eye on the defenses. Silk, continue food production and resource management. I'll handle expansion and… maybe a little trading tomorrow.
[Vlad]: …Trading. You're already thinking about more worlds, aren't you?
[Adam]: Always. Crimson Hoods Agency doesn't survive by standing still.
The sun dipped low, casting long shadows over the busy village. Somewhere deep down, I felt a flicker of pride, tempered with the knowledge that the Ledger was always watching, always counting. And somewhere beyond, new challenges waited.
[Adam]: Tomorrow… we grow stronger. We expand. We make sure no one forgets the Crimson Hoods.
I looked at the spawn zone block, and then I placed it at the top of the mob tower and waited for them to spawn. When they spawned, I fought. I did this unit when the sun came up.
[Day 37]
I froze in the doorway, blinking like I'd stepped into the wrong world. Silk's pale face was calm as ever, though her eyes almost seemed to glimmer in amusement while she bit into her jelly sandwich. Vlad, however… Vlad was a whole different horror. The mighty crimson-eyed vampire, scourge of mobs and terror of villages, now stood in the kitchen like someone's doting aunt who just discovered baking.
[Vlad]: Brother, taste this one — it's strawberry shortcake. I made the cream myself.
He held out a plate like it was some sacred offering, his ridiculous pink apron dusted with flour, a lace headband perched crookedly on his hair.
[Adam]: …I don't know if I should be proud… or start worrying you'll ask me to help knit curtains next.
[Silk]: Observation: Vlad is adapting. Reclassification possible: "Domestic Vampire."
Vlad's face went redder than his usual crimson glow.
[Vlad]: I— it's not like that! The villagers showed me the new foodstuffs, and someone has to figure out how to cook them! You'd thank me when you're not stuck eating rotten flesh stew for the hundredth time.
I sighed, pinched the bridge of my nose, and finally sat down. The smell of shrimp sizzling, sweet strawberries, and fresh bread filled the air. Against all logic, it was… comforting.
[Adam]: …Alright. Fine. I'll take the shortcake. But if you ever put me in one of those aprons, Vlad, I swear I'll shove you back in the prison cell I found you in.
[Vlad]: Hmph. No promises.
Silk pushed her empty plate forward.
[Silk]: Request: more sandwiches. Preferably with strawberry jam next time.
For a second, I almost believed in normal life. Almost.
A scream cut through the courtyard.
[???]: AAAAHHH!
We dropped our forks and ran outside, hearts in our throats. The sound came from the edge of the village, by the newly planted orchards.
I froze mid-step. My stomach dropped.
The man turned. The years hadn't erased the shape of his face, though his hair was longer, tangled, and his jaw unshaven. His eyes went wide.
[Jake]: …Adam? Adam?!
I barely breathed. It was him. My friend from Earth. The same Jake who'd dragged me out drinking with the Boys before that night—before Skyblock swallowed me whole.
He stumbled forward, laughing and cursing all at once.
[Jake]: Holy sh— Adam, you're alive! And… wow. Look at you, man. Armor, castle, freakin' strawberry farms? Damn. Too good for staying single, huh? That makes me the only single guy from our group left.
I blinked. My heart was pounding like a war drum.
[Adam]: …Jake… how—how the hell are you even here?
He clapped a hand to his chest, still catching his breath.
[Jake]: That's the kicker, man. We've been looking for you. Three years. Three. Damn. Years.
Vlad and Silk exchanged wary looks. Vlad's eyes glowed faintly red, already suspicious, while Silk's voice came cold and analytical:
[Silk]: Unknown human. The probability of truth is uncertain. Recommend interrogation.
And me? I was caught between relief, confusion… and dread.
[Adam]: Jake… you said I've been missing for three years. But that's not right. For me, it's been two months at most. Last time I saw you, we were drinking and talking about Wang's wedding.
Jake's face tightened, the laughter gone.
[Jake]: Adam… that was years ago. Three, to be exact. The others and I—hell, everyone—thought you were gone. They even held a funeral two years back. Your name carved into stone. Your parents almost broke right there. And Garrett—old Garrett—looked like he'd follow you straight into the grave.
Something in me twisted. The name Garrett was enough to set my teeth on edge.
[Adam]: …Too bad that old trash didn't lie flat in the dirt back then.
Jake winced.
[Jake]: I would've said the same once. But Adam… I saw him. Garrett—your father—every night since. He sits in front of your old photos, drinking himself half-dead, crying, blaming himself. Saying he should've stopped. Saying it was his fault, you're gone.
My jaw clenched so hard it hurt.
[Adam]: Regret, huh? He should've thought about that before he kicked me out. Before he demanded my share of great-gramps' inheritance just to feed his gambling habit with my idiot brother. He left me to sleep on the street like a dog.
A shadow of a grin broke through my anger.
[Adam]: …Sorry about the cat, by the way.
Jake barked a laugh, though it was sharp and pained.
[Jake]: "Mr. AlmostDead"? Don't worry about him. The old furball was on borrowed time anyway. You didn't break him, Adam. Life did... Can I come into your castle? These big-nose people scare me.
[Chapter End]