Dylan stepped through the plain door and the hallway exhaled—a long, low sigh that tasted like overdue library books and second-hand smoke. The air shimmered, prices flickering across the tiles in copper ink.
Cost per stride: 0.3 % total mana
Early-exit fee: one true memory
Compound interval: every thirteen heartbeats
He counted four beats already.
Behind him the other students filed out, faces pale as overdrafts. Nobody spoke; words had surcharges. Mercury-girl—her armor now dulled to pewter—touched her forearm where the contract lived, eyes narrowing at the meter above Dylan's head.
"Thirteen," she mouthed. "Your interest rate is cute."
He answered by walking. The tile beneath his left boot flashed -0.3 %; mana drained like water from a cracked glass. Sixty-one percent remaining.
The corridor stretched, straight and endless, walls of blackboard chalked with ever-changing tuition:
- Seventy paces: mandatory lab fee – one childhood sound
- One-hundred-twenty: facilities upgrade – peripheral vision (left eye)
- Exit door: variable, adjusts to highest bidder
Dylan's pulse kept pace with the counter. Fifty-eight beats until next compound. He needed speed, not savings.
He flicked the Lightning Fork. One charge left; the others had rebuilt during the exam, sipping ambient fear. Enough for a boost, not a battle.
"Choice," he whispered. "Pay with pain or pay with time."
He slammed the fork into the floor.
CRACK!
Recoil hurled him forward ten tiles in a blink. Mana meter spiked down then back up as the conversion kicked—15 % speed gain, cost refunded by momentum. He landed crouched, boots skidding across "-3.0 %" that never managed to stick because he was already gone.
Mercury-girl copied—armor liquefying into mercury ribbons that pulled her along the charged floor. Others tried: a boy with wind glyphs, a girl who turned into shadow—each technique taxed differently. Some paid on credit; the corridor collected immediately—a finger here, a vow there.
Dylan didn't look. Sympathy had interest too.
Beat thirteen arrived.
Prices doubled.
Cost per stride: 0.6 %
Compound count: 2
He gritted teeth, pushed harder, counting tiles like enemies:
Eighty… eighty-one…
At ninety the walls rippled. A side door materialized—oak, brass knob, no label. Above it blinked a limited-time tariff:
Early-exit flat fee: First fear that ever kept you awake.
Dylan's stride faltered—just for a heartbeat—memory of hospital corridors at six years old, mother behind curtains, beeps counting backward. The door sensed hesitation; knob turned invitingly.
He snarled, channelled the fear into the fork instead. Lightning bit the memory, burned it to ash, used the ash as fuel. He passed the door without touching.
Beat twenty-six.
Prices tripled.
Students screamed behind him as compound three hit. Some vanished into side doors, payments extracted like teeth. The corridor shortened in front of the highest bidders—a cruel rebate.
Mercury-girl kept pace, now parallel, sweat beading into liquid silver. "You plan on outrunning compound interest forever?"
"No," he shot back, "just long enough to refinance."
One-hundred-twenty tiles.
Facilities upgrade tax incoming.
A scanner arch blinked alive. Laser grid swept the floor. Left eye flashed on the tariff screen.
Dylan grinned. He flipped the fork horizontal, slid under the grid baseball-style, sparks skating beneath him. The beam missed by the width of a promise.
Mercury-girl wasn't so lucky. Scanner clipped her visor. Left pupil glassed over—vision debited, debt paid. She didn't break stride.
"Worth it," she muttered. "Eyes are cheap; seats aren't."
Beat thirty-nine.
Prices quadrupled.
0.9 % per step.
Compound count: 4
Dylan's mana bled twelve percent in ten paces. Fork charges rebuilt, but too slow. He needed bigger leverage.
Ahead, the corridor split—three paths, three tariffs:
1. Left: Pay one memory of laughter – flat rate, no compounds.
2. Center: Continue current math – interest exponential.
3. Right: Auction lane – highest bidder sets length for all.
He hesitated half a second. Mercury-girl chose left, mercury ribbon snapping as she paid a childhood laugh—a sound like wind-chimes—and vanished down a shorter hall.
Dylan didn't have laughter left to spend.
He couldn't afford exponential.
He stepped right.
Auction lane swallowed him.
A platform rose beneath his feet, carrying him above the tiles. Digital numbers flashed overhead—current bid: 3 % mana. He understood instantly: bid higher, shorten the corridor for everyone; bid lower, lengthen it. Last bidder pays for all.
Other platforms rose – six students still solvent. Bidding started fast.
"Five percent!"
"Seven!"
"Ten – and my left pinky!"
Dylan waited, counting heartbeats until next compound. Fifty-two.
When the timer hit fifty, he shouted, "Fifteen percent + one favor owed to the Well!"
Silence.
Favor currency trumped mana. Numbers locked.
Beat fifty-two arrived.
Compound five applied – but corridor length had been slashed by sixty percent. Total cost froze at fifteen + favor. Painful, finite.
Platforms descended. Doors appeared at the end – plain, wooden, unlocked.
Dylan stepped off, legs shaking, mana at 41 %. Cheaper than continuing. He pushed the door and walked out without looking back.
Corridor behind him sealed, tallying profits.
He entered a lobby of white stone, sunlight pouring from skylights that shouldn't exist this deep. Thirty-eight students already waiting, some missing pieces, all silent.
Mercury-girl stood off to one side, left eye glassed but smirk intact. "You auctioned your way out. Risky."
"Math is math," he answered, breath steadying. "I just chose the equation that ends."
A new plaque melted from the ceiling:
Welcome to Basement Level Zero – Orientation Complete.
Next invoice: tomorrow, sharp.
Dylan exhaled, tattoos of interest itching under skin.
Heartbeat fifty-six.
Fifty-seven.
He counted them like coins slipping through a hole no pocket can mend.
Interest never sleeps.
But for now, he walks.