Second chapter coming tomorrow. For today, we've got something new.
Field Observations are short, standalone side stories placed around the main chapters. They follow peripheral characters to show how Alpha’s actions reshape ordinary lives, local economies, and access to opportunities. Alpha may barely appear, and these stories contain no essential plot developments; their purpose is to broaden the world, revisit familiar characters, and highlight the indirect consequences of his influence.♛———♛—————————♛———♛
Frit stepped through the building’s open gate with a heavy duffel slung over one shoulder and a black-armored guard at his back.
Frit’s grey uniform marked him for what he was — or, more accurately, what he’d been until a few moments ago. Everything else he still owned had been stuffed into the bag: two changes of clothes, a few personal effects, what little coin he had, a couple of Loams he’d managed to save from extra work, and the paperwork confirming that his sentence had officially ended.
Once they reached the street, the guard stopped.
Frit turned, half expecting one last order, warning, or threat, as he would have in Halirosa.
Instead, the guard only grunted and waved him off. Then he turned, walked back through the gate, and left Frit standing there as it rolled shut between them.
Then Frit was alone.
He remained on the curb for several breaths, staring at the closed gate.
Then he dragged in a deep lungful of the cavern’s cool air and thrust both fists overhead.
“Yes!”
The shout tore from his chest, loud enough to draw several looks from farther down the street, but he didn’t care. Tears spilled down his cheeks as he laughed and clutched the strap of his bag in both hands.
He was free.
Actually, truly free.
After everything that had happened over the last year and a half, the word tasted sweeter than any spirit wine.
Frit had begun life much like many of Icefinger’s men: in the slums, scraping together whatever existence he could manage. He stole food when begging failed, ran messages for men he knew better than to question, and learned early which alleys belonged to which gangs.
Eventually, he’d grown strong enough to reach Bronze Spirit and decided to try his hand at adventuring.
That had been his first great mistake.
It hadn’t taken long for him to discover that he possessed neither the instincts nor the talent for the work. He got lost easily, froze whenever monsters charged, and had an unfortunate habit of stepping on traps immediately after someone pointed them out.
After three failed expeditions and a healer’s bill that wiped out everything he’d earned, he’d accepted that the adventuring life wasn’t for him.
His adventuring career had ended before it had ever properly begun.
So Frit returned to the only life he understood.
Unfortunately, he hadn’t shown much talent for the underworld either.
Frit had never risen far within Icefinger’s organization. Bosco had taken him in less for his fighting ability than because he could carry heavy loads, follow simple instructions, and usually knew when to keep his mouth shut. He ran messages, watched doors, hauled supplies, and handled whatever menial work the more important members couldn’t be bothered with.
At the time, he’d resented it.
In hindsight, it had probably saved his life.
When Bosco’s attempt to seize the cavern failed, Frit was captured alongside everyone else, one more frightened face among dozens. He’d assumed he was going to die.
That was what happened to bandits, after all.
Civilized authorities might bother with trials when noble families or sect interests were involved, but men like Frit usually ended up hanging from a wall or kneeling over a chopping block without ever seeing the inside of a cell.
Worse, they were in the Deep, and every surface tavern had stories about Deep justice. Most involved a very large soup pot.
Instead, they’d been dragged before actual judges.
Judges who happened to be talking ants wearing strange wigs, admittedly, but judges all the same.
They reviewed records, questioned witnesses, listed crimes, and assigned individual sentences with an efficiency that frightened Frit in a way he couldn’t explain.
Mostly thanks to his low standing, Frit had spent his time watching roads, carrying equipment, or guarding empty rooms while the others enjoyed themselves. He’d hated it then, but it also meant his sentence had been light compared to many of the others: only seven years.
Seven years was no small amount of time to spend rotting in a cell. But for a Bronze Spirit cultivator who might live to one hundred and fifty and remain in his prime well into his eighties?
It might as well have been a slap on the wrist, especially for banditry.
Then the prisoners learned they could reduce their sentences.
Extra work earned credit. So did good behavior. Volunteering for the Dungeon Core’s experiments reduced it even faster.
Frit shivered despite himself.
The experiments had become their own kind of horror story among the inmates.
Some involved strange games, memory tests, physical exercises, or puzzles that seemed to serve no purpose. Others were far less harmless.
Some inmates returned with metal or strange materials grafted onto their bodies. A few came back with bizarre, puppet-like tools replacing limbs or fingers, which they later used at job sites to improve their efficiency.
Others returned quiet and distant, unwilling, or perhaps unable, to explain what had been done to them.
Some never returned at all.
Thankfully, the more invasive experiments were usually reserved for troublemakers and the worst of Bosco’s men.
Frit, meanwhile, had volunteered for extra shifts, followed orders, kept his head down, and agreed to several of the Core’s smaller tests. Between the added work, good behavior, and experiment credits, his seven-year sentence had fallen to only twelve months.
Even then, the time hadn’t been entirely wasted.
A year in the Deep had exposed him to denser spirit energy than anything he’d encountered on the surface. The food had been regular and far better than anything he’d grown up eating. He’d even been given time to cultivate, and several of the experiments had produced results he couldn’t complain about.
Frit had entered the cavern barely established in Bronze Spirit, with a weak foundation.
Now he stood near the upper reaches of the stage.
More importantly, he’d saved enough of his pitiful wages to purchase a Nexus ticket back to Halirosa.
Still grinning, Frit wiped his cheeks with one sleeve, adjusted the duffel over his shoulder, and started down the street toward the bus stop.
The stop consisted of a bench beneath a narrow shelter. He’d taken only a few steps when his reflection caught his eye in its glass siding.
He slowed, then stopped.
The man staring back at him looked healthier than the one who’d entered the correctional building. Broader through the shoulders. Better fed.
Stronger.
He was also still wearing a grey prison uniform.
Frit looked down at himself, then glanced toward the duffel hanging from his shoulder.
Perhaps he should change before heading to the Nexus station.
The uniform was extremely comfortable, but it was still a prison uniform. Wandering through the city without an escort while wearing it seemed like an excellent way to get stopped by the guards.
Frit set the duffel on the bus-stop bench and pulled open the zipper.
His old clothes lay near the top, folded around the few personal items he still owned. The cheap armor he’d once worn was gone, either lost during his capture or discarded afterward, but the shirt and trousers remained.
Frit pulled out the shirt and frowned.
The fabric was rough and thick, patched in several places where years of hard use had worn holes through it. It had been made for travel and labor, not comfort, and it had served him well enough. He’d slept in it, fought in it, hauled crates in it. Whatever was needed to survive.
But had it always felt so… itchy?
He rubbed the cloth between his fingers, then dragged his thumb across one of the older patches. The coarse stitching rasped against his skin. Without thinking, Frit reached up and scratched the back of his neck.
After another moment, he stuffed the shirt back into the bag.
Changing could wait. He wouldn’t need to until he reached the Halirosa Nexus station, anyway. If one of the city guards stopped him before then, his release papers were tucked safely inside the duffel.
Besides, the grey uniform was comfortable.
Far more comfortable than anything he’d owned before coming here.
With luck, he might even be able to sell it once he reached Halirosa.
Frit smirked at the thought of some pompous noble strutting through the Golden District in prison clothes, boasting about the strange new fashion from the Deep.
He snorted, dropped onto the bench beside his bag, and settled in to wait for the bus.
His thoughts soon drifted toward what he would do once he returned to Halirosa.
Icefinger would want to know what had happened in the cavern. Nine Hells, the old monster would probably pay a fortune for information about the dungeon, its soldiers, the city, and the strange Core controlling it all.
At least, Frit assumed he would.
If Icefinger didn’t offer enough, someone else would. A clan, a merchant house, maybe even the Guild. That was part of why Frit had worked so hard to shorten his sentence. As one of the first prisoners released — and likely the only one who’d saved enough for a Nexus ticket, knowing his fellows — he could auction what he knew to the highest bidder and walk away with more money than he’d earned in his entire life.
Combined with his increased strength, it might finally be enough to make him someone.
No more carrying crates while other men took the credit. No more being kicked aside or ordered around like a porter. No more nameless grunt work for men who couldn’t even remember his face.
He could buy a room somewhere decent for once.
He could eat like a king every day.
Maybe he’d even hire someone else to carry his bags, just for the laugh.
The thought of food made his mouth water. A moment later, his stomach rumbled, and Frit grimaced as he realized the timing of his release meant he’d miss lunch.
If there was one good thing to come out of the last year, it was the meals. None of it had been fancy, but there had always been enough, and it had always been better than anything he’d eaten growing up.
Frit’s smile faded slightly as he glanced back toward the correctional building.
He’d miss the beds too if he were honest.
Even the prison bunks had been more comfortable than most places he’d slept before his capture. For much of his life, a bed had meant a sack stuffed with old cloth, dry grass, or whatever plant fiber someone had been willing to throw away.
He wondered what a proper mattress would cost in Halirosa.
Frit grimaced as he calculated, then studied the prison again.
Would they let him buy one if he returned later?
Frit turned toward the city.
Maybe one of the new shops sold them.
More businesses seemed to open every day. At first, most had been operated by the dungeon’s constructs, but the goblins were slowly taking over as more people arrived. New immigrants came from the outer caverns, and every week brought more workers, craftsmen, and families looking for a place to settle.
His gaze dropped to his bag, where his old clothes sat, and his frown deepened.
Maybe he should buy clothes next time, too.
The local clothing was cheaper than anything of similar quality in Halirosa, and far better made. A few practical outfits, a decent coat, maybe some boots that didn’t pinch or leave his heels blistered—
He paused, realizing what he was doing. An hour ago, Frit had been counting the moments until he could go home. Now he was already considering coming back.
His hand drifted down, and he scratched at his side.
The problem was whether he even could.
From what Frit had overheard, the city had only recently begun allowing adventurers inside, and even then, they needed invitations. The station outpost was more welcoming, but most of the people passing through it came from other parts of the Deep.
He didn’t even know whether any surface stations besides Halirosa’s were active.
Frit glanced down the road and saw that the bus still hadn’t appeared.
He clenched his jaw, and his leg began to bounce.
One hand tapped against his knee while the other moved from his neck to his arm, chasing another phantom itch beneath the soft prison uniform.
He pictured Halirosa again and ground his teeth.
A bus turned the corner at the far end of the street, its dark body gliding toward the stop.
Frit watched it approach.
Then he looked toward the city.
Back to the bus.
Back to the rising buildings, so unlike anything he could find in Halirosa.
His leg bounced faster.
The bus drew steadily closer.
Frit stood with a wordless growl, snatched up his duffel, and slung it over his shoulder.
Before the bus could reach him, he turned away and started walking toward the city, scratching at the stubble along his jaw as he muttered under his breath.
“I wonder if Coinstacker is still looking for a shop assistant…”