I followed the tunnels away from the Dungeon. For a while, the slope was steady, but then it began to shift, subtly at first, then more insistently. Upward. I kept walking. Eventually, the dark broke into thin light bleeding through cracks in the stone ceiling. I angled toward it until finally the tunnel opened and I emerged into open air.

I squinted against the wind in my face, opened my minimap, and took a moment to get my bearings. The landscape had shifted subtly since I'd gone under; the shadows were longer, like time had passed faster above than below. I thought about what Aunt M had said about time dilation. Maybe that sort of thing worked both ways?

Anchorfall was marked on the very edge of my map, and the trek back was, if I'm honest, painfully long. Whatever Aunt M had done to my build, it was taking a bit of time to settle. The stats I'd sacrificed seemed to be hurting me far more than I figured they should. It was like my calves hated me, my back had opinions, and the sun was in the wrong place the entire damn time.

It was a long enough stroll, certainly, to replay, in exquisite detail, the moment I'd told the Maker where to shove his Dungeon reward. And also, despite my aunt's insistence that he wasn't someone to overly worry about, if telling a god to stuff it was ever a smart move, no matter how delicious it had felt at the time.

Hey ho. No use crying over a dropped slice of pizza after the three-second rule. I could still eat it, but it was just going to cause me hours on the loo in the long term. That metaphor got away from me a little there. I blame the long walk. No use crying over spilt milk. There. That's better.

This walk, however? That I felt I could cry over. The path through these woods back to home base was more longer and windy far beyond anything that felt reasonable. I'd dropped down the well in the middle of my village and then, at best, could not have walked more than a kilometre away from that initial splattering point in the Dungeon.

That I now appeared to be a walk the length of the Bible away from home felt a touch unnecessary. It struck me that maybe, just maybe, the Maker was having me drag myself through every mud-riddled inch of the forest just to make a point about "consequences" for my disrespect.

Would the Maker be so petty? Who? Him? Really? They seemed so chilled and relaxed. I can't imagine them being so vindictive as this, surely?

As I trudged – and by now, it really was a trudge – I looked over what Aunt M had done to my subclass. Ironclad. I like the sound of it. Iron Provocateur with a side order of Ironclad? Yeah, come at me, bro.

By the time I reached the first rise overlooking Anchorfall, my funk had cleared, my body had adjusted to some of the changes, and I was feeling much better about things.

Mind you, it struck me that if my brief, disastrous encounters with the rest of this world's population were anything to go by, if my growth was moving in the right direction, then most people on Bayteran were crawling through treacle. Everything for them seemed to be painfully slow and stingy. I'd been here a few days and was already mixing it with armies. Everyone else – even Lia - seemed to be cursed to scrape and claw for the smallest gains.

Take gold, for instance. Thanks to all those city taxes, it seemed epically rare. The landlord back in Sablewyn had mentioned needing special permission just to access his bank and trade for the bone I'd offered him. Everything in Bayteran, at least on the Empire side, seemed to be locked behind layers of bureaucracy and grind. The smallest of Anchorfall's upgrades seemed to demand not just effort, but motivated, skilled, and experienced teams working away. And even then, it was like shovelling coal into a locomotive with no wheels.

But me?

I'd been gifted a village. Okay, "village" was doing a lot of work—it was a glorified glade with delusions of grandeur—but still. I'd had instant access to workers, advanced Skills, weirdly responsive UI elements, and now, apparently, a custom subclass so bespoke it might as well have my monogram stitched into the talent tree.

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Had I really earned any of that?

Not really. Sure, I'd survived some fights. I'd tanked a lot of hits and I'd mouthed off to a few power-mad lunatics and somehow come out breathing. But that didn't feel like it should have been enough to be where I currently was. Not compared to the grinding sludge everyone else seemed to be wading through.

I suspected Aunt M hadn't just vouched for me to be a Warden.

But, hey, I wasn't going to complain. Especially as I sensed Ironclad might well have been her last big thumb on the tiller moment for me.

After what felt like an eternity, Anchorfall's newly thrown-up buildings finally got close enough that I could make out individual dots on my minimap. My feet lightly stepped through Scar's improvised defences, dodging the occasional tripwire and well-hidden pit trap. Sidestep moved itself up to Level 7 as I did, which was nice. Maybe I could do some grinding out here during a quiet moment? Interesting.

When I finally arrived at the village square, the sight of a familiar gathering huddled around the well stopped me in my tracks.

Lia and Scar were leaning over the edge, peering down with the intense focus of especially judgmental hairdressers. A couple of Scar's men stood nearby, scratching their heads as they tried to make sense of whatever fate they imagined had befallen me.

"Eli!" Scar's voice boomed as he balanced on the lip, one foot dangling dangerously over the edge. "If you're down there, can you give us some sort of sign? You know something other than a rather ominous silence?"

"He's still alive," Lia said, though I detected a note of concern in her voice. That was nice. It wasn't quite affection, but I could work with worry. "We'd have gotten a notification if Anchorfall's owner had met some dramatic end. Right?"

Scar shook his head. "Don't get me wrong, I'm sure he's fine. I just don't know how we're going to get him out. With all his current gear, he's going to weigh more than we can easily lift."

I guessed that was my cue. They hadn't noticed me yet, so I took the opportunity to creep closer, walking with the quietest steps I could manage. It turns out 8 in Agility is still good for something. Gravel barely whispered underfoot, and I stopped just behind them, watching as Lia continued to mither.

"Maybe," she said, "but I'd feel a lot better if we knew for certain he's okay. The last thing we need right now is—"

"—to be abandoned by the true hero of this tale?" I said, right in her ear.

Lia shrieked, spinning so quickly she nearly sent herself over the well. When she focused on me, her face was a mixture of relief and irritation, somewhere between seeing a ghost and wishing it would stay that way. Scar jumped too, clutching his chest like a man twice his age.

"Elijah!" he said, attempting to cover his initial shock with a gruff laugh. "Maker's teeth, man, we thought you were dead down there!"

"Dead?" I raised an eyebrow. "Please. A bit of dark, a dash of stone, an enraged god, and a legendary dungeon? Not nearly enough to put a dent in my day."

The collective relief of the villagers quickly morphed into something with which I was more familiar: exasperation with a side of mild concern. I could see the questions forming in their minds, but, fortunately, they seemed to think better of asking.

"That all sounds like something I don't really want to hear much about," Lia said, her face carefully composed. "Next time you decide to go spelunking, maybe give us a little warning!"

I gave her a playful nudge, grinning. She stared at my hand like she was going to snap it off. Yeah, she was definitely not home for a playful nudge. "Admit it. Your heart skipped a beat when you thought I'd abandoned you. You were worried, weren't you?"

She scowled, stepping back as the other villagers, sensing the show was over, wandered off. Apparently, near-death escapades with gods and dungeons weren't enough to earn more than a few minutes of Anchorfall's attention.

Typical.

Not quite the grand reception I'd pictured after my encounter with the divine, but I made a mental note to embellish the tale for future storytelling. I was pretty sure "spat in the eye of a god and lived to tell the tale" had a certain ring to it. I wonder whether Dema would be more admiring . . .

"Hey, this is Anchorfall!" I called after the receding crowd, spreading my arms wide. "If you don't expect a little thrill now and then, you're probably living in the wrong place!"

Scar turned back, halfway down the path, and raised a hand in acknowledgement. "Just... try not to vanish so dramatically next time, would you?"

I grinned, watching as they all made their way back to their routines, some of them muttering about "idiots" and "showoffs." I'd take that as a form of love.

"Guys," I shouted after them, "my theatrics are at least half the reason this place is still standing!"

And as the last of the crowd drifted away, I was left alone beside the Well, the quiet settling around me like an old, comfortable coat.

I leaned over the lip and called down, "How do you like me now, mate?"

The Maker didn't answer.

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