Me Thrill

The journey was swift, an hour’s trek through salty air and jagged stone, his golden night vision unnecessary under the daylight’s glare. The cave’s maw loomed, its silence eerie after the chaos of his last visit—bats, crabs, wyrmlings, all cleared by his fury. He pressed deeper, boots crunching on shale and scattered chitin, until he reached the dead-end chamber. The egg room sprawled before him, a graveyard of shattered shells—leathery husks cracked and oozing, victims of time or his prior rampage. But one stood out: a single egg, pristine, its surface a glossy green-black, veined with faint silver, humming with latent life.

Steven knelt, brushing a finger over its smooth shell—no cracks, no rot, a survivor amidst the ruin. His 5-slot bag, emptied of loot save for what Trish now wielded, hung light at his hip. He lifted the egg—heavier than it looked, warm to the touch—and stashed it in the bag’s first slot, its glow marking 1/5. A dragon egg, young and vital—his mind raced with possibilities. Keep it? Sell it? Hatch it? For now, it was his, a prize from the cave’s depths.

Steven stood in the egg chamber, the lone Dragon Egg now secure in his bag’s first slot, its glossy shell a quiet promise of power. The cave’s pull lingered, its unexplored depths tugging at his D-rank resolve. He retraced his steps down the long hallway, boots echoing, until he reached the fork. His last visit had ended here, injuries forcing retreat—but now, healed and brimming with 1 gold, 3 silver, and 1 copper, he veered right, down the uncharted path he’d skipped. The tunnel curved, sweeping bends guiding him deeper, the air growing denser, laced with salt and a faint metallic tang.

The passage yawned into a vast cavern, its ceiling lost to shadow, the golden glow of his night vision piercing the dark. King crabs scuttled—hulking beasts with claws like scythes—and wyrmlings slithered among them, their scales glinting, fangs bared. Steven grinned, igniting his full arsenal: Fists of Holy Fury, Feet of Holy Fury, and Saiyan Fury blazed to life, golden flames cloaking him head to toe, his eyes already aglow from the trek. Eight king crabs, four wyrmlings, and a scattering of bats and lesser crabs stood between him and whatever lay deeper—he powered up, a radiant storm ready to break.

He tore through them with brutal ease, his cave-hardened instincts now sharp. A king crab lunged—pincer snapping—he sidestepped, a fiery kick cracking its shell, then a fist pulped its innards—splat—chitin dropped, 5 per kill stacking into slot 2. Another charged; he spun, twin punches shattering its claws, a heel finishing it off. Wyrmlings hissed, tails whipping—he ducked, uppercutting one’s jaw, teeth flying, then stomped its skull—5 scales for slot 3. The next lashed; he rolled, fists hammering its flank, ribs snapping under holy fire. Bats swarmed—useless fodder—punched aside in a blur, their bodies littering the floor with lesser crabs, no loot worth a damn. Eight crabs, four wyrmlings—12 kills, his bag ticking up: 40 King Crab Chitin in slot 2, 20 Wyrmling Scales in slot 3, the egg safe in slot 1.

Deeper he went, the cavern stretching wide, until a glint caught his eye—shining rock embedded in the walls, veins of ore shimmering faintly. No pickaxe, no tools—just his fists. “Fuck it,” he muttered, rearing back. Fists of Holy Fury flared brighter, and he punched the stone—crack—a fissure spidered out. Two more blows—thud, thud—and chunks broke free, tumbling to the floor. He scooped one up, casting Identify: a window flared—“Mithril Ore: Rare metal, lightweight yet durable, prized for crafting weapons and armor. Unrefined—requires smelting.” His pulse quickened—mithril, a jackpot if he could haul it.

Steven hammered the shimmering vein, his Fists of Holy Fury blazing as he struck—crack, thud—stone splintering under each blow. Two more chunks of Mithril Ore broke free, joining the first, their faint silver-blue sheen a prize in the golden glow of his night vision. He punched again, eager for more, but the vein crumbled to dust—exhausted, a meager remnant of some long-forgotten mining haul. Three pieces total—not a motherlode, but a hell of a score for a brawler with no pick. He cast Identify on the scattered shards around him—“Common Stone: Basic rock, no value beyond construction or ballast.” Useless. With a grunt, he kicked the rubble to the cavern’s edge, a clatter echoing in the stillness.

His bag ticked up: slot 1 held the Dragon Egg, slot 2 stacked 40 King Crab Chitin, slot 3 carried 20 Wyrmling Scales, and slot 4 now cradled 3 Mithril Ore. Four of five slots claimed—he pressed on, the cavern stretching before him. But as he trekked, the vast chamber tapered, its walls closing in until he hit a dead end. No eggs, no monsters—just a dark, empty hollow, his golden vision bathing the silence in eerie light. Nothing stirred, no loot glinted. The cave had given all it had.

Steven shrugged, turning back. “That’s that,” he muttered, retracing his steps—past the fork, through the long hallway, and out the cave’s maw. The Mistveil’s salty breeze greeted him, the sun dipping low, his haul secure: an egg, chitin, scales, and mithril, all won by his fists and fury.