Chapter 6
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Translator: MadScientist
Chapter: 6
Chapter Title: Underground Farm (2)
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"...Bran. You're volunteering for the Underground Farm?"
"Yes."
Bran nodded.
The supervisor had surprisingly memorized his name, thanks to all the hard work he'd put in. He scanned Bran up and down, then waved him off irritably.
"Get lost. This ain't a place for a kid. You won't last a single day."
"I want to apply."
"I said scram!"
The supervisor's face twisted in rage.
A brutish hand swung and slapped Bran's cheek.
Smack!
His head snapped back with a sharp crack.
"What the hell did you hear to come crawling for the Underground Farm? And you dare talk back? You wanna end up with your head smashed like that guy?!"
"Guh!"
The supervisor shot to his feet and grabbed Bran by the collar.
His feet lifted off the ground. The taut fabric choked his neck like a hangman's noose.
The reaction was almost exactly as expected. Bran let out a quiet sigh to himself.
'Knew I'd get hit.'
Only able-bodied adults worked the Underground Farm.
He'd forced the issue because the usual routes wouldn't get him picked.
And damn, it stung more than he'd thought.
As Bran shifted to plan B after the direct approach failed...
"What's the harm? Let him have his wish."
A soft woman's voice drifted from behind him.
A chill prickled his nape.
The calm timbre was familiar.
He'd heard it while playing Return Road before ending up in this world.
"Ch-Chief? What brings you here...!"
"Just passing by. Heard the yelling."
The supervisor's eyes bulged.
Thud! His grip slackened, and Bran sprawled to the floor.
He turned to see a woman gazing down at him.
"Such a spirited slave. Walking into hell on his own two feet."
She had sharp features.
Her black attire contrasted starkly with her pale skin.
Ornate jewelry adorned her neck, arms, and both ears—Bran knew selling just that could buy a decent house in the capital.
'Whoops, not the time.'
She looked exactly like she did in the game. He'd lost himself staring.
Bran scrambled up and dropped to one knee.
"Your lowly slave greets the Black Feather."
"Oh? You know your manners? Well trained."
She covered her mouth, eyes crinkling in a smile.
Even her bandit pride in etiquette matched the game to a tee.
The supervisor stood with hands clasped behind his back, bowing deeply.
The proper response.
She ruled Black Stone Fortress, after all.
"An honor, great thief."
Her name was Spera.
Master thief dubbed Black Feather, boss of the Crow Bandits.
"Hehe, rise."
Bran stood slowly.
She was surprisingly short, eye-level with him.
No comedy in it, though.
Spera's game level was 5!
Compared to his obvious 1, she was wolf to his maggot.
Spera eyed him head to toe, lips rounding in admiration.
"Oh, and such a cute face? Handsomest guy in the fortress, I'd say?"
"...Thank you."
Bran bowed his head.
Praise from left field.
Was he handsome? He hadn't properly checked his face since arriving.
Then Spera glided closer and rested a hand on his shoulder.
"You. Bran, right?"
"Yes."
"Nice build too, up close... Ditch the Farm. Work my chambers?"
"Huh."
Bran froze.
Out-of-left-field offer.
He'd raided the fortress with a dozen characters. Never hit this snag.
Her hand trailed down sensually to his chest.
'Crazy bitch!'
Bran panicked inwardly.
Age gap like that and she's flirting?
p> Not awful, but terrible timing.
'Trouble. I need the Farm.'
Biggest crisis since possessing the Nameless Hero.
Her chambers? Plans down the drain.
Had to refuse, any way possible.
Options: roughly two.
1. Glory, madam! Black Stone's mighty stud—that's Bran!
2. Sorry, can't deliver. Fact is... I like guys.
Both sucked. Fuck.
As Bran sweated, undecided...
"Ahaha, look at that face!"
"...?"
Spera dissolved into tinkling laughter.
Her hand pulled away from his navel.
"Kidding. Kids don't interest me. Five years older, maybe. Sorry if you hoped."
"...Got it."
Bran felt his guts settle.
Five years older was still creepy, but relief all the same.
Spera spoke.
"I'm off. Send him to the Farm as requested."
"Yes. Deploying today."
"Good. But first..."
Then.
She leaned in, whispering hot in his ear.
"But kid. You're an open book."
"Pardon?"
"Why the Farm. Think I don't know?"
No playfulness now.
Nape hairs stood. Shock yanked out an old army tic.
She saw through him? How?
Spera pressed on.
"Heard the rumor: Farm work means painless death. Better than slaving to old age—quick, happy lights out."
"Uh...?"
"You slaves all think alike. Cute face, so I'll overlook it. Die your way."
Spera straightened.
The supervisor, missing the whisper, scanned for cues.
She flashed a smile and turned.
"Later. Meeting Baron Philowin."
"I'll escort you!"
The supervisor scurried after.
Left in the rough dirt: Bran and the head-smashed corpse.
Watching them go, Bran muttered low.
"...Idiot."
Dead wrong. Epic misread.
Crows drink the tears from their own laughter.
To them, shaking down merchants was pocket change.
Classic banditry wouldn't build their fortress or buy lordly alliances.
The real cash flowed from Black Stone Fortress's depths.
The Underground Farm.
"Composed for your age. Grown men piss themselves."
The dwarf rasped.
Short race—Bran had to crane down to meet his eyes.
The dwarf scratched his bushy beard while fiddling a rusty lever.
"Not scared?"
He shot back.
They stood on a wooden platform.
Gears whirred; it descended slowly.
Elevator to the Farm. Musty reek everywhere.
Ancient wood creaked underfoot.
The vertical mine shaft—abandoned remnant—drowned in sightless dark.
"Calmer than I thought. Thanks."
"Save it. I'm your ferryman to hell."
The dwarf cackled at Bran's reply.
He'd called himself the Styx boatman.
Guide for the dead.
Fitting simile, bar his stumpy size unfit for proper rowing.
"Underground? No leaving till fortnight's up. And odds say you won't last. That light above? Last glow of your life. Knees buckling yet?"
Bran looked up.
A distant speck twinkled, impossibly far.
The Farm entrance.
"Last light... could be."
"Heh heh, no need to freak. Below's deaths beat any slave's end. Painless, smiling exit? Peak bliss."
Bran's brow furrowed.
Peak bliss, my ass.
Wanted to brain him, but no dice.
Heavy manacles locked his wrists.
Mandatory for surface-Farm trips.
"Tch, cocky little shit. Pretty boy like a girl, full of bluff."
"Ugh!"
"Kid bluster."
The dwarf suddenly kicked Bran's shin mid-glare.
Something grated. Face? Attitude? Both.
Rage boiled, but Bran endured.
Ten minutes passed?
Greeeak...!
Grating metal; elevator halted.
"Here we are."
"Ugh."
A vile stench stabbed his nose.
Nothing like it'd in real life.
Like shoving putrid soil up his nostrils.
Air turned scorching, sticky vapor clawing his lungs.
Instinct clamped his mouth—dwarf booted him from behind.
"Move it!"
"Ugh."
Stumbled forward. Bran caught balance, stood firm.
The Underground Farm sprawled before him.
"......!"
"Scared now?"
Dwarf grinned.
Full-face gas mask now hid his mug.
Bran said nothing.
Speechless from the sheer scale—nothing like the monitor view.
'Finally. Underground Farm.'
Vaster than any surface crop field.
Systematic plots stretched beyond sight.
Lofty ceiling, tangled pipes everywhere.
Damp earth steamed faintly.
"No torches needed. Plants light themselves."
True—no lanterns.
Stems speckled with glowing multicolors.
Pulsing plant lights evoked deep-sea fish swarms.
All forbidden hallucinogens or narcotics.
"Ehehe, uhuhu, hee!"
"Today too, today too, tomorrow..."
"Sure, Mother. Wind in leaves like cats. Bushes diapering the barn where we strum harps."
Darkness rang with slaves' voices.
Glazed eyes shuttling endless toil.
Some laughed, sobbed. Raged or mumbled nonsense aplenty.
"Follow. Dropping you with the overseer."
Dwarf led, savoring Bran's awe.
Bran trailed, then froze.
For a split second, the scene warped like hypnosis—then snapped back.
"Huh."
Something wrong.
The initial stench had morphed sweet.
Early poisoning sign.
Bran's eyes widened.
'Already?'
Faster soak than expected.
Tender young skin, probably.
But no panic.
Ace in pocket.
Rummaged: small green clump emerged.
Dwarf distracted, Bran popped it in, grimaced.
"Blech."
Burning bitterness flooded his mouth.
No spitting, no gulping whole.
He tucked it under his tongue, gagging it down.
Reason it's first trimmed in cooking?
No chef lives serving this crap.
Crown radish leaves, compressed.
Favor from Kael recently.
'Neutralizes the poison.'
Multirun intel.
Leaves countered most Farm toxins.
Useless consumable rep, but gold.
Like me.
"Haa..."
Effect hit quick.
Aroma faded; mind cleared.
Stench returned—better that way.
Exposed to a dangerous environment yet retained consciousness. Tenacity of the Weed activates!
Mental strength growth rate slightly increases.
Continued exposure or resistance to hazardous environments may generate a new trait.
Timing matched the poison's speed—faster than planned.
Hand from pocket, Bran muttered with grim resolve.
"...It begins."