The Golden Compass and the Priests' Arrival

He perched his butt on the edge of the open sarcophagus lid.

"Did they find something here? Or maybe craft it?"

"You've seen the secret factories and the library up above, right? The labyrinth maintains its constancy, but every now and then, there are places that violate the rules. I think this spot's the same. Take a close look at the bottom of the sarcophagus—there's barely ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠any dust buildup, is there?"

Allen bent down, practically shoving his head inside. At the same time, the head lantern's beam strongly illuminated the interior.

"If something had been in there, the dust would've built up around its shape, but up close, it's uniformly thin."

"Someone took something out, but judging by the timeline, it was before the collector arrived. A few years? Maybe decades? Something like that."

"Who do you think it was?"

"Breaker and a few megacorps know about this ruin, so probably one of them."

"That's ultimately a matter of probability. No guarantee it's just them."

"That's why we push so hard to go deeper. The lower you descend, the wider the layers get, and the fewer explorers there are, boosting your odds of fresh discoveries. That's the biggest reason, I'd say."

Taylor curled his index finger and thumb into a circle, flashing a sleazy grin. The more valuable the knowledge, the steeper the price. Just as Allen started to nod in agreement, the leopard approached and rubbed its head against him.

"It knows how to play cute, huh?"

"It's a signal that it brought something."

Allen extended his hand, and the leopard opened its mouth. A transparent, round crystal carefully held in its jaws dropped out with a clink. In the center, a needle floated as if in zero gravity.

It was a compass said to reveal the location of doors to the next layer after feeding it magic stones from monsters that appeared in the current one.

"Second time I've seen one of these."

"Perfect timing. We're heading to the primordial forest anyway, so we'll need it. Don't sell it—keep it."

"The black mage nearly turned this expedition into a loss, but this saves us. Last time I checked, one of these went for 20 million coins."

"Compasses drop pretty reliably, but that's among Oparts. And anyone strong enough to go back and forth through the forest can scrape that much together with a bit of grit."

Allen rolled the compass around in his hand before asking Taylor.

"Take a look at this. The needle's faintly golden. The one Professor Oros showed us was silver."

"Silver's right. Never even heard rumors of a golden one..."

Taylor took the compass and shone his head lantern on it. Up close, a subtle glint of gold flickered.

"I'd never have noticed if you hadn't pointed it out. Hard to spot at a glance."

Taylor held the compass toward the rolling chest that had trundled over. The chest, primed to store the item as inputted, halted the moment he pulled his hand back.

He extended it again, and the chest approached. Taylor toyed with it like he was playing with a pet, while Allen dredged up his memories.

The scene we first saw...

The black mage prostrated before the sarcophagus, surrounded by pillars of bone and flesh. Maybe he hadn't been worshiping the sarcophagus at all, but the pillars.

And the pillars...

They were attaching flesh to the base and sides of the sarcophagus. Eerily similar to the underground dweller blanketed in flesh that they'd seen in the prison before entering the room.

"The sarcophagus is the underground dweller, the pillars the flesh."

"What? Don't keep it to yourself—explain it so I get it too."

"The pillars enveloping the sarcophagus looked like roots of a tree taking hold. Like it was trying to absorb something."

"You think the aura from whatever was taken lingered on the sarcophagus?"

The veteran Taylor zeroed in on the core immediately. Experience made the associations come naturally.

"Whatever it was, if it sat here for ages, yeah, that makes sense."

"The problem is we don't know what it was. If we did, we'd understand the compass's purpose right away."

"Maybe it's a compass that finds ruins?"

"Now that would be a jackpot. I've only dreamed about all the untapped honey pots down below. Already drooling."

Taylor had been oddly proactive lately. When he'd gotten his body treated, he'd seemed detached from worldly concerns, but these days, he sometimes outdid even the hottest-blooded youths.

It was a good change, though. Like a patient in extreme rehab rewiring their nerves—a shift in mindset could positively impact the body too.

The spoils from the ruin: the compass and the experimental tools left by the collector.

"Without this compass, it'd have been my first loss in my explorer career."

"Aigoo, after ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠a few months, you're calling it a career already? You're like a fresh private straight out of boot camp—same difference."

"Never been in the military, so no clue."

"To a frog, a tadpole ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠with legs or a just-hatched one both look the same."

Taylor quirked his lips upward in a slight smile and took the lead. By the time they'd fully exited the ruin, even that grin had faded, leaving only the seasoned explorer.

Things were quiet now. Allen activated the scout spider he'd hidden at the fortress wall's base to observe the interior. Taylor plugged the relay spider's cable into the port behind his ear.

The spider's camera eye darted busily atop the wall. The inside was darker than before, with far fewer underground dwellers. The heavy-armored ones that had kept spawning in the plaza were gone too.

Sensing the shift, Ibex Mercenaries had pushed right into the fortress, pulverizing the inner areas.

They sealed building entrances with elemental magic from their miniguns, collapsed them with mana rounds like Allen's launchers, or rampaged like wolves among sheep in powersuits mimicking the heavy-armored foes.

"Flashy."

"They turned the fortress into a hunting ground and raked in the cash. Too much hassle to haul back ammo and weapons, so they're burning it all."

"Such a waste—why bother?"

"'Cause it's not their money; it's the company's. And when else do they get to blast away like this? Whoa, drone's heading our way. Let's bounce."

Even a wrecked fortress like that would regenerate via the labyrinth's constancy given time. Within a month, underground dwellers would roam it again.

"Think they'll come down again then?"

"Nah. The collector boosted the heavy-armored spawns, making it worthwhile. The fortress I remember? You'd burn cash blasting like that."

In the corner of the warehouse, Allen tinkered with something as usual. Taylor sneaked up and bellowed.

"Big news! Big news!"

"...Not joking this time, right?"

"We dive the labyrinth to eat—what, skip meals? Drop that and hit the table."

A glance at the clock: somehow 7 p.m. already. He'd sat right after lunch, oblivious to the hours flying by.

"When'd you drag in another book? Focus on the food when you're eating."

"Yes, sir."

Allen set the book atop a box as instructed. The rolling fellow trundled near the sofa, tilted, and dropped it.

As he savored the balsamic vinegar salad, Taylor—who'd already polished off his plate—struck up the conversation.

"About that news."

"Just to get me up?"

"What good's making me out a liar?"

If Taylor wasn't a liar, then Allen was a pure youth clueless about deceit. Either way, he listened intently over dinner.

"Heard the Mother God Church priests are settling in big numbers in Maze City."

The Mother God Church ran the hospital where Kakda had been admitted before. Their holy power was a form of mana, dissected ad nauseam, earning them the label "healing mages" over priests.

Even explorers who cursed them behind their backs courted them upfront. In the labyrinth, recovery spells equaled extra ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠lives.

Of course, their numbers were few, making recruitment brutal. If there were more priests, magitech pharmacies wouldn't thrive like they did.

Monk (1)

Rolf the dwarf broker's bar, Drunken Flame. A place where savage beats mingled with mellow classics, littered with fixers sloshed on dwarf-grade high-proof booze.

Fixers, like labyrinth explorers, staked their lives for pay. After a big score, they'd drown piled-up stress in booze or hole up for deep rest.

The door swung open, injecting fresh air into the booze-and-smoke haze. The young newcomer headed to a corner booth; the old man made for Rolf at the bar counter.

"Old timer, close the damn door. Keep it up, and us common folk can't afford the heat."

"Then run the vents. Pigsty smells better than this. Ain't a cave..."

"Ahem, ahem. Motor-mouth going strong—no rejection issues, huh?"

"Who fixed me up? Course not."

"Lucky bastard, but my bro's skilled. Me? I got a fat broker fee, so no complaints."

"I meant Allen."

"Then both got lucky."

As Allen claimed his corner spot, fixers drifted over one by one. He'd regularly serviced their gear topside. Skills vetted long ago, they trusted him with basic repairs worry-free.

While scraping runes off a fixer's prosthetic leg, a wall-mounted TV droned labyrinth news from the dedicated channel.

An interview with Grand Priest and Love Hospital Director Liberio was underway.

The Mother God Church deemed labyrinth monsters trapped souls from hell; slaying them was liberation.

Sporadic fixer commentary filtered through.

"That prick's just shoving his flock into the maze 'cause he's broke?"

"Hey, easy. They volunteer hard—why pick a fight?"

"A kind priest healed my busted arm as a kid. Religion worth emulating."

"And that guy's a fixer collecting heads?"

"Asshole! That's why we pick jobs careful-like. Some faiths say worldly life is suffering, so popping bounties is noble penance, right? Makes me a monk too."

"Bullshit..."

Even in the bar's confines, opinions split; society at large was polarized.

Some cheered more free healing, kinder docs. Others decried rights infringed, inscrutable motives.

Whatever the reactions, the explorer scene was abuzz—mostly big players like guilds and corps.

Everyone craved recovery mage priests; few could snag them. Demand crushed supply.

Priests were human too. Aiming to save suffering souls, they still craved safety, naturally drawn to corp overtures.

With high demand and sweet deals, small-timers like Allen's party got no shot. Most explorer parties fared the same.

"All defectives? Fuckin' hell. We're screwed."

The day wrapped with a final dwarf customer stiffed at a back-alley clinic.

Allen slid onto a bar stool beside Taylor, eyes closed, memory module plugged into his neck—proof he was watching something.

"What're you glued to?"

"Scouting some side gigs."

"Rest topside. No need to hustle here too."

Taylor scowled at Allen's words, face screaming volumes unspoken.

"It's you. You, you, you."

"...?"

"Sigh, those innocent peepers. Can't tie you down and force rest."

"Grandpa feels bad with grandson working."

Rolf chimed in slyly, chuckling as he backed away from Taylor. Allen finally got it and spoke up.