Chapter 12
Chapter 12
-----------------------------------------------------------------
Translator: MadScientist
Chapter: 12
Chapter Title: Abyss Miner: Fuck Yeah
-----------------------------------------------------------------
Money's meant to be spent.
Save it like a dog when you're scraping by, but splash it like a prime minister when the time comes.
Especially when your life's hanging in the balance.
The moment I pushed open the blacksmith's door, a wave of scorching heat slammed into me, stealing my breath.
The acrid stench of smoke mingled with the sharp clang of metal striking metal.
Bang! Bang! Bang!
Muscled dwarves were hammering away, sweat pouring off them, while the walls gleamed with weapons that could make any man's heart race.
I scanned the display racks right away.
"Whoa, fuck. What the hell is all this?"
The words slipped out in awe.
The blunt weapons dominating one wall caught my eye first.
Ever since picking up the [Clubbing (F)] skill, heavy-hitting bludgeons appealed more than sharp blades.
[Earthquake Hammer (A-Grade)]
A massive hammer embedded with the core of an Earth Golem from the 50th floor of the Abyss. Each swing unleashes seismic waves for area-of-effect damage.
[Bloodcalling Morningstar (B-Grade)]
Each spike carries a bleeding curse. Even a graze tears wounds open and makes the blood flow endlessly.
[Thunderbolt Staff (B-Grade)]
A combat staff forged from thundercloud ore. Strikes have a chance to electrocute and paralyze foes.
This was it.
Real fantasy weapons.
My black iron pickaxe wasn't cheap, but next to these gleaming beauties, it looked like a damn toothpick.
Armor lined the racks beside them.
[Mithril Plate Armor (A-Grade)]
Layered thin sheets of pure mithril crafted by a dwarf artisan. Light as a feather, impervious to most blades and swords, and repels low-grade magic.
[Fire Dragon Scale Armor (S-Grade)]
Legendary defensive gear forged from an ancient fire dragon's reverse scales. Grants complete fire immunity and returns fire damage to attackers via the Blessing of Retribution.
[Troll Leather Tunic (C-Grade)]
Light armor tanned from swamp troll hide. Boasts exceptional toughness and dramatically boosts the wearer's wound recovery speed with regeneration effects.
'These look fuckin' killer.'
Every piece was top-tier.
I swallowed hard.
With my pockets full, the greed was inevitable.
I pointed at the Earthquake Hammer like I was mesmerized.
"Hey, mister, how much for that one?"
The dwarf snorted and glanced at my coin pouch.
"Got an eye for quality, eh? 1.2 million Lumina."
"...Pardon?"
"One. Two. Zero. Zero. Thousand. Deaf or what?"
Crazy bastard.
I thought he added two extra zeros by mistake.
After four straight days of back-breaking pickaxing—my palms literally blistered—I'd scraped together about 15,000 Lumina.
1.2 million?
That'd take three years rotting here to afford.
"What about that bleeding mace next to it?"
"650k. Cheap as it gets—barely covers materials."
"And the thunder staff?"
"400k. No money? Stop drooling over those and check the cheap crap in the corner."
The dwarf jerked his chin toward the opposite side.
"...."
Prices were a total dick punch.
Makes sense—these used materials mined from the deep Abyss at great risk. No way they'd be cheap.
Nothing like the low-to-mid-grade iron ore I dug up.
'Someday I'll wield shit like that.'
I grimaced bitterly and looked away.
Time to face reality.
Dreaming big without knowing my place just leads to blue balls.
I needed something solid I could actually afford with my meager savings.
"Mister, recommend a decent weapon. Around 10k Lumina max."
"10k, huh...."
The dwarf stroked his chin beard and pointed indifferently to a dusty corner rack.
Weapons piled up with a layer of grime.
"Check the black iron series. Perfect for your budget. Killer value."
"Pickaxe and weapon in black iron?"
"Don't like it? Tough shit."
Nothing to say to that.
Scrap like me deserves scrap gear.
I approached the rack and tested the weapons one by one.
Swords and axes? Pass.
Clubbing skill specialized in blunts.
Wasting it on edges meant no skill bonus—just flushed cash.
Then, a hefty iron club buried in the corner caught my eye.
[Black Iron Hexagonal Rod (E-Grade)]
Club cast from reinforced black iron alloyed with mid-grade iron ore and graphite. No edge, but exceptional weight and destructive power. Specialized for shattering bones.
About 65-70cm long?
Hexagonal edges promised mangled flesh on impact. No fancy effects, but the crude, blackened heft matched my style perfectly.
A bit longer than my old telescoping baton, and it paired like peanut butter and jelly with my Clubbing skill.
I gripped the rod and swung it through the air.
Whoosh! Whoosh!
'Yeah, fuck yeah. This is it.'
The satisfying weight transmitted through my hands.
A bit heavy for a normie, but just right for me now.
'I could smash Viper's thick skull like a watermelon in one hit.'
A grin spread across my face.
"Mister, how much for this?"
"That? 5,500 Lumina."
Solid price.
Next up: decent armor.
Plate was pricey and clunky, so leather it was.
[Hardened Leather Armor (E-Grade)]
Beast hide layered and treated with special chemicals for enhanced durability. Blocks most monster claws and slashes. Lightweight and highly mobile.
Tough-looking leather with a musky scent.
Thumping it with my fist produced a solid thwack-thwack.
"This armor?"
"7,000 Lumina."
"Ugh."
Leather pricier than the weapon.
'Makes sense—bigger piece, more labor.'
Armor was a spare life; of course it'd cost.
"12,500 total? C'mon, mister, discount for both? Look at this dust."
"Thief in sheep's clothing. Black iron ain't cheap. No deal? Walk."
"Aw, c'mon. Nobody else buying clubs—who uses those old-school? Everyone's on swords or spears. Lil' off the top?"
"Fair point. 500 Lumina off."
"More?"
"Oi, leather curing alone took a week. Fine, toss in a repair kit. That's it—shop elsewhere if not."
Only one smithy in town, FYI.
Wrapping "fuck off" that politely.
Greedy short-ass small-dick dwarves, as expected.
"Tch, deal. 12k even?"
I emptied my pouch.
The jingle faded as most of my fortune vanished.
Stung a bit, but lifesavers? Worth it.
Strapped on the armor, slung the rod on my back.
The leather hugged tight—reassuring.
Awkward at first, but they'd break in.
Suck it up.
With weapon and armor, I felt like a vet.
Next: general store.
Something to buy with leftovers.
[Low-Grade Healing Potion]
Potion brewed from red herbs. Drinking or applying staunches bleeding and rapidly heals wounds.
Potions, obviously.
Spare lives—must-have.
"How much per potion?"
"500 Lumina. No haggling—mention it and out."
"Five, please."
"2,500 Lumina, sir."
Now I was broke.
My fat pouch down to loose change jingling sadly.
"All set."
I stretched and headed for the mine.
At the entrance, I hesitated.
'Straight to floor 2?'
Original plan: dive to 2.
But that thing from days ago in the 1st floor corner popped up.
Purple crystal.
And wriggling below: [Variant: Polluted Ore Slime].
'Could I take it now?'
Back then, low stats, no gear—bailed scared.
Now? Strength 23, toughened traits, black iron rod.
It just sat by the crystal—guardian vibe for sure.
'Bet it drops something huge. Or the crystal's jackpot.'
Jackpot vibes.
Kill for loot, or bail if dicey.
It didn't chase last time.
"Yeah, swing by first, test the waters."
No good read? Bolt to 2.
Decision made, but miners huddled at the entrance corner, gossiping grimly.
Looked like another injury or death.
"Heard about that old timer?"
"Yeah. Three days now? Hasn't shown his face."
"Guy treated lunch breaks like a sin—always packed bentos. Not showing up's suspicious."
"Pussies. One less miner ain't news. Croaked somewhere."
I'd usually ignore, but my feet stopped.
'Old timer? Missing?'
Old timer...
Day one: the scrawny geezer who taught me technique after my brute-force fail.
Hadn't seen him since.
Mine was huge, plenty old timers—no guarantee it was him.
But it nagged hard.
'No way.'
I veered toward the miners.
"H-Hey?"
They spotted me, flinched back.
Viper half-crippled rumors everywhere.
Plus full kit: rod on back, shiny leather.
Terrifying.
"Hey."
I kept my voice low.
"Y-Yes? Big bro? What's up?"
Big bro? Guy looked ten years older.
Strength rules this shithole world.
Fucking hollow.
"Who was that missing old timer you mentioned?"
"Uh, th-that's..."
"Who?"
He gulped, glancing around.
"Old man Hans. Been here forever..."
No name before.
No intros.
"Don't know the name. Skinny as rails, ribs showing, but pickaxe work like a machine? Droopy eyes?"
"Y-Yeah, that's him. Hans."
"Fuck..."
A sigh escaped.
Him.
Mood soured.
Planned to buy meat, booze, thank him later.
Bitter taste.
"So he's dead?"
"Dunno. Three days gone? Obvious. Dropped in the mine or monster chow."
One miner shrugged indifferently.
That nonchalance pissed me off more.
One guy vanishes, and it's gossip fodder.
Mood soured; I scowled, fiddling the rod grip.
Smack 'em? Felt like venting.
As I pondered, another miner yelped and piped up.
"W-Wait! I saw something days ago."
"What?"
"The old guy kept lurking near the 2nd floor passage."
"2nd floor? He went down?"
"N-Not sure. Just around there..."
No conviction.
But obvious, right?
Lurking near 2, vanishes? Went down.
That frail body?
Gasping on 1—soloing monster-filled 2?
Suicide, unless...
Worn pickaxe only.
"Why the hell..."
Another miner answered.
"Money. Lives with his granddaughter—she's sick bad. Some rare Mine Poison Disease. Meds cost a fortune... Skipped meals, worked nonstop."
"Granddaughter's meds..."
"Yeah. She worsened lately—needed big cash. Probably pushed to lower floors. Rare ores there."
Picture clear.
To save her, dragged that old body into danger.
Night, alone.
Chasing jackpot.
"Dumbass old fart."
Curse slipped out.
Teaches me tips, then gambles his life.
2nd floor: kobolds, bat swarms minimum.
Solo? Old man?
Insane.
Chest heavy.
Irritation boiled.
Ignore it?
Passing acquaintance.
Few mining tips—that's it.
Dead? Bad luck. Alive? He'll crawl out.
Feet wouldn't move.
Without him, I'd wasted days fumbling early.
His help fast-tracked me—Viper down, here now.
'Can't live with this debt hanging.'
Slime and bullshit later—clear this first.
"Granddaughter's name? Where's she live?"
"Huh? Uh, Lisa? End of 5th district shacks, half-collapsed house..."
"Got it."
Mapped the spot mentally.
Was debating 2 anyway.
Now with purpose.
Slime glued to crystal?
Won't budge.
Handle later.
People don't wait.
Three days gone—slim odds alive.
Then recover the body.
'Stay alive, you old coot.'
Alive? Drag by the collar.
Dead? Fish out corpse.
Worst? Grab relics for the girl.
That squares the mining lesson debt.