The Gate Traveler

Mining was hard work!

I didn’t have a pick or anything, so I had to improvise with a medical bone chisel and the hammer I received as payment for healing. The bone chisel was small, and I broke two until I figured out how to use them without damaging them. I also broke a few emeralds until I learned how to maneuver around the stone to dislodge them. The dust was choking me, so I donned a surgical mask. After about an hour, my eyes stung—the oil lamp light was insufficient. After another two hours, my knees ached from kneeling—I started from the bottom—and my shoulder muscles hurt. Thank God for the Heal Muscle spell.

As I hit the rock, a surge of old anger bubbled up from deep inside me. Memories of growing up in foster care flooded back, memories I’d tried so hard to bury. Each strike of the chisel and hammer against the stone was like a release valve for the pent-up rage I had carried for years.

The first foster home wasn’t too bad, but I was only five and already knew I was unwanted. That is until the bully arrived. From that moment on, it was a nightmare of ER visits and looking over my shoulder. The second was worse. Mrs. Reynolds had a sharp tongue and a sharper hand. I remembered the sting of her slaps and the way she would lock me in the closet for hours when I dared to speak back. Hitting the rock, I pictured her face, her cruel, twisted smile, and I hit harder. The stone cracked, and I felt a small measure of satisfaction.

I worked for another hour until I needed a break. During this time, I mined an area larger than a square meter. Looking at the vast cavern, I estimated that, with my speed, it would take me at least a year to mine it.

Not good.

The next strike brought back memories of Mr. Turner, the foster father who’d initially seemed kind. He was a drunk, and his kindness turned to violence after a few drinks. I remembered the time he threw a bottle at me, cutting my forehead open. The chisel slipped in my hand as I thought of him, and I cursed, readjusting my grip. The bottle, the blood, the cold indifference in his eyes as he told me to clean it up—each memory fueled my strikes, and the rock yielded more easily.

Stretch was nowhere to be found, so I left the cave to look for him. I found him dozing near the cave entrance as the sun was setting. I called him in for dinner, fed us both, laid out the sleeping bag and blanket for Stretch, and lay there thinking about a faster solution.

Maybe there’s a light spell?

I facepalmed again—it was becoming my signature move, and I didn’t like what it said about me. Why hadn’t I thought of buying the butchering and skinning skills instead of looking for people to teach me?

I looked through the Spells list and found a few different light spells. After reading their descriptions, I chose a channeled spell that allowed me to change the light intensity as needed and control its placement. It cost two ability points instead of one, but the added control was worth the price.

46 ability points left.

I bought the skinning, butchering, and mining skills. Just in case, I looked through the Spells and Skills again to see if anything could help my looting, but there was still nothing.

Oh well, you can’t have everything.

43 ability points left.

The next day, mining was more manageable but still challenging. It turned out that even with the skill, it was still tricky if you didn’t have the right tools. At least I progressed faster, and the light spell was terrific. Stretch spent most of his time outside; he didn’t like to stay in the cave.

A claustrophobic dog?

The days blurred together as I mined, each strike of the chisel against the rock chipping away not just the stone but the anger inside me. I thought about the other foster kids—how they would form alliances and protect each other when they could, but ultimately, everyone was out for themselves, and I was an unwanted outcast from the start. The betrayals stung the most. I hit the rock with renewed force, the chisel biting deep.

As the days turned into weeks, I thought about one of the last homes where they placed me. The Petersons. They weren’t physically abusive, but they were neglectful in the worst way. I remembered coming home to an empty house with no food and no one to ask how my day was. They didn’t care if I came home or not. The loneliness of those years was a wound that never fully healed. The rock cracked under my relentless assault, and I allowed myself a small, grim smile. Each piece that fell away was a piece of the past I was letting go.

For the next few days, I kept working through my memories. Each hammer strike a cathartic release. I remembered Mrs. Kendall, who had me for a year when I was twelve. She was obsessed with cleanliness and would make me scrub floors with a toothbrush if she thought I wasn’t thorough enough. Every night, I went to bed with raw, aching hands. I channeled that pain into my mining, and each chunk of emerald felt like a victory over those memories.

The days blurred together, each one slightly less burdened by the past. I recalled Mr. Jenkins, who never hit me but used words as his weapons. He’d tear me down, calling me worthless, saying I’d never amount to anything. I hit the rock with a fury that left my muscles burning, but I kept going, not just for the emeralds but for the cleansing of my soul. With each blow, I felt lighter, like I was breaking free from the chains of my past. After one especially strong and angry strike, I felt like a bubble of hurt popped inside of me and dissipated. My whole being unclenched and a wave of intense relief washed over me.

For almost two weeks, I worked like that until I ran out of mana-rich meat. Even though I didn’t want to leave the cave yet, I also didn’t want to delay Stretch’s awakening. I took out one of my coolers, which was full of chicken, and channeled mana into it. My goal was to manage the mana flow to prevent the meat from “exploding,” only saturating it. It worked partially. The smaller pieces, like chicken breasts and wings, still “popped” and became minced chicken, but the whole chickens stayed whole. I felt very accomplished—it was progress, after all.

For another ten days, I worked until there were no stones I could reach. I took out my “operating table,” climbed on it, and continued to mine. I checked my profile to see the progress of my mining skill. It had progressed little, only to level 3, which was strange; I had mined a lot.

Maybe because I was improvising and not using the right tools?

It surprised me to see that my mana had risen another 600. It was now 6150/6900. Again, there was no rhyme or reason. I didn’t even get upset; there was no point. Some entity in the sky assigned random numbers whenever it felt like it. At least the number never went down, just up.

I continued for another three weeks until I couldn’t reach higher while standing on the table. Of course, I didn’t bring a ladder; why would I? For a minute or two, I thought about leaving the rest, but my greed had a tantrum while stomping its foot and wouldn’t let me.

I thought about it for a while and had an idea. I went outside, climbed down the mountain, and looked for trees with relatively narrow but tall trunks. It took a while; I wasn’t in a forest, so I had to search for trees. Finally, I found two long and narrow trunks. At least I bought hatchets from the camping store. Without them, it would have been impossible. In addition, I gathered sturdy branches and used the bone saw from the field dressing kit to cut them to approximately one meter. I received a hammer as payment for healing, which I used for mining, but I didn’t have any nails. I was feeling less self-conscious about the crazy amount of stuff I bought and beginning to realize that I hadn’t bought enough.

I should find a blacksmith or something and stock up on work tools and nails.

I laid the two trunks, arranged the branches as ladder steps, and tied them with rope—at least, I bought a lot of rope. Now, I had a tall ladder about 3.5-4 meters long. Carrying it up the mountain was very cumbersome, and I almost fell a few times, but I managed. As I made my way through the narrow passage, I had to push it in front of me. And when I reached the cavern, it was hard to maneuver with it because of the rock mounds resulting from my mining. Some maintenance was in order.

With an enormous trunk and a shovel in hand, I started loading the debris into the trunk. After ten minutes of work, I facepalmed and felt very embarrassed. I walked between the mounds and “stored” them. When the cave was relatively clean, I went outside and called for Stretch—I didn’t want to bury him by accident—walked away from the cave, and summoned all the dirt. I created a small avalanche when it all fell down the mountain, but when it settled at the bottom, it didn’t look like I did a lot of damage.

My face flamed red when I remembered the ladder I carried up the mountain. I didn’t need a mirror to know, and I fidgeted uncomfortably. Thank God there was no one to see. Otherwise, I’d have to leave Shimoor out of sheer shame.

I returned to the cavern and continued mining. It took me another five weeks to mine all the emeralds I could reach. Some stones were still higher, but my greed was quiet this time; it understood the complexity. I also had to saturate with mana another two meat coolers; Stretch ate a lot. I identified him to see his progress in the last three months.

“You are looking good, my friend.” He wagged his tail and licked my face.

I added mana to my light spell and walked around the cavern to see if I missed some accessible stones. I didn’t see any. Then I got an idea. I still had 6 stat points I didn’t know what to do with, so I added them to Luck.

I checked my mana—no change. As I thought, there was no rhyme or reason. I engaged the active Luck ability and looked around the cave again. Two areas “pinged” in my awareness. I marked one with a tent peg and began working on the other. I had to clear some rock and dirt, but then I reached another deposit of emeralds, which were even bigger. It took me another week to mine the two hidden pockets.

After I was done, I activated my Luck again and checked. Nothing pinged; even my Luck knew the stones up high were unreachable. Smart Luck. I snickered at the thought, collected all my stuff spread over the cavern, took the improvised ladder with me, just in case, and left the cave. In the last three months, I mined two enormous chests of emeralds and was feeling very rich.

It was midday outside, and being out longer was nice. I left the cave to relieve myself and to get a sense of the days, but other than that, I spent all my time inside. I climbed to the mountaintop again and sat down, enjoying the view. For such a long time, I focused on small areas all the time and felt like I was becoming cross-eyed. It was nice to expand my field of vision. I took my camera out and took some pictures.

By evening, I returned to the cave one last time, fed us both, and slept. The following day, we needed to “visit” the bison.