The mineshaft breathed.
That was the first thought that crossed Eryx's mind as he stepped fully inside.
Not literally—there were no lungs hidden in the wood and stone—but the air moved in a way that felt alive. Dust drifted slowly through shafts of dim light leaking down from cracks above, glowing faintly where glowstone fragments still clung to the ceiling like dying stars.
Rails creaked under his boots.
Somewhere deeper in the dark, something skittered.
Eryx tightened his grip on his pickaxe and exhaled slowly.
"Alright," he muttered. "Let's not do anything stupid."
The Ghastling hovered close, its glow muted, alert. It didn't chatter here. Didn't giggle. It watched.
They always watched underground.
The first Cave Spider dropped from the ceiling without warning.
It landed hard, legs splayed, venomous fangs glistening. Smaller than normal spiders, faster, meaner. Its body flickered with an unnatural blue sheen as it hissed.
Eryx barely dodged, rolling to the side as it snapped where his throat had been.
"Easy!" he shouted, more instinct than strategy.
The Ghastling fired a tiny fireball—not enough to kill, just enough to stagger. The spider skidded, screeching, legs scraping against stone.
Eryx didn't strike.
He reached into the pouch at his waist and pulled out emerald fragments.
The spider froze.
Its head tilted. Its mandibles clicked, confused.
Emeralds mattered.
They always did.
Villagers built their lives around them. Foxes hid them obsessively, building entire dens around small stashes. Even wolves reacted differently to their presence, less aggressive, more… attentive.
Emeralds weren't just currency.
They were meaning.
Eryx tossed a fragment gently forward.
The spider lunged—then stopped inches from it.
Its legs trembled.
Slowly, cautiously, it lowered its body and touched the emerald with one fang.
The glow spread.
The spider shuddered, then settled, blue venom dimming to a dull glow.
"Good," Eryx whispered.
The bond didn't feel like domination.
It felt like recognition.
As soon as the connection settled, the spider dissolved into green light—drawn inward, compacted, and gone.
Not dead.
Stored.
Eryx exhaled, shoulders relaxing slightly.
His Beast Space wasn't something he'd asked for. It had simply… existed. A place where tamed creatures went, safe, preserved, resting until called upon.
Like his inventory.
Only alive.
The second spider didn't accept so easily.
It attacked again, venom splashing across emerald armor. The pain bit deep, sharp and burning.
How did it get through? Well, the Emerald Armor was only a coat of sorts, he wasn't going to just wear clunky 'mideaval' like armor.
Also the Armor recipes weren't limited to them, you could also use another crafting recipe that required some form of Shirt.
Eryx gritted his teeth and smashed the spawner behind it, the cage-like structure cracking and collapsing into useless fragments.
The spider shrieked—then faltered.
Emerald.
Recognition.
Storage.
He slumped against the wall afterward, breathing hard.
"No more," he muttered. "That's enough for now."
The Ghastling drifted closer, nudging his shoulder gently.
"I'm fine," he said automatically.
He wasn't sure if he was lying.
---
As he moved deeper, he found signs that unsettled him far more than monsters ever could.
Collapsed tunnels.
Rails twisted and bent like they'd been torn apart rather than rusted.
And bodies.
Not spawned.
Trapped.
Zombies wedged beneath stone slabs, missing arms, torsos half-buried in gravel. Skeletons fused into walls, ribs embedded in rock, bows snapped and useless.
They didn't wander.
They suffered.
Eryx stood at the edge of a pit, staring down at a cluster of them piled together like discarded tools.
"…You don't respawn," he whispered.
The realization settled cold in his chest.
He could die.
He could scream.
He could come back.
They couldn't.
And he knew—he knew—what they were.
Ancient Builders.
He'd read the diary during his first nights here, huddled in his house while something massive roared far away.
They'd built everything.
The villages.
The rails.
The portals.
They weren't monsters.
They were people.
Or close enough.
Something had gone wrong. Something catastrophic. And now their remnants wandered endlessly, broken, incomplete.
"Mobs don't spawn," Eryx murmured. "They're… left behind."
The Ghastling floated closer, its glow dim, subdued.
Eryx turned away.
He couldn't help them.
Not yet.
---
The library was deeper in.
He almost missed it—bookshelves half-buried, wood rotted but intact enough to stand. Cobwebs clung thickly to the corners, dust heavy in the air.
Eryx stepped inside reverently.
Books were rare.
Knowledge was rarer.
He took what mattered.
Volumes on mob behavior. Disease transmission. Anatomy diagrams that made his stomach churn. Notes on energy flows, corruption, decay.
And history.
He hesitated there.
He didn't want to read it.
But he took it anyway.
You couldn't fix what you refused to understand.
As he packed the last book away, the Ghastling made a soft sound.
Not a chirp.
A mew.
Eryx froze.
It tugged gently at his sleeve, pulling him toward a side corridor he hadn't noticed before.
"Alright," he said quietly. "Show me."
The tunnel opened into a chamber scorched black.
Stone was melted. Rails warped beyond recognition.
And at the center—
A frame.
Broken.
Magic seemed to materialize a little here, faintly humming, dust where glowstone should have been.
An Aether Portal.
Or what was left of one.
Eryx stared.
"…So that's where you went," he whispered.
The Ghastling floated close, eyes reflecting the dead frame.
The glowstone was gone.
Reduced to dust.
The way home… broken.
Eryx swallowed.
Five days weren't over yet.
But something had just changed.