We left the Vein Rest after only a short break.
My legs disagreed with this decision.
Strongly.
Unfortunately, my legs do not outrank Ryn.
Very few things do.
The journey through the remainder of the second floor was uneventful.
Which, inside a Treasure Vault, appears to be another way of saying:
"We avoided dying."
Several times we encountered lost groups.
Mostly beginners.
People carrying equipment that still looked new.
People consulting maps upside down.
People attempting to look confident.
The last one was usually the clearest warning sign.
Ryn stopped for all of them.
Every single one.
At first I thought she was simply being kind.
Which she was.
Technically.
She explained dangerous routes.
Marked safe corridors.
Pointed out monster territories.
Corrected obvious mistakes.
Even escorted several groups back toward the checkpoint personally.
The entire process looked remarkably generous.
Then I noticed something.
Every conversation eventually arrived at supplies.
Rope.
Bandages.
Water.
Chalk.
Extra oil.
Spare arrows.
Needles.
Linen.
And somehow—
by complete coincidence, I am sure—
those supplies happened to be available from Ryn's cart.
The grateful adventurers purchased them immediately.
Several even thanked her repeatedly.
One looked close to tears.
After watching this happen for the fifth time, I leaned closer.
Then whispered:
"Is this really worth the profit?"
Ryn didn't even look up from counting coins.
She whispered back immediately.
"Free marketing."
A pause.
"Future investment."
I stared at her.
For a moment.
A long moment.
Then I quietly faced forward and continued walking.
Sometimes I remember that Ryn grew up inside a merchant dynasty.
Moments like this are usually the reason.
Honestly.
I am a little afraid of her.
Not physically.
Financially.
Eventually we reached the third floor.
The Fractured Halls.
The moment we entered, I understood why it carried that name.
The entire floor felt broken.
Not ruined.
Broken.
As though something enormous had cracked and never healed properly.
The chamber stretched impossibly far.
Large enough to resemble a buried city.
The ceiling towered above us.
Twenty-five meters.
Perhaps thirty.
Massive fractures crossed every surface.
Pillars stood broken in half.
Ancient walls leaned at uncomfortable angles.
Headless statues watched from piles of rubble.
Collapsed ceilings created open spaces where crystal light spilled downward in red pools.
Everything felt old.
Not merely abandoned.
Forgotten.
The kind of place that once mattered deeply to someone.
Long enough ago that nobody remembers why.
The crystal growths here were larger than before.
Some emerged from walls like frozen lightning.
Others pierced the floor like red glass trees.
Their glow shifted constantly.
Making shadows move when nothing else did.
I found myself looking over my shoulder repeatedly.
Not because I saw anything.
Because the ruins felt as though they expected something.
The Fractured Rest stood near the center of the floor.
A large open area where countless groups had gathered.
Fires burned between ruined pillars.
Canvas shelters hung from shattered stone.
People rested.
Ate.
Slept.
Argued.
Studied maps.
And worried.
Mostly worried.
The atmosphere felt different from the Vein Rest.
The second floor had been tense.
The third floor felt committed.
Everyone here intended to go deeper.
Or had already returned from doing so.
The difference showed.
Some wore fresh bandages.
Others carried damaged equipment.
A few stared into campfires with expressions that suggested they had seen something they regretted understanding.
Naturally.
Ryn immediately became friendly.
Again.
Extraordinarily friendly.
To strangers.
She shared route information.
Offered advice.
Answered questions.
Lent maps.
Explained hazards.
And somehow transformed every conversation into a sales opportunity.
The expensive maps she purchased yesterday paid for themselves surprisingly quickly.
People copied routes.
Compared notes.
Then purchased rope.
Or chalk.
Or arrows.
Or bandages.
Or all four.
By evening nearly half the cart was empty.
I finally asked the obvious question.
"Don't we need these supplies for the fifth floor?"
Ryn looked at the remaining inventory.
Then shrugged.
"We need the cart empty before the fifth floor."
I blinked.
She continued.
"We fill it with artifacts there."
As though this was the most normal statement imaginable.
I have noticed something.
Whenever Ryn says things casually, those things are usually insane.
The checkpoint itself wasn't entirely peaceful.
Several monster attacks occurred throughout the day.
Nothing catastrophic.
Enough to keep everyone awake.
The first attackers were Shard Reavers.
Crystal wolves.
Fast.
Silent.
Their bodies looked carved from jagged red gemstones.
When they moved, fragments along their backs shifted with soft cracking sounds.
Like breaking glass.
One emerged from behind a collapsed wall.
Another from a shadowed corridor.
The response was immediate.
Hunters intercepted them before they reached the main camp.
The fight lasted less than a minute.
The sound remained longer.
Crystal shattering.
Steel striking stone.
The growling.
That strange vibrating growl.
Like glass trying to become angry.
Later we heard an Echo Maw.
I never saw it clearly.
Only the sound.
A deep croaking noise that rolled through the ruins.
The effect was unsettling.
Several conversations stopped immediately.
Everyone listened.
Waiting.
The sound came again.
Somewhere far away.
Then silence returned.
Nobody seemed eager to investigate.
I understood completely.
The final disturbance came from a Fracture Wurm.
Or rather—
multiple Fracture Wurms.
At least that is what I believed initially.
Then somebody explained it was only one.
The creature had divided itself.
Several sections emerged from beneath loose stone simultaneously.
Attacking from different directions.
Later they rejoined.
I strongly dislike this concept.
Certain creatures simply should not be allowed to separate into smaller versions of themselves.
It feels dishonest.
Despite these interruptions, the checkpoint endured.
People repaired damage.
Rebuilt barriers.
Resumed eating.
Continued planning.
The attacks felt less like emergencies.
More like weather.
An unpleasant part of daily life.
As I write this, the Fractured Rest glows quietly around me.
Firelight flickers across broken statues.
Crystal light paints everything red.
Nearby, Ryn is discussing routes with three different groups simultaneously.
One of them is purchasing arrows.
Another is purchasing rope.
The third is somehow purchasing both.
I suspect by the time we reach the fifth floor, Ryn will have converted half this Treasure Vault into customers.
The frightening part is that she probably planned this before we even entered.
Sometimes I wonder whether Treasure Vaults attract arcane energy.
Or whether they simply attract merchants.
The results seem surprisingly similar.
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