Ryn is sleeping beside me.
Deeply.
For once.
The strange blue light from the false sky leaks through the fabric of the tent and paints everything in muted colors.
The sand outside still moves.
The voices never completely stop.
Yet somehow she is asleep.
I find that reassuring.
I do not know how long she was gone.
Time has become increasingly difficult to measure since entering this place.
There is no sunrise.
No sunset.
No sky.
Only activity.
Endless activity.
Eventually Ryn returned and informed us that she had rented a tent.
Then she informed us that the cart was approximately sixty percent full.
This apparently was good news.
For Ryn.
For me, it meant something else.
We are staying.
For a while.
According to her, leaving with empty cargo space would be a waste.
I am beginning to suspect Ryn considers empty space a personal insult.
The tent itself is surprisingly comfortable.
Large enough for all three of us.
There are blankets.
Proper bedding.
Even a lantern.
After several days underground, it almost feels luxurious.
Earlier I told Ryn about my observations.
About Floor Five.
About the feeling that the place is trapping people.
Not physically.
Emotionally.
I explained the pattern.
The artifacts.
The monsters.
The constant cycle of hope.
Ryn listened.
Then laughed.
Laughed hard enough that several nearby hunters looked over.
Which was slightly irritating.
After recovering, she told me many hunters spend their entire lives here without ever realizing it.
That surprised me.
Then she said something stranger.
"That's why you're a Chronicler."
A pause.
"A DeLuna."
I stared at her.
"How do you know?"
Ryn looked genuinely confused.
"Of course I know."
As though it were obvious.
As though everyone knew.
Apparently they do not.
According to Ryn, this is exactly why she likes doing business here.
Because she understands what this place is doing.
And most people do not.
I thought about that for a long time.
The difference between seeing a trap and standing inside one.
The difference between understanding a machine and becoming part of it.
Then Ryn ruined the moment.
Because after all that philosophical discussion she simply shrugged.
"I don't force anyone."
"I just provide what people need."
"That's how merchants work."
I am still unsure whether that answer was wise or terrifying.
Possibly both.
She also told me that many hunters who enter the Heartspike Catacombs never progress beyond Floor Five.
That immediately raised another question.
How deep does it go?
Ryn answered very casually.
Seventy-one floors.
Currently.
Exploration is still ongoing.
I almost choked.
Seventy-one.
The number feels absurd.
The deeper parts might as well belong to another world.
According to one theory, Treasure Vaults continue expanding as exploration advances.
As though discovery itself creates more territory.
As though the dungeon retreats every time someone reaches its edge.
Nobody knows if that theory is true.
Which somehow makes it worse.
She also explained that Floor Five is generally considered the limit for civilians and unranked hunters.
Beyond this point, things become significantly more dangerous.
After explaining all of this, Ryn announced she needed rest before returning to purchase more artifacts.
Then she immediately fell asleep.
An impressive display of efficiency.
Not long afterward, Spathian appeared.
He approached quietly.
Very quietly.
This should have been my first warning.
He leaned close and whispered my name.
I followed him outside.
When I asked what was wrong, he revealed a large sack.
Filled entirely with spoons.
I wish I were exaggerating.
I am not.
A large sack.
Entirely.
Spoons.
Apparently he wanted to hide them.
Specifically from Ryn.
Because according to him, if she discovered the collection she would throw it away.
A reasonable concern.
He asked if he could store them inside my Infinity Bag.
As a favor.
He also promised compensation.
I accepted immediately.
Not because I wanted payment.
Because I wanted to know how many spoons one person could acquire before someone intervened.
Scientific curiosity remains important.
The collection now resides safely inside my bag.
I am uncertain whether this makes me an accomplice.
Or an archivist.
Possibly both.
Afterward he borrowed my shovel.
I had barely used it.
So I gave it to him.
He thanked me.
Then announced he would be gone for a little while.
That was quite some time ago.
He still has not returned.
Normally this would concern me.
But considering where we are, there are only two possibilities.
Either Spathian found another spoon.
Or the spoons found him.
At the moment, I consider both equally likely.
Ryn continues sleeping.
The false sky continues glowing.
The digging continues.
The shouting continues.
And somewhere beyond the tent walls, hundreds of people continue searching for one more artifact.
Just one more.
Only one.
Then another.
And another.
The strange thing is—
now that I understand the trap, it somehow feels more beautiful.
Not safer.
Not less dangerous.
Just easier to see.
Like watching waves after realizing the ocean was always trying to pull you farther from shore.
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