Surprisingly, we spent fifteen days inside the Catacombs.
I thought it had been ten.
Perhaps less.
Time becomes difficult to measure underground.
Without a sky, days stop feeling like days.
They become meals.
Conversations.
Moments of sleep.
Eventually all of them blur together.
Today I am mostly recovered.
Ryn forced me to visit a healer.
Several times.
According to her, "almost dying" is not a valid excuse to avoid medical attention.
My left side still hurts.
There is a bruise across my chest that looks impressively dramatic.
Otherwise I am fine.
I also told Old Shard what happened.
His reaction was immediate.
He grabbed me and refused to let go.
For a brief moment, I thought he was genuinely emotional.
Perhaps he was.
Then he informed me that he had nearly lost access to an S-Class Infinity Bag.
The emotional moment ended rather abruptly.
Afterward he examined the coin again.
Carefully.
Very carefully.
His conclusion remained unchanged.
Not an artifact.
Not magical.
Just an old coin.
A rare coin.
But still a coin.
Then he paused.
Looked at me.
Looked at the bent metal.
And admitted that perhaps it was a lucky coin after all.
At least for me.
I accepted this victory graciously.
Today I decided to explore Vaultreach.
Specifically its food.
And its drinks.
And any other questionable life choices available for purchase.
I have always believed the fastest way to understand a city is through indulgence.
Food.
Drink.
Celebration.
People hide many things.
Their kitchens usually reveal them.
Ryn warned me repeatedly.
I ignored her repeatedly.
After surviving a fatal trap, food seemed considerably less threatening.
This was a mistake.
The first thing I tried was Heartspike Broth.
A thick red soup made from Shard Reaver meat.
The bowl itself looked intimidating.
Dark red.
Steam rising in slow curls.
Pieces of meat floating beneath the surface.
Thin slices of crystal mushrooms caught the light and shimmered softly.
The smell reminded me of roasted meat and wet stone after rain.
The flavor was surprisingly rich.
Heavy.
Comforting.
Like something designed specifically for exhausted hunters.
I liked it immediately.
The second dish was Rusted Spike Skewers.
Large chunks of monster meat grilled over crystal fire.
The outside was crisp.
The inside remained juicy.
Red desert salt crackled between my teeth.
There was enough spice to make my eyes water.
Which several locals assured me was proof of quality.
I suspect this may be a regional conspiracy.
Then came Abyssal Vein Loaf.
I spent several minutes deciding whether it was bread.
Or a disguised lifeform.
The inside was pale red.
Far too red.
Bread should not resemble fresh meat.
Yet somehow it worked.
Slightly sweet.
Earthy.
Dense enough to function as construction material if necessary.
I purchased a second slice.
After that, Dustroot Fry.
Thin strips of fried red root.
Crunchy.
Salty.
Dangerously easy to eat.
I finished the entire plate while writing notes.
Which means I technically consumed an unknown quantity.
A scientific tragedy.
The drinks were equally memorable.
Redvein Ale looked like diluted blood.
This observation did not improve after tasting it.
Strong.
Earthy.
Slightly sweet.
The kind of drink that encourages terrible decisions.
I stopped after one cup.
A personal achievement.
Dustveil Brew was much safer.
At least initially.
A dark tea infused with desert leaves and crystal powder.
Tiny golden particles floated through the liquid.
Like captured sunlight.
The taste was bitter.
Then sweet.
Then bitter again.
I drank three cups.
This may have contributed to later events.
While wandering through the city I also learned several local traditions.
Many hunters were surprisingly willing to explain them.
Possibly because I kept buying food.
The first tradition is called The Spike Offering.
Before entering the Catacombs, hunters throw a handful of red sand into the Heartspike.
Then they offer a short prayer.
The belief is simple.
Feed the dungeon.
And perhaps it will not become angry.
Whether anyone truly believes this seems unclear.
Most people do it anyway.
The second tradition is The Return Feast.
This one I like very much.
When a team returns with a valuable artifact, they are expected to buy expensive meals and share them freely around the Rusty Spike Inn.
The explanation varies depending on who you ask.
Some say it spreads luck.
Others say it prevents jealousy.
One hunter claimed the dungeon itself becomes envious if people keep all their fortune.
I have no way to verify this.
But free food remains free food.
The final tradition is The Dust Toast.
Before drinking, people add a pinch of red dust into their cups.
A reminder that everyone here drinks from the same ground they dig.
The gesture is oddly beautiful.
A little sad.
A little stubborn.
Very Vaultreach.
This city revolves around greed.
Hope.
Luck.
Risk.
Yet beneath all of it, there is something strangely communal.
People compete constantly.
But they also celebrate together.
Eat together.
Drink together.
And keep returning to the same impossible hole in the ground.
I intended to write more.
Unfortunately that will not be possible.
Because my stomach hurts.
Again.
For the sixth time tonight.
Ryn warned me.
Repeatedly.
I am beginning to suspect she may have been correct.
A deeply unfortunate development.
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