Dane stood in amazement. He looked at his mana pool and saw that he had used only five percent to increase the gravity on the rock. He tried to use it on something heavier with varied success. He assumed that with the larger rocks, he couldn't increase the gravity to a point where it would break through the floor because of the increased surface area supporting the stones. He tried, but the bigger the object he attempted to raise the gravity on or the denser the material was, the higher the cost to his MP.

  He felt the energy in his body return. He had been experimenting with his new power so long that he slipped out of the mana-starved state without realizing it. He continued his practice well into the following day, feeling energized by his research.

  Dane glanced at his pickaxe. The long silver head was about a third less than when he had set out for mining, which felt like weeks ago. The once-pristine head was now a haggard and warped version of itself. It wouldn't make it much longer. He desperately needed a resupply; sure, he could make one using bone tools to fight monsters for a while, but he was sure that he had only received his prospector class because of the trusty spike on a stick he had grown accustomed to. Once again, he headed back in the familiar direction of the platform.

  He felt drawn to it; after all, it was the only reason he lived when the collapse turned his life into an inescapable nightmare. He looked for the platform with his mana eyes, but it was no longer there. He knew that this was the location it had been because he saw the trail of blood from his stumps that just stopped at this spot. Some of his blood must have pooled and formed a circle around where the platform had been.

  This was definitely where Dia had rewound his body. He traced his path to the location of the collapse. He noticed nothing but rubble and the decaying smell of what he assumed were his decomposing legs. He began to climb the boulders.

  He needed a new pickaxe and knew exactly where he could get one. He felt the rough handholds in his palms. He was accustomed to hard labor and had calluses built up from all the weapon practice he had done during the elves' occupation of West Texas.

  They weren't a good thing, he learned, while rock climbing. The tougher patches of skin began to pull off easily against the scaly stones. It became difficult to grasp the next spot for his hands, which were slick with sweat and blood. His body began to shake violently. He knew that he was level 30 and had no chance of being severely injured from a fall of this magnitude anymore.

  But telling his body, which still remembered plummeting through the air only to be met with the most excruciating crawl, seemed not to affect his nervous system. He forced himself through until he reached the hole, it was boarded up with planks. They moved easily, without even a nail securing the flimsy boards.

  "Yeah, that makes sense. Why would anyone want to ensure the safety of property?" he whispered with disgust.

  If they had cared to fasten the planks down with something, his emergence from the hole would have been much louder. But he couldn't help but feel the deep rage inside him bubble. He had given them everything. He was willing to put his life on the line in those wars, only for them to put him in this godforsaken hole. He worked his fingers to the bone and was treated more like a dog. And the only thing they did was cover him up with probably what amounted to one copper.

  He stood in the work spot that should have been familiar, but it felt more like a hazy fever dream. The miners had made significant progress and must have cleared everything for the next half mile. He could hear their picks hitting stone in the familiar clangs he had grown accustomed to just down the hall; it was strange that his senses had increased so much without having a perception stat.

  It used to be white noise, but now it felt so foreign. He knew that he had to run if he was going to make it back to camp before the silent soldiers marched the slaves back to the huts. He began to run with purpose and entered the camp just short of an hour after he set out.

  He saw his familiar slave hut and entered; they had all kept extra clothes and tools in case they broke. The slave smiths were overloaded and sometimes issued the wrong pickaxe to them, so they found it easier just to keep a backup from the other slaves who had died of exhaustion.

  They would have to get to them before the guardians noticed, because once they got their hands on the fallen ones, collecting anything from the bodies would be impossible. It was a horrible practice, but they all knew they had an expiration date and wouldn't take it personally to being looted.

  Some slaves preferred using axes with longer handles, while others sought a lighter head. Dane looked at old Jeremiah's pick; he always had the heaviest. It wasn't something he would like to use for a 14-hour day of hacking at the special mana stones. But he had learned firsthand that more material would benefit him, especially since he didn't want to make it a habit to sneak in and out of this death camp. He tied the pickaxe to his back; now he finally had a spare.

  The narrative has been taken without authorization; if you see it on Amazon, report the incident.

  He went to the initiates' barracks hoping to find some armor or a backpack. As much as the idea of a hobo sack attached to his pick appealed to the master prospector in him, he wanted to loot this camp for anything helpful.

  He saw silent guards leisurely playing cards just outside the door. This must be where they traded in and out for duty of watching the slaves. He hadn't realized that there would be so many guards hanging around camp, but that made sense because if they worked the employees as hard as the slaves, they would have a mutiny on their hands.

  Imperial Guard, lvl 22, HP 300, MP 0. This silent elf had cut his ears off and his tongue out to ensure that his life was one of servitude for the empire. Generally, these warriors were recruited from prisons and spared from their fate of being executed.

  Dane counted ten guards in total, each barely above level twenty. Looking at the familiar guards, he felt like a lion looking at defenseless lambs. He scanned for their weapons, but to his astonishment, they didn't have a single baton or plasma rifle. He saw it in the middle of the table: a single tactical knife. This wouldn't do. He had to show these elves that they should never assume they were safe in a dungeon.

  He applied mana to the knife until it shot through the table. One of the guards went under the table to inspect what had just happened. The rest must have been too drunk to notice. That was when he made his move. He launched himself towards the unsuspecting drunkards. In an overhead chop, he swung down with his trusty bone pickaxe. He increased the gravity on the head, and it easily split the helmet and met the soft grey matter just underneath.

  Before the rest of the guards could react, he lunged at another guard, swinging his fist as hard as he could at his chest. He saw a crimson circle faintly glowing under his armor, his caveman skill guiding him.

  As he hit, he felt some electronic box crush under his knuckles. The elf began to rip off his armor, and the others quickly began to flee. He took a note from his former correctional officers and took off. He looked back at the elf he had hit, and the mangled ear holes glared red with anger. He watched as an explosion engulfed half the barracks, and the ball of blue flame came rushing for him. He quickly opened a portal in front of him and teleported the blast away.

  Congratulations on defeating your first organized army of 45; you have reached level 33.

  Titanium skin: Your skin will become slightly imbued with the properties of titanium -50% damage taken from physical attacks, 50% resistance to heat and corrosive attacks. Be careful, though, as titanium is weak when shrinkage is induced by cold and is conductive to electricity. -50% resistance to cold and electricity.

  Meteorite: This is a direct upgrade to the skill Dash. Call upon all the energies from the cosmos. Your movement speed is increased. Who said that space affinity was only for portals? Uses 50 MP and has a duration of 2 minutes.

  True Strike: The rock beneath you crumbles under the might of your pickaxe. Now you don't need as many blows for the same result because the edge always goes where you want it.

  Analyze: This is a direct upgrade to identify.

  Dynamite: Wow, you know how to make things go boom. This had always been a crucial talent for prospectors to be able to blast a hole in the side of a mountain, with a 100% increase in explosions.

  It was a tough decision, but Dane took the meteorite skill. He knew he had been getting by with freeform magic, but he wanted to feel cosmic energy. He needed a way to boost his physicality, and he couldn't just rely on his enemy being drunk in the future with the amount of energy from that blast. If he hadn't launched a sneak attack, he would have probably ended up a smear on someone's boot.

  He stood alone in a crater from the explosion. When he punched the armor, he was sure he had destabilized some power source. The suits were great and would likely increase his stats due to the amount of energy they consumed. But he couldn't bring himself to put on that same armor.

  "What a glaring flaw," he said to himself, justifying his choice. He began to rummage around in the half of the still-intact side of the barracks and found what he was looking for.

  Training armor of the imperial son. This lightweight tactical armor was designed with a highly praised noble in mind. His father loved him very much and sent him to the dungeon in the hope that he would bring the family honor through combat. Increase resistance to stabbing attacks and a slight resistance to energy attacks.

  Bag of spatial holding. This tactical bag matched the black armor of the Imperial Guards and could hold up to 400 lbs of gear.

  He tried to pick up one of the mana rifles he saw in a gun cabinet.

  Error: The user is a physical class, not a marksman class.

  He wondered why he could freeform magic but couldn't pick up a weapon of the wrong class type. He decided to chalk it up to system fuckery.

  He put on a plain black shirt that he found in one of the wardrobes, along with some black cargo pants and combat boots that resembled the ones his dad used to wear, except these were made of dark brown leather instead of tan canvas. He put the training armor over his clothes, looking more like a soldier than a slave.

  He went into the last unopened door in the barracks and saw a massive portrait of that bastard commander who had beaten him half to death; he must have been an axe-wielder because he had the nicest boarding axe he had ever seen, no doubt a family heirloom that had been passed down from one dickhead elf to another.

  It was almost as if his pickaxe had a baby with a fireman's ax. He stored it in the bag out of spite and kept his trusty bone ax as his primary weapon. Maybe one day he would switch to a traditional axeman, but for now, he liked the stabbing damage his current melee weapon did.

  He went to the abandoned chow hall and loaded up with rations, taking from the nicer quarters reserved only for officers. He read a sign on the wall that said only officers could dine in fatigues, while the rest of the soldiers were required to wear mess hall uniforms. How typical that those in charge always feel above the rules and want special treatment.

  He would need to get back to his hole soon. He had some unfinished business with some moles.