I stood by the window of the Hearthside Suite, looking out at the waking city. The morning sun hit the slate roofs, turning dew into diamonds. All I could see were invoices.

  Breakfast? Coin. Gear? Coin. Not dying of dysentery? Surprisingly expensive.

  Inside my chest, the new Core thrummed. We were stronger than we’d ever been. We were Awakened. We had a divine Art. And we were absolutely, completely insolvent.

  ‘It’s a logistics problem,’ Ronan’s voice chimed in, sounding far too chipper. ‘We have the engine. We just need the fuel.’

  ‘We need a miracle,’ I muttered. ‘Or a lottery ticket. Do they have lotteries here? Or do they just draw names for who gets eaten by the dragon?’

  ‘No,’ Ronan corrected, manic inspiration rising. ‘We don't need luck. We need an industry.’

  ‘Oh no.’

  ‘The river!’ Ronan projected. ‘Think about it! Clones don't tire. We go upstream, past the filth. We set up a dredging line! One digs. One filters. We strip-mine the riverbed! We’d be wealthy enough to build a hospital! Restore the Sunstrider estate!’

  I poured a glass of water, letting him rant. He was mentally designing a coat of arms for our new mining corporation.

  ‘Ronan,’ I said, taking a sip. ‘Stop building the orphanage and listen to me.’

  ‘You lack vision, Murphy.’

  ‘It’s a perfect death trap,’ I corrected. ‘Problem one: The Fence. Where do we take a kilo of gold dust? That reptilian guy? He cuts our throats. You can’t flood a black market without people asking where you got it.’

  Ronan fell silent. He understood war, not crime.

  ‘Problem two,’ I continued. ‘The Wilds. River Drakes. Moss-Bears. Our Core is Light Blue—barely an AA battery. That clone snaps like a twig. We’d be burning thirty per cent of our soul just to feed the wildlife.’

  I felt his grand vision deflate.

  ‘So… no gold mine?’

  ‘No gold mine. Not until we’re strong enough to defend it.’

  Long pause.

  ‘Then there’s only one viable option,’ he stated pragmatically. ‘The Adventurer’s Guild.’

  I leaned against the dresser. ‘The Guild?’

  ‘It makes sense. They pay for results. Legitimate work. No questions. We avoid the high-profile jobs. We take the slimes, the giant rats, the sewer maintenance. We become the janitors of the dungeon world.’

  I stopped pacing. Janitors. Nobody looks at the janitor.

  ‘Strictly solo?’

  ‘Just us, the clones, and the job.’

  I weighed it. Starvation, or becoming a registered, sewage-covered nobody.

  ‘Alright,’ I sighed. ‘The janitor strategy. But the moment someone asks questions, we bail.’

  ‘Agreed. We must protect the vessel.’

  ‘Good. Here’s the play,’ I projected. ‘You take the clone out. You’ve got the muscle memory. We stay here, keep the body safe, and meditate.’

  Stolen from its rightful author, this tale is not meant to be on Amazon; report any sightings.

  Silence.

  ‘Ronan?’

  ‘I can’t do that, Murphy.’

  ‘What do you mean? You’re a Paladin.’

  ‘I mean, I can’t create clones. I can’t access the Art. I’m a guest. I can’t seize the controls.’

  ‘But you controlled the meditation!’

  ‘That was internal. Triggering the Art takes a connection I don’t have.’

  ‘So I have to go out there and flail around while you offer commentary?’

  ‘I can guide you.’

  ‘No. I don't buy it. The rules have changed. You’re half the battery. Try. Just once.’

  ‘It’s not anxiety,’ he snapped. ‘It’s reality.’

  ‘Prove it.’

  He sighed. ‘Fine. But when it fails, you drop it.’

  I felt the pull. The air shimmered. A perfect copy of me stood at the foot of the bed.

  ‘Ronan? Did it work?’

  In my mind, I felt genuine shock from Ronan.

  ‘I… I felt the Art engage. But…’

  The clone blinked. It looked down at its hands. It rolled its shoulders.

  “Murphy,” the clone said aloud. Its voice was calm. Resonant. “It’s me.”

  ‘Holy shit,’ I breathed. ‘You’re actually doing it.’

  “Move,” I commanded.

  The Ronan-Clone picked up the jagged longsword. In his hands, it looked like a feather. Swish-Clack-Hiss.

  “Balance is atrocious,” the clone critiqued. “But… I can work with this.”

  I grinned. Solution found.

  “Dispel,” I ordered.

  CLANG. The sword dropped.

  I waited for the memory feedback. Nothing.

  ‘Ronan?’

  ‘I got it,’ Ronan replied. ‘The weight of the steel… I’ve got it all.’

  ‘Okay. So you can fight. But the mana cost. Thirty per cent upfront. If a Bear eats one, we lose the investment.’

  ‘I can trickle-charge while you fight.’

  ‘Not enough. We need to generate mana faster than we risk it.’

  I looked at the empty air. ‘Ronan. That clone has your mind. Why can’t it meditate?’

  Stunned pause. ‘Meditate? It burns energy to exist.’

  ‘But if it gathers faster than it burns... profit.’

  ‘Theoretically...’

  ‘Spin him up.’

  The Ronan-Clone appeared and sat in the lotus position. “The Solar Crucible.”

  Ten minutes later.

  ‘He’s stabilising,’ Ronan announced. ‘Twenty per cent profit per hour. It’s a trickle.’

  ‘A trickle adds up. Scale it. Create a Mana-Farm.’

  ‘The Hex-Grid,’ Ronan mused. ‘Infinite ammo. Do it.’

  We spent three hours filling the tank.

  ‘Dispel Clone One.’ POP. I gasped as the Core hit 100%.

  ‘Summon Clone Four.’

  I felt a sharp mental shear. Gah!

  ‘Hard cap,’ Ronan murmured. ‘Light Blue Core supports three threads. No more.’

  ‘So, rotation. Slot 1: Body. Slot 2: Battery. Slot 3 & 4: Fighters.’

  ‘The Battery Clone stays here. If a fighter pops, we dispel the Battery to refill instantly.’

  ‘Away Team roster: One Ronan-Clone. One Murphy-Clone. You stay here as Safety Officer.’

  I stared at the door. ‘I sit here? Watching you meditate?’

  ‘It’s efficient.’

  ‘Screw efficiency! I need input. If I’m stuck here, I’m sending a clone. I need the memory feedback. And you need a Radar.’

  ‘The Danger Sense.’

  ‘Exactly. I walk in front. I tell you where the ambush is.’

  Ronan hesitated. ‘Fine. Away Team: One Ronan, One Murphy.’

  ‘Spinning up.’

  We slipped into the alley. Twenty minutes to the sewers.

  ‘Commuting burns time,’ I grumbled.

  The sewers smelled of rot.

  Buzz.

  ‘Stop. Movement. Ceiling.’

  Ronan froze. A slime dropped. Splat. Clean kill.

  ‘Secure the core.’

  I stepped forward. SPLASH. My boot hit purple grease. CRACK. I slammed onto the stone. POP.

  I woke up on the bed.

  ‘Report,’ Ronan demanded.

  ‘I slipped,’ I admitted. ‘Slick-Weed.’

  ‘You... slipped?’

  ‘It was slippery! Summon the replacement.’

  I ran back. Ronan was cleaning his nails.

  ‘Shut up. Let’s farm.’

  We found acidic slimes.

  ‘Ambush! Right flank!’

  A slime lunged. I tried to dodge. Too slow. HISSS. Acid hit. POP.

  I woke up on the bed again.

  ‘Damn it! I’m useless in there.’

  ‘Summon the last one. One more death and we’re out.’

  I ran back. ‘I can’t dodge. I don’t have your reflexes.’

  ‘Then don’t dodge. Phase.’

  We found another slime. It sprayed. I focused. Flicker. The acid passed through my shoulder.

  ‘Got it.’

  The grind settled. Detect. Engage. Phase. Loot.

  With thirty minutes left, we found a Slime Coalescence.

  ‘A Coalescence,’ Ronan noted. ‘Most avoid these. Acid eats the loot instantly.’

  ‘Market inefficiency. Distract it.’

  Ronan charged. I flanked.

  ‘NOW!’

  Ronan struck the nucleus. The jelly hissed.

  ‘Inventory!’

  I pulled. SCHLUCK. The corpse vanished.

  ‘Sort.’

  Five pristine cores.

  ‘We’re rich,’ the Ronan-Clone agreed. ‘Dispel.’

  POP.

  I collapsed on the rug in my real body. I pulled out five glowing cores.

  ‘We did it. Now let’s pay the rent.’