Elias descended for breakfast, arriving just after his parents and grandparents had left for their morning obligations.
He enjoyed truffle eggs with salmon, exotic fruit drizzled in honey, and vibrant green juice.
Taking full advantage of the empty house, he propped his tablet against a carafe and began scrolling through the Rusted Ichor forums, the glowing screen his only companion at the table.
As he scrolled, a headline practically jumped off the screen, momentarily halting his spoon mid-air. Someone had already notched the world's first successful dungeon expedition.
"Really? So soon?"
Elias leaned in, his eyes darting across the text as he absorbed the details.
"I've never even heard of this region," he mused, scanning the blurry screenshots. "Apparently, he stumbled onto the entrance at level five, and the difficulty tiers... Easy, Normal, Hard, Hell, and Nightmare."He paused, tapping his chin.
According to the post, while the first three tiers were open to any challenger, the final two, Hell and Nightmare, remained tantalisingly out of reach, locked behind the requirement of conquering the difficulty immediately preceding them.
"Fascinating, they hit a wall at Hard mode," Elias noted with a faint, knowing smile. "They're claiming the challenge is immense, and the loot is transformative, though they're keeping the specifics under wraps. Smart move, no sense in tipping off the competition."
Elias scrolled deeper into the forums, bypassing the standard recruitment spam until a heated thread on ranged weaponry caught his eye: Guns vs. Bows.
In the world of Rusted Ichor, firearms were a fickle mistress. They required significant technical knowledge to maintain, and the cost of black-powder cartridges was a constant drain on the wallet. Worst of all was their reliability; a jammed cylinder or a fouled barrel mid-boss fight was a death sentence.
In contrast, the player base had fallen in love with the bow. It wasn't just about reliability; it was about the artistry. Many had already witnessed high-level mobs raining down specialised arrows, flaming shafts, lingering poisons, and the devastating Multi-Shot skill. To most players, a well-placed arrow felt like a surgical strike, far more appealing than the clumsy, unpredictable roar of a rifle that was just as likely to jam or explode in your hand as it was to hit the target.
After pushing away his plate, Elias checked the time. He still had a window of clarity before he rejoined the game, and the house felt too small for his racing thoughts. He stepped out through the tall French doors of the dining hall and into the gardens.
The estate's gardens reflected old-world aristocracy, with hedgerows forming private alcoves.
Elias walked along a gravel path, each stone perfectly white and uniform, toward the central fountain. There, a marble titan held a basin aloft, the water cascading down in a rhythmic chime that masked the distant hum of the city beyond the estate's high stone walls.
The birds chirped in a soft, melodic chorus, their playful flitting between the branches creating an atmosphere of curated peace. Within these walls, the air remained crisp and still, effectively suffocating the distant, mechanical cacophony of the city. To the birds, the garden was a sanctuary; to the city's grey sprawl, it was a final, stubborn refuge of green.
The air here smelled of damp earth and expensive jasmine. To the west lay the Sunken Garden, a sea of rare, frost-blue roses that the Kassler matriarchs had cultivated since the Victorian era.
Adrien opened his eyes, staring up at the familiar, water-stained ceiling of his room in the inn. The transition from the real world back into the game of Rusted Ichor always took a second to settle.
"Ah, you're finally awake."Adrien turned a deadpan stare toward the voice.
"Really? We're doing the cliché now?"
Vera cracked a grin, leaning against the doorframe. "I couldn't resist, you look funny when you're spawning in."
"How long have you been back?" Adrien asked, pushing himself up.
"A few seconds longer than you," she replied, her expression shifting to business. "Down to it, then, how much did we pull in from the loot and the bounties?"
"After paying the taxes, two thousand and eighteen Velar," Adrien recited, checking his interface, "and seventy-nine skarns."
A slow smile blossomed on Vera's face. "That's a hell of a haul. But we can't keep relying on luck and desperate bandits to hand over their scraps. We need a real kit."
"I concur," Adrien said, his mind already on the map they'd recovered. "The bandit drops are bottom-tier. If we're going to investigate that new sector, we need an upgrade. We're already lagging; someone hit level ten a few hours ago while we were offline."
Vera's smile faded into a sharp, competitive line. "Then we have to hurry."
After a quick breakfast to top off their hunger meters, the duo navigated the snow-covered streets to a shop tucked behind the tannery: Dragan's Sartorial & Surplus.
The bell above the door hadn't even finished chiming before Dragan's nose flared in recognition, "You two again, and don't tell me you've already shredded those fine clothes."
Adrien flashed a winning smile. "On the contrary, your work was so good we couldn't dream of going anywhere else for the heavy stuff."
Dragan finally looked up, his eyes narrowing. "What do you need?"
"Armour," Adrien said, his tone dropping the playfulness. "A proper set of armour."
Dragan moved with a gruff, practised efficiency, pulling various sets from the racks, light leathers, reinforced brigandines, and heavy, overlapping plates that looked like they could stop a charging bull.
"One more thing," Dragan grunted, planting his boots firmly as if bracing for a fight. He jabbed a thick, calloused finger toward Adrien's chest.
"This time, the price is the price. No 'missing buttons,' no insults about my weaving, and no threats about tavern gossip. It's fixed. If your purse is too light, then get lost before you waste my morning."
Adrien didn't flinch. Instead, he let out a short, airy laugh and threw his hands up in a mock gesture of surrender.
"Whoa, whoa, slow down, Dragan. Are we starting with threats already? If I recall, those 'insults' were just me being an honest critic. I saved you from the embarrassment of selling sub-par hems! You should be thanking me for the quality control, not blaming me for your bottom line."
Dragan's nostrils flared, his face already beginning that familiar climb toward the colour of a ripe beetroot. He opened his mouth to deliver a blistering retort, but the words died in his throat.
Vera had drifted away from the bickering, her boots silent on the dusty floorboards. Her gaze had been snared by a silhouette in the far corner.
The foundation of the kit was a heavy, knee-length greatcoat of reinforced wool, but it served as more than just a garment; it was a mounting point for a full suite of blackened steel. A rigid cuirass and plackart shielded the torso, flowing seamlessly into a fauld and cuisses that guarded the hips and thighs. The silhouette was rugged and utilitarian, crowded with leather pouches and gear loops fastened directly over the plates for quick access in the heat of a crawl.
At the neck, the gorget featured a stiff, leather-lined steel collar that rose sharply to the jawline, framing the face with a grim, defensive edge. This, combined with the multi-layered pauldron on the left shoulder, gave the suit a lopsided, intimidating charm.
The protection extended to the extremities with mechanical precision. Each forearm was encased in a sleek vambrace leading down to articulated gauntlets. Below, the heavy knee-high boots were nearly hidden beneath the overlapping steel of the greaves and sabatons, ensuring that from the jaw down to the toes, there was hardly a gap for a blade to find.
"Adrien, look at this," Vera said, gesturing toward a display.
"They have it in both male and female cuts."
Adrien stepped closer, his eyes tracing the steel and wool. He let out a low, genuine whistle of appreciation.
"I can see why the locals treat your name like a holy word, Dragan."
The smith snorted, though he didn't quite hide the phantom of a smirk.
"Stop the flattery. It's two hundred and eighteen Velar per set. Any custom fittings or adjustments will cost you extra."
Adrien didn't argue. He reached out, his gloved fingers brushing the reinforced seams of the greatcoat as his interface flickered to life.
━━━━━━━━━━━[ ITEM IDENTIFIED ]━━━━━━━━━━━
Name: Frontier Vanguard's Armour
Type: Medium Composite
Rarity: Uncommon
Level Requirement:8
--
[ Attributes ]
Physical Defence:75
Slashing Resistance: High
Piercing Resistance: Moderate
Weight:12.5 kg
--
[ Handling ]
Durability:310/310
Agility Modifier:-5%
Noise Level: Moderate
--
[ Utility ]
Load-Bearing Foundation:
Integrated loops allow for +4 Quick-Access Slots.
Items in these slots bypass Encumbrance penalties.
Hardened Gorget:
Reinforced steel collar provides +40% Critical Resistance against throat-targeted strikes.
--
[ Special ]
Asymmetric Guard:
The heavy left pauldron acts as a passive buckler, granting a chance to deflect light projectiles while in a defensive stance.
--
[ Effects ]
Rugged Utilitarian:
Environmental durability loss is reduced by 25%.
--
"Two hundred and eighteen," Dragan repeated, crossing his massive arms over his chest. "And not a single Skarn less."
Adrien turned away from the armour, a dazzling, disarming smile plastered on his face. "You know, Dragan, the moment I stepped into this borough, I knew your forge was the only one that mattered."
"I said... not a Skarn..." the proprietor grumbled, though his posture softened.
"The detail is just exquisite," Adrien continued, his voice dropping into a tone of hushed reverence. "The last time we wore your work, even the Baroness took notice. She was quite impressed by the... silhouette."
Dragan blinked, his face flushing a dull red beneath the soot, "Nonsense. Why would a Baroness care about my—"
Vera stepped in perfectly, her voice smooth and convincing. "Oh, she certainly did. We wore your travel gear to our audience with her. If you don't believe us, go ask the town square; plenty of people saw us heading to the manor in your handiwork."
Adrien let out a long, dramatic sigh. "Incredible. Simply incredible craftsmanship. It's a masterpiece, really. It makes sense that you'd ask such a high price for art of this calibre. Truly, the proprietress of our inn didn't do you justice when she called this shop a 'hidden gem.'"
Dragan cleared his throat, looking everywhere but at the two of them. "Well... I suppose if it's for a client of the Baroness..."
"Before we settle up," Adrien added, leaning in slightly, "we'll need a few minor adjustments. And we're in the market for some professional-grade backpacks. Only if they're up to your usual standard, of course."
The duo finished their business at the tailor's, paying a total of four hundred and sixty Velar. Between their relentless flattery and the promise of future business, they had not only secured a discount on the backpacks and armour but convinced Dragan to waive the fitting fees entirely.
Before heading to the main event, they swung by a local general store. There, they stocked up on essential survival gear: two soul-anchor bedrolls, a sleek flint-wheel lighter, and several hanks of sturdy, reinforced rope. With their packs noticeably heavier, they finally made their way toward the specialised shop Dragan had recommended.
As they stepped through the heavy oak door, the scent of gun oil and cold steel met them, and a notification window flickered into view.
━━━━━━━━━━━[ LOCATION DISCOVERED ]━━━━━━━━━━━
Name: The Iron Sights & Edge
Proprietor: Vukan "Gvozdeno-Oko" Vane
Speciality: Firearms, Military Blades & other related items
━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━