Thirstfall - Memory of a Returnee-Chapter 15: Knowledge is Currency

Approaching the gate feels like a funeral procession for my knees, but I keep moving.

I have exactly ten Scales left—the precise cost of the entry tax—but entering a city penniless is a death sentence.

​The two guards aren’t barking orders. They are statues, staring past me into the darkness where the Coral Ripper’s ashes are scattering. Their lanterns shake slightly in the wind. They saw the execution. They saw "a ragdoll" butcher a Rank D beast.

​As I drag my boots into the circle of light, the guard on the right finally blinks, snapping out of his trance.

He clears his throat loudly, forcing a mask of authority back onto his pale face, though his grip on the spear remains white-knuckled.

​"H-Halt," he says, his voice cracking before he steadies it. "Standard protocol. No ID, no entry. You... uh... need to pay the ten-Scale fee."

He tries to look imposing, but his eyes keep darting to the black blood dripping from my hands.

​I lean heavily on my katana’s sheath, meeting his nervous gaze with the tired patience of an engineer addressing a toddler.

"I can pay," I lie, "but if I were you, I’d be more worried about losing your job."

​I gesture to the spot where the Coral Ripper impacted the field, the air still rippling with static.

"That collision caused a harmonic tension microfissure in the barrier matrix. If you don’t reset the generator cycle in the next seven minutes, you’re going to blow a 5,000 Scale fuse."

​The guard pales, glancing at the control panel. Panic overrides his authority instantly.

He scrambles to the console, twisting a random key. The barrier flickers and stabilizes—a meaningless automated response, but to them, a miracle.

​"Stabilized," he breathes, looking relieved. But his partner, regaining a bit more courage now that the crisis is "averted," narrows his eyes.

"Hey. That mess is still your fault. You brought the beast here. You should pay."

​I offer a cold, sharp smile.

"My fault? Let’s test that theory with the Shift Supervisor. I’m sure he’d love to know you almost let the gate burn down because you were too busy extorting a veteran who just saved your perimeter."

​The last bit of defiance vanishes from their faces. The fear of paperwork—and of the man standing before them—is the ultimate silencer.

"No need for that," the guard mutters, stepping aside quickly. "Consider it a professional courtesy. Move along."

​I walk past them into the city lights without looking back. Inside, and solvent.

​The city doesn’t welcome me; it wheezes at me.

Passing the barrier feels like stepping inside a massive, dying iron lung. The air here is warmer than the Tundra but infinitely heavier, thick with the smell of rotting algae, unwashed bodies, and the omnipresent metallic tang of burnt OXI.

​Above me, a web of brass pipes runs along the jagged skyline of the buildings, hissing steam like leaking veins. They pump the lifeblood of the Safe Zone—purified air—into the wealthier districts. Down here, in the slums near the gate, we breathe the smog that drifts down from the upper levels.

​I walk through the mud-slicked cobblestones, ignoring the glares of the street vendors selling "fresh" rat skewers. Neon signs flicker in a sickly yellow, buzzing with the same erratic rhythm as my own pulse. I check the location.

​[Current Zone: Red Squid Slums]

[Zone Rank: E (Shallow)]

[Danger Level: Safe]

Safe... Ha...

​Most people here walk with a slight stoop—the universal posture of low OXI. They clutch their chests, counting every breath.

I see a group of Rank-Ds in shiny, polished armor laughing near a brothel.

Safe... Yeah... Amateurs...

Their armor joints are loose; they’re bleeding heat and losing OXI with every movement. They’ll be dead in a month.

​My stomach twists, a violent reminder that adrenaline isn’t food. My OXI gauge is sitting at 265, but my biological tank is running on fumes. I need calories, and I need them efficiently.

​I spot a hanging sign creaking in the wind: "The Rust Bucket."

​Perfect.

​I push through the heavy wooden doors. The tavern smells of stale algae beer and despair. It’s crowded with scavengers and low-level divers nursing their drinks, trying to forget that they have to go back out there tomorrow.

​I ignore the wobbly tables and head straight for the bar counter. The bartender is an old, chubby man with a friendly face, polishing a glass with a rag that has seen better days. He looks up as I approach.

​"Ale? Stew?"

​"Boiling water," I say, my voice raspy. "A bowl of it. Add a spoonful of rock salt and bone shavings if you have them."

​He blinks, his eyebrows shooting up. "Bone shavings? Usually, I throw that in the trash bin out back. You want... trash water?"

​"I want it boiling. And I want it now. I’ll pay one Scale."

​He shrugs, amusement dancing in his eyes. A Scale is a Scale. He takes my coin and leaves.

I lean back, feeling a moment of true peace for the first time since I arrived in Thirstfall.

The warmth of the tavern, the stillness of the bar—for half a second, I’m back at the kitchen table, watching Mom brew her terrible, cheap instant coffee while Lili draws circles on a dusty window fogged by her breath.

I wonder when I will be able to return home this time...

I blink it away. Peace is a trap here.

The bartender returns a minute later with a chipped ceramic bowl steaming with cloudy, salty water.

​I look at the bowl. It looks like dirty dishwater.

To me, it looks like a cheat code.

​I reach into my pocket and pull out my last nine Scales. They glow faintly blue in the dim light. Most idiots swallow these whole. They let their stomach acid slowly chip away at the shell, absorbing maybe 40% of the energy before shitting the rest out.

​A waste, for emergencies only.

​I wrap the Scales in a cloth napkin and use the pommel of my katana to crush them.

*Crunch. Crunch. Crunch.*

They shatter into a fine, glowing blue powder.

​I dump the powder into the boiling saltwater.

​The reaction is instant. The salt and calcium from the bone shavings act as a catalyst, breaking down the crystal lattice of the Scales. The water hisses, turning from gray to a vibrant, electric blue.

​"Oh ho?"

​The old bartender leans over the counter, his eyes twinkling. "I haven’t seen someone doing an OXI Drop since the First Expedition. Aren’t you a bit young for that kind of alchemy?"

​I offer a faint smile, stirring the electric mixture.

"Poverty makes you discover a world many ignore."

​The old man laughs, a hearty, satisfied sound. He slides the Scale I paid with back across the polished wood.

"Fair enough. Drinks are on the house for those who know the old ways."

​I nod, taking the Scale and depositing it back into my inventory.

[Hadal Notoriety +3]

[Notoriety Origin: Unknown]

Is he that important to give me fame? Well... first things first.

​I lift the bowl and down it in one go.

It tastes like drinking a lightning bolt mixed with seawater. It burns my throat, but as it hits my stomach, the energy explodes outward.

​[System Alert: OXI Absorption Optimized.]

[Efficiency: 98%]

[OXI: 265 -> 805 / 1,200]

​I exhale a cloud of blue steam. My hands stop shaking. The cold leaves my bones. That’s better.

Normal consumption would have given me 225 OXI. I just squeezed 540 out of the same pile of dust.

Knowledge is the only currency that matters.

​I lean back, feeling a moment of peace for the first time in ninety-six hours. I reach for my scabbard to adjust it against the stool.

​CRACK.

​The sound is small, but in my ears, it’s loud and worrying.

I freeze. Slowly, I lift the scabbard. The leather near the hilt has dissolved into a black sludge. I draw the blade.

Or what’s left of it.

​The Coral Ripper’s blood was acidic. I wiped it off, but I didn’t neutralize it. The cheap iron has been eaten away halfway down the blade. The tip falls off with a pathetic clink onto the tavern floor.

​I stare at the jagged, rusted piece of metal in my hand.

I don’t have my weapon anymore. I have one Scale in my bag. And it costs over two thousand to get into the Academy.

​I let out a low, dry laugh. The peace didn’t last long.

I look at the ventilation grate on the wall near the floor. It’s caked in a thick, disgusting blue grime. Most think it’s mold. But I know better. That’s crystallized OXI residue from the tavern’s filters.

​"Time to go to work," I whisper, standing up.

​I leave the broken sword on the counter. I won’t be needing garbage where I’m going.