Perilous Return

Thalia crouched low in the dense fern undergrowth, her breath caught behind her teeth. With only one point of Energy left in her core, lingering anywhere near the giant thistle stalk was pure suicide. She took the three-foot severed branch in both hands, braced her knee against the middle, and snapped the thick wood into three manageable lengths. Moving fast, she bound the segments with nylon cord and shoved them deep into the reinforced base of her backpack. She yanked the heavy zipper shut, sealing the rich herbal fragrance inside the lined fabric.

The damp earth beneath her boots shuddered.

A cacophony of frantic footsteps thudded along the dirt track. Parting two serrated weed leaves with her gloved fingers, Thalia peered out into the gray mist. A ragged mob of scavengers in torn canvas coats scrambled toward the clearing she had just left behind. Hollow eyes, sunken cheeks, and rusted iron scrap bars held high in starved grips. They smelled the ozone discharge of the harvest skill and surged ahead like rabid dogs chasing table scraps.

Thalia did not move an inch. She pressed her belly against the cold moss, tucking her elbows against her ribs until the chaotic stamps faded into the distance.

Eight hard years on the borderlands had taught her one golden rule: never follow the crowd, and never linger where the desperate gather. In a place where starving hands fought over rancid roots, curiosity got you stripped naked and left for the vultures.

When the clearing fell dead silent, Thalia slipped out from the ferns. She adjusted the twin straps of her pack and set off down the winding dirt path back toward Wilderness Camp 42, scanning every inch of tall bramble along the trail.

Her caution saved her life.

As she rounded a sharp bend flanked by wild briars, a gaunt, skeletal hand shot out from the tangled thorns. Filthy fingers with split, jagged nails clawed directly for the right shoulder strap of her backpack.

Thalia’s survival reflexes kicked in before her mind could process fear. She dropped her right shoulder, letting the strap slide down her arm, and spun hard on her left heel. In the same motion, her hand snatched the alloy dagger from her hip sheath. She drove the blade down with sharp precision.

The steel sank through the thief’s dirty wrist, pinning his forearm against a rotten log.

The scavenger let out a shrill scream, his mouth gaping to reveal missing teeth as dark blood welled around the blade. Before the attacker could reach for an iron spike with his other hand, Thalia wrenched the dagger free and drove the sole of her combat boot directly into his chest.

Ribs cracked beneath the blow. The emaciated man flew backward, crashing headfirst into a dense wall of needle-sharp thorn bushes. High-pitched shrieks echoed off the gray rock face as hundreds of rigid spines sank deep into his neck and back.

Thalia did not chase him down, nor did she linger to finish him off. Her support-type Harvesting Ability offered zero physical buffs, leaving her base stats barely higher than an ordinary laborer's. If this thief had two armed partners waiting fifty yards ahead, she was dead. She yanked her dropped strap up, settled the heavy pack against her spine, and broke into a dead sprint.

Ten minutes of flat-out running brought the gray concrete gates of Camp 42 into view.

Two perimeter auto-turrets swivelled on their mountings, their red laser sensors scanning her chest before clicking green. Thalia passed through the inner turnstiles, letting out a ragged sigh of relief as the heavy steel portcullis clanged down behind her.

She walked past the courtyard crowd, ignoring the usual hawkers and card players, and headed straight up the worn clay stairs of the residential tier. Unlocking the bolt to her rented cubicle, she stepped inside, threw the heavy deadbolt, and dropped her pack onto the bench.

Her protective suit was soaked through with sweat. She peeled off the rubberized canvas, shivering as the damp room air hit her skin. She had two choices with the thistle. She could wait for the weekend trade caravan to Ironwood Base, where central market rates were thirty percent higher. But the dirt roads between the camp and the central hub were crawling with raiders who hunted returning scavengers like fat sheep. On top of that, convoy transport tickets cost an arm and a leg.

She needed points immediately. Without mental recovery potions to replenish her reserves, her harvesting skill would sit idle, and without points, she could not buy attribute boosters to improve her survival odds.

She washed her face with cold basin water, pulled on a dry shirt, and buckled her dagger to her hip. Grabbing the heavy backpack, she headed down the stairwell to the camp trading exchange.

The hall was partitioned into private booths with bulletproof plexiglass counters, giving foragers a bare shred of privacy from prying eyes. Thalia took a seat at window four, pulling the sliding privacy curtain shut behind her.

On the other side of the glass sat a young clerk with tired eyes and grease-stained cuffs.

Thalia unzipped the top pocket of her pack and slid nine neat bundles of green shepherd's purse through the exchange slot. Each bundle was tied with clean dried twine, exactly one pound apiece.

The clerk blinked at the pristine heap. Foragers usually brought in trampled, bruised leaves coated in grit. These greens looked like they had been plucked from an indoor greenhouse. He raised an optical wand, scanning the emerald leaves for radiation signatures, then pinched off a leaf tip to check the texture between his fingers.

"You hit a lucky patch," the clerk muttered, setting the bundles on the internal scale. "Tender greens without woody stems are impossible to find this time of year. Contamination Value registers at seventy-four. Moderate contamination grade. We take these at ten points per pound."

Thalia frowned slightly. "The main base pays fifteen points a pound for moderate greens, and twelve points for trash grade. Why are you cutting thirty percent here?"

"Base price is base price," the clerk said, his voice flat. "Out here, our nutrition bars sell for eighteen points each. You want points right now, or do you want to pay caravan fare to haul weeds to the city?"

Thalia waved her hand dismissively. "Credit the ninety points."

The clerk tapped his terminal. Thalia tapped her wrist against the brass sensor pad on the counter, and her smartwatch chimed. Ninety points entered her ledger.

Thalia reached deep into the main compartment of her bag. She pulled out the three bound segments of the jade-green thistle branch, placing them side by side on the heavy steel scale.

"I have a Level 4 mutant thistle branch here," she said, her voice steady. "Run the scan and give me a proper valuation."

The clerk froze. His eyes bulged as his gaze drifted over the emerald bark and the translucent spines that looked like polished quartz. He snatched his handheld probe and pressed the copper prongs into the wood.

The digital readout flashed red, then amber, before settling on a clear white readout.

"Level 4... mutant thistle," the clerk breathed, his voice cracking. "Weight is 2,252 grams. Contamination Value is... sixty-eight?"

He jumped up from his swivel chair and waved a hand out the open office door behind him. "Senior Miller! Get the secondary reader in here, fast!"

An older appraiser rushed over, squinting through a thick magnifying lens at the smooth, jade texture of the cut stem. He adjusted the calibration knob and touched the probe down a second time. The digital readout flashed the exact same number: 68. Purity that high on a Level 4 herb was virtually unheard of outside laboratory farms.

The older man nodded once and slipped back into the office.

The young clerk swallowed hard. He straightened his collar and tried to put on an indifferent, bored face. "Look, the camp has set caps for wild flora. Level 4 mutant brush sells at two points per gram. Your branch is 2,252 grams. That comes out to 4,504 points. Do you want to process the trade?"

Thalia let out a cold laugh. She leaned forward, snatched all three pieces of the thistle off the scale, and threw them back into her backpack. She yanked the zipper shut and turned on her heel toward the exit.

"Wait! Hold on a second!"

A thickset man wearing a blue supervisor coat rushed out from the back management door, cutting across the aisle to block her path. He had a round, jovial face, but his eyes were sharp.

"Ma'am, please, don't run off in anger," the supervisor said, lifting both hands in a pacifying gesture. "Sit back down at the counter. Everything can be discussed if you're not satisfied with the quote."

Thalia stood her ground, her fingers resting lightly on the pommel of her dagger. "What is there to discuss? My thistle branch holds a contamination level of sixty-eight. That sits squarely in the low-to-moderate medicinal grade. Your clerk just tried to buy it using the scrap rate for toxic weed waste above four hundred contamination. You think because I walked in alone, I don't know the valuation tables?"

The supervisor turned to the young clerk and smacked the counter with his open hand. "Deacon, you fool! You're quoting waste-bin scrap brackets to an experienced gatherer? Get out of that chair and go clean the storehouse shelves!"

The young clerk turned red, bowed his head, and scurried through the rear door.

The supervisor sat down in the vacated booth, sliding the glass window open wider. He flashed a warm smile. "My name is Dexter. Deacon is new to the desk and doesn't know his head from his feet yet. A Level 4 thistle with a contamination score of sixty-eight can be distilled into high-grade hemostatic serum without industrial washing. It's rare stock. I'll offer you six points per gram flat. How does that sound to you?"

Thalia remained silent, calculating the numbers in her head.

Dexter leaned forward, speaking in a hushed, earnest tone. "Six points per gram matches the internal requisition price at Ironwood Base. You won't get a single point more even if you risk the caravan ride through bandit territory. I'm taking this in under our priority medical quota."

Thalia held his gaze for three seconds before unzipping her pack. She pulled out the three segments of the thistle and set them down on the metal counter once more. "We have a deal."

Dexter smiled, his hands moving quickly across his terminal. He verified the weight of 2,252 grams, locked in the six-point rate, and held out the magnetic reader.

Thalia brought her wrist down against the scanner.

*Beep.*

The screen on her smartwatch lit up with crisp green digits. Her balance jumped by 13,512 points, bringing her total balance to 13,602.

Thalia stared at the five-digit figure, her fingers trembling slightly against her thigh. A surge of wild excitement shot through her veins. A single snapped branch had earned her more than an entire hunting team pulled in after a month of risking their lives in the toxic zone. If just one branch was worth thirteen thousand points, harvesting a whole specimen in the future would make her rich beyond her wildest dreams.