The air off the river smelled of diesel exhaust, rusted cranes, and rotting fish heads from the docks.
Fin stood in the registration line outside the old freezing works, holding a rented pack-frame in both hands.
The D-rank gate hovered thirty meters above the cracked asphalt, spinning slowly like a whirlpool of frosted blue glass.
Around the staging plaza, three hundred licensed hunters checked their gear while trucks unloaded supply crates.
He adjusted the straps, calculating the daily porter wage against his extended Monday rent deadline in his head.
’Three thousand credits for eight hours of hauling crates,’ he thought, testing the frame’s balance. ’That pays the rent... buys ten kilograms of real beef for Jolly... leaves five hundred credits for emergency savings.’
A stout man with a chipped front tooth and a dented shield walked over, waving a calloused hand.
"Hey, kid, you looking for a party slot?" The man asked, chewing a dried tobacco leaf. "We need a pack mule for our rear line."
Two other hunters walked up behind him, wearing mismatched armor held together by copper wire and zip-ties.
One was a twitchy rogue with two bone-handled daggers, while the other was a skinny mage carrying a burned staff.
"I’m registered under the open support waiver," he replied, showing a porter waiver bearing his memorized intake number. "Name is Fin."
"I’m Bram," the shield warrior introduced himself, slapping the pack-frame with a broad palm. "This twitching ferret here is Jax... the guy smelling like burned hair is Corin... we call ourselves the Iron Dogs."
"We’re solid F-rank veterans," Jax declared proudly, spinning his daggers with rapid twitches of his fingers. "Ten gate clearances without a single casualty."
"Nine clearances," Corin corrected in a raspy voice, adjusting his faded robe. "The goblin cave in District Seven doesn’t count because we ran away."
"Running away with all our teeth intact counts as a tactical victory," Bram argued, ushering him toward the gate entrance. "Stick close to my back plate, kid... don’t drop the provisions... let the professionals handle the rough stuff."
He followed the trio through the spatial distortion, his vision blurring as the world shifted to frozen stone.
The interior of the gate resembled a meatpacking warehouse, stretched across two kilometers of frozen slaughtering halls.
Rows of meat hooks hung from overhead conveyor rails, coated in three inches of translucent frost.
The temperature plummeted twenty degrees instantly, turning their breath into white plumes against the dim light.
Bram loaded four sixty-kilogram provision crates onto his pack-frame, grunting with exertion as he fastened the cords.
"There you go, pack mule," Bram said, wiping sweat from his forehead with a glove. "If the weight gets too bad, shout before your knees buckle."
He felt the two hundred and forty kilograms of rations settle against his spine.
With his augmented Strength stat, the two-hundred-and-forty-kilo load felt like a school backpack filled with paperback novels.
He deliberately let his knees wobble for half a second, putting on a convincing show of rookie strain.
"I can manage, Mr. Bram," he groaned through gritted teeth, wiping fake sweat from his eyebrow. "Just lead the way."
’Sandbagging is harder than actual fighting,’ he thought, stepping carefully across the icy floor behind the frontline brigade. ’If I walk too fast, they’ll start asking questions about my paperwork.’
They advanced down the central butchery lane, their footsteps crunching softly over layers of frozen runoff.
A guttural roar echoed from the hanging carcass racks ahead, vibrating through the overhead rails.
Three Frost Orcs emerged from behind a row of refrigeration units, their blue skin covered in white fur.
Each monster stood two meters tall, armed with chipped bone cleavers and jagged spears.
"Form the wedge!" Bram yelled, slamming the rim of his shield down onto the frost-coated floor. "Corin, prep the spark... Jax, take the left flank!"
The lead Frost Orc charged forward with long strides, swinging its cleaver in a vicious downward diagonal.
Bram braced his feet against the ice, catching the crushing blow directly on the center ridge of his shield.
The metallic impact rang through the room, sending white shockwaves rippling across the frosted ceiling tiles.
"Nngh!" Bram grunted, his knees bending under the force of the strike. "This one hits harder than the briefing said!"
Jax darted around the monster’s left side, thrusting his bone daggers toward its exposed hamstring tendons.
The second orc swung its spear in a wide backhand, clipping Jax’s shoulder and sending him tumbling across the ice.
"Ow, shit!" Jax cursed, clutching his bruised collarbone while rolling behind a fallen freezer door.
Corin pointed his charred staff at the lead orc, chanting three rapid syllables under his raspy breath.
"Flame Dart!" Corin shouted, unleashing a fist-sized ball of red fire toward the monster’s face.
The spell struck the orc’s forehead, scorching its white eyebrows without penetrating the thick frozen skull.
The enraged beast turned its bloodshot eyes toward the frail mage, raising its rusted cleaver for a fatal charge.
He stood five paces behind the group, observing every muscle twitch with sharp clarity.
His enhanced Sense stat read the entire battlefield like a slow-motion training diagram on a chalkboard.
He stepped forward casually, adjusting the strap on his pack with his left thumb.
"Whoops, lost my footing on the ice!" He yelled in a panicked voice, stumbling directly into the charging monster’s path.
As he stumbled past the beast, his right hand darted out beneath the pack-frame.
He drove a salvage stake straight through the soft tendon behind the orc’s left knee.
The monster shrieked in agony as its leg collapsed inward, throwing its body forward into Bram’s waiting shield.
Bram seized the unexpected opportunity, driving the sharpened edge of his shield straight into the beast’s exposed throat.
"Die, you ugly bastard!" Bram roared, putting his full body weight behind the crushing bash.
The Frost Orc’s neck snapped with a loud crack, its blue body slumping lifelessly onto the frozen floor.
[ Party member slain monster: frost orc (E-Rank) ]
[ Kill-share EXP received: +18 EXP ]
[ EXP: 518 / 50,500 ]
Bram stood over the fallen monster, gasping for breath while staring at his bloody shield in shock.
"Did you see that?" Bram yelled excitedly, turning toward Jax and Corin with wide eyes. "My shield bash took its head clean off!"
"You got lucky, old man," Jax groaned, climbing back onto his feet while rubbing his bruised shoulder. "The thing slipped on the ice right into your edge."
"Luck is a skill that only champions possess," Bram proclaimed proudly, puffing his broad chest out. "Our pack mule’s clumsy stumble actually helped distract the beast... good job, kid!"
"Thank you, Mr. Bram," he answered meekly, hiding his bloodstained stake back inside his jacket pocket. "I’ll try not to trip next time."
’Eighteen points of free experience for shoving a knee,’ he thought, watching his golden EXP bar tick upward. ’Dungeon kill-share is the easiest money I’ve ever made in my life.’
The two surviving orcs fled between the racks as the floor shook beneath their feet.
Bram started after them, then stopped when the far bulkhead buckled toward the party.
An unmapped bulkhead at the far end of the butchery chamber began to shudder on its rusted hinges.
A plume of emerald green mist seeped through the seams, hissing softly as it melted the surrounding frost.
Corin gripped his staff with white knuckles, his face draining of all color as he stared at the green vapor.
"That mist isn’t supposed to be here," Corin whispered, his voice trembling in the freezing air. "Green vapor only appears in forced gate breaks..."
The bulkhead blew inward, tearing the door clean off its frame.