One Inch Tall, One Power a Day - First Blood Bounty
System notifications flashed in the center of her vision:
Solo First Blood Recorded: Tier-1 Elite Arachnid (Orb-Weaver).
Global/Regional Milestone Achieved.
Claim bounty rewards now?
“Claim,” Wren rasped, her throat dry.
A velvet-lined bronze tray materialized in midair and dropped into her lap, scattering a shower of small, crystalline vials and parchment scrolls across her legs.
Random Attribute Elixir x2
Stature Expansion Elixir x1
Primary Atmospheric Hydro-Core (Condensation Pearl) x1
Schematic: Tier-1 Automated Water Condenser
Primary Haversack Expansion Card (+50 Slots) x1
Wren picked up the first two attribute vials—no larger than a pinky finger, filled with a clear liquid. She uncorked them both with her teeth and tossed them back in rapid succession.
The liquid felt like a cool rush down her esophagus, spreading with the slow numbness of a mild novocaine dose. She pulled up her character overview:
Strength: 0.7 (Base 0.7. Rating: Pathetic fledgling. You are still technically weaker than an average garden snail, but you can now lift your own needle without crying.) Agility: 0.3
Endurance: 0.5 (Base 0.1 + 0.4. Both vials, it seemed, had rolled the same dull number.)
Vitality: 20 / 20 (Base 10 + 10)
Aetheric Reserve: 10 / 10“Snarky little piece of software, aren’t you?” she muttered at the text.
Next was the growth elixir—square vial, thick emerald syrup that effervesced with tiny bubbles. When she swallowed it, the taste hit her tongue like flat Mountain Dew mixed with chalk dust.
A dull warmth prickled through her shins and spine—the growing pains she used to get when she was twelve years old. She stood up, stomped her boots against the soil, and checked her height.
Current Stature: 65.0 mm (6.5 cm / +5.0 mm gain).
System Commentary: Congratulations on exceeding the height of a standard matchbook. Please continue striving to grow taller than a standard cremation urn.
Wren flipped a middle finger at the empty air, picked up the Haversack Expansion Card, and cracked the wax seal.
The card dissolved into blue light that washed over her haversack. Her available storage grid expanded from ten compartments to sixty: fifty standard slots capable of holding stacks of one hundred identical items, and five dedicated utility slots that allowed mixed, loose clutter without triggering the matrix rejection error.
“Now that,” she said, nodding, “is actually useful.”
She tapped the condenser schematic.
Schematic Learned: Primary Atmospheric Water Condenser. Requirements: Hydro-Core x1, Iron Ingot x20, Timber x20. Yield: 3.0 Liters of pure potable water per 24-hour cycle. Automatic atmospheric extraction.
She held the Hydro-Core in her palm—a glowing azure marble that felt cool to the touch, constantly sweating microscopic beads of moisture that evaporated before hitting the ground. Timber and iron ingots she had in abundance from yesterday’s cache breakdown.
Wren looked back up at the thistle stems. The Two-Star Cache was still suspended in the collapsed center of the web, wrapped in thick bands of golden silk. She climbed the telescopic ladder again, used her hand axe to slice through the elastic anchor cords, and rolled the heavy iron chest down onto the dirt. She also hacked down three square feet of the dense, sticky spider silk, wrapping it into a tight roll and shoving it into one of her newly unlocked utility slots.
Spider Silk Roll: High-tensile elastic fiber. Tensile strength: Level 2. Excellent for binding, snare crafting, and modular suspension.
She packed the two-star box into her haversack without opening it, loaded her gear back onto the scooter, and kicked off.
The Oracle voice spoke immediately as her wheels hit the dirt path:
Bearing forty degrees northeast. Distance: sixty meters. Terrain feature: Dry erosion fissure. Two One-Star Caches detected at the base. Depth: 0.5 meters. Biological hazard: Zero.
“On it,” Wren said.
She was moving with the tireless rhythm of a mill wheel now. The fear of the morning had burned away, replaced by the cold, compulsive greed of someone who had spent her entire life checking the balance at the ATM before buying groceries. In a world where a sudden cold snap could wipe out half the population in thirty minutes, you didn’t stop when you were tired; you stopped when there was no more space in the box.
She reached the erosion fissure ten minutes later—a vertical drop in the red clay, half a meter deep. She hooked the top rungs of her telescopic ladder over a sturdy plantain root at the edge, climbed down into the cool shadows of the gully, and scooped up the two black iron chests resting in the dry sand.
She climbed back up, retrieved the ladder, and pushed forward through the weeds.
By 5:30 PM, the sun was sinking behind the high tree line to the west, casting long, bloody spears of light across the crabgrass floor.
Wren rolled the scooter through the entrance curtain of her hollow oak base, locked the bottom flap with three heavy empty crates, and collapsed onto the tile floor with her back against the stairs. Her right calf was locked in a cramp, the muscle bunched into a knot under her suit.
She hauled her haul out of the haversack and lined the boxes up along the wall, cracking the One-Star crates using the needle:
High-Capacity Dry Cells x2
Iron Ingots x20
Electric Heating Blanket (Low-Voltage) x1
Folding Steel Tripod x1
Plush Fleece Throw Blanket x1
Self-Heating Braised Pork Meal Bricks x2
Dried Pineapple Rings x1 pouch
Industrial Polymer Scrap x3
Crushed River Stones x20
Wren set the items aside, took a slow, deep breath, and dragged the Two-Star Cache from the thistle patch into the center of the room. The iron on this box was thicker, the edges beveled with precision lines, and the two bronze stars in the corner glowed with a steady luminescence.
She positioned herself three feet back, wedged the needle tip into the primary lock, and popped the double latches.
Click-clack.
The lid swung open. Inside, resting on a bed of molded foam, sat a compact, tactical handcrossbow and a quiver of twenty steel-tipped micro-bolts.
Wren released a low whistle, her fingers reaching into the foam to lift the weapon.
One-Star Hand-Crossbow: Base Attack: +1.0 (Effective kinetic multiplier with bolts: +2.0). Guidance Matrix: 100% trajectory correction within 1.0 meter range; 50% accuracy at 3.0 meters. Magazine: Single-bolt manual draw with quick-release stirrup.
The stock was molded from matte-black polymer, textured for a solid two-handed grip, with a cold steel bow limb and a braided wire string. Ten inches long overall—to Wren, a heavy carbine
with the stopping power of a small rifle. She slotted a bolt into the grooved rail, felt the mechanical catch lock with a crisp snap, and aimed at a knot in the bark wall.
“Ranged firepower,” she said under her breath, a grim smile tugging at the corners of her mouth. “No more stabbing things with a sewing needle.”
She lowered the crossbow, set it carefully on the stairs, and turned her attention to the empty floor space near the rear wall. It was time to build the water source.
She opened her crafting interface, dumped twenty iron ingots, twenty scrap timbers, and the glowing azure Hydro-Core into the synthesis array, and pressed Construct .A flash of bright, silver-blue light illuminated the entire ground floor.
When the light faded, an elegant, three-legged cast-iron basin stood two feet tall against the wall. Suspended dead center above the bowl, floating in zero-gravity without wires or supports, was the azure Hydro-Core. A brass spigot jutted from the bottom of the basin, fitted with a standard quarter-turn lever.
Within ten seconds, a fine mist condensed out of the ambient air around the floating pearl.
Drip. Plip. Drip.
Clear droplets fell into the bottom of the basin with a steady, rhythmic cadence.
Wren held an empty cup under the spigot, cracked the valve, and watched fresh water fill the vessel. She drank it down—ice-cold, sweet, tasting entirely of mountain rain.
“Three liters a day,” she whispered under her breath. “No more begging in the trade chat.” Her stomach let out a fierce, grinding growl that echoed off the wooden ceiling.
She set up the folding steel tripod in the center of the floor, pulled out the cast-iron camp pot, and shaved a handful of dry wood splinters from a timber stake using her cleaver. She struck the magnesium igniter once. A shower of white-hot sparks showered into the tinder, catching immediately with a crackle of yellow flame.
She filled the pot with two cups of water from the new condenser, set it over the fire, and waited for the boil.
When the water rolled, she snapped a brick of instant ramen in half with the spine of her cleaver, dropped the noodles into the pot, dumped in the dehydrated vegetable packet, and added three thick, salty slices of processed luncheon meat from her stash.
The rich, savory aroma of beef broth, garlic, and toasted sesame oil filled the hollow oak, driving out the lingering smell of spider bile and damp earth.
Wren pulled the pot off the fire with her gloved hand, poured the steaming noodles into a clean paper bowl, and sat cross-legged on the floorboards with a pair of wooden chopsticks. She blew on the broth and took a long, hot slurp.
The sodium and fat hit with the force of a wave of heat.
The fire crackled, the water dripped steadily into the iron basin, and the new crossbow rested within reach of her hand.
She pulled up the trade board, slurped another mouthful of noodles, and watched the panic unfold across the screen.
Tomorrow was Day Three. The last day of starter immunity.
She chewed a slice of ham, swallowed the hot broth, and smiled into the steam.