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Good As Gold

CielPHive
7
chs / week
The average realized release rate over the past 30 days is 7 chs / week.
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Synopsis
Rhys Morren should have died on that bench, another nameless shadow swallowed by the city. Instead, he woke in a world of fantasy, alive, and holding something impossible. A gift that promises fortune, yet whispers of ruin. He knows the taste of hunger, the weight of desperation, the choices made when no good ones remain. Here, survival will demand more than luck. Every decision will draw eyes, earn enemies, and test what kind of man he’s willing to be. Gold can buy anything here, even the kind of man he’d want to become.
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Chapter 1 - A Poor Man's Rebirth

Rhys Morren died in silence.

No final breath, no one to hear his last words. Just another body slumped over a bench, his outline swallowed by the gray of dusk.

No one knew he hadn't eaten in days. That he'd been drinking from puddles and cracked pipes to trick his gut into quiet. That he'd sold every scrap he once owned, down to his name, just to last another day.

But the city didn't care.

It marched on, unbothered.

And so, in the end, did he. His body gave in, quietly, without resistance.

Cold. Starving. Forgotten.

Just before darkness claimed him, a final thought slipped through his parched lips, no louder than a whisper.

"Please… just once… I want money. I don't care how. I don't care anymore. I just want money. Money, mountains of it."

And then... Nothing.

.

.

.

Light.

But not the harsh, buzzing kind filtered through cracked windows and filthy blinds.

This was different.

It was warm and gentle.

It reached through closed lids and touched his face like morning had never been cruel.

Rhys opened his eyes slowly, uncertainly.

He lay on his back, the grass beneath him soft, almost wet with dew. He drew a breath, and for a brief moment, his lungs hurt. As if they had forgotten what clean air felt like.

The scent stung. Pure. Untouched.

Like drinking from a spring after crawling through dust.

His chest rose and fell, rapid. A pulse pounded in his ears.

He shut his eyes again, tightly.

This isn't real… I died. I remember dying. I can't… I shouldn't be here.

His fingers curled into the earth. He felt the blades of grass between them, sharp and cool against his skin. The wind brushed past his arms. It had weight.

His heart thudded violently.

He sat up with a jolt.

Gone were the high-rises. The smog, the noise, the city's constant breath of sweat and iron.

In their place were rolling hills, scattered trees, and a sky so vividly blue it seemed painted by a careful hand. The silence hung heavy. Not empty, but full. A kind of silence that made him feel too loud, too awake.

He staggered to his feet.

His legs obeyed. No trembling. No hunger gnawing at his bones.

He wasn't cold.

"…Where am I?" His voice left his throat like it belonged to someone else.

He slapped his cheek. First lightly. Then harder.

It stung.

His lungs filled again. The air remained crisp. Real.

"…Alright," he murmured. "So… not dead. Not high I hope. And not in the city."

He looked down.

His clothes had changed.

The frayed hoodie and paper-thin jeans were gone, replaced with a tunic the color of twilight, trimmed with threads of gold along the collar and cuffs. Brown trousers tucked into leather boots that felt molded to his feet. Everything smelled new. Clean.

It didn't make sense.

His breath grew short again. He turned in place, scanning the endless field, desperate for life. "Hello? Anyone there?"

No reply.

Just grass bending to the wind.

He reached down, scooped up a handful of soil, and rubbed it between his fingers. It was coarse. Dry. Grainy.

Too real…

The air carried the scent of wildflowers. Somewhere far off, birds chirped, and a stream whispered in the distance.

His knees threatened to buckle.

"What the hell is happening…"

Then it happened.

A warmth bloomed in the center of his right palm.

Not pain. Not fire. Something deeper. Pressure. A rising throb beneath the skin.

He flinched and opened his hand in alarm.

A single coin fell into his palm.

Gold. Untarnished. Solid.

He stared at it.

And then, without thinking, dropped it.

Clink.

It struck a stone, spun once, and disappeared into the grass.

His fingers trembled.

"…No. This has to be a dream…"

He clutched his temples, squeezing his eyes shut. The hallucination would break soon, surely.

Plink.

Another coin landed in his open hand.

He hadn't asked for it. Hadn't even tried.

The warmth returned.

Cautiously, he turned his hand, willed himself to focus.

Plink.

Another.

Plink.

And another.

He stood there, paralyzed, watching the impossible unfold, gold appearing from air, summoned by nothing more than thought.

"This… this isn't real…" he whispered.

But the coins disagreed.

His mind raced, memories of shop windows filled with gold watches, rings locked behind glass, displays meant for someone else. Always out of reach.

He had once pawned a fake family heirloom, a brass ring passed off as real. Five dollars. And pity.

But now…

He bent and picked up the first coin.

Heavy. Cold. Smooth.

He felt his lips twitch.

A sound left his throat, a broken laugh. Quiet. Disbelieving.

Then another.

Then came the smile.

Shaky and fragile.

"…I can make gold," he murmured.

The words slipped out, soft at first.

"I can make gold."

Then louder.

"I CAN MAKE GOLD!"

He stumbled back, hands splayed open.

The gold began to fall.

Plink. Plink. Plink.

His skin buzzed. Heat spread from his palms. Coins rolled down through the grass like droplets of light.

He raised both arms.

The flood began.

Plinkplinkplinkplink.

A downpour.

A storm of gold.

It pooled around his feet. Rolled past his boots. Caught the sunlight and threw it back in gleaming flashes.

His laughter turned wild.

He spun, arms wide, drunk on the sound, on the weight, on the impossible.

"I'M RICH!" he shouted. "I'M FINALLY—"

Then the weight hit him.

The coins were rising.

Up past his ankles.

His knees.

"…Wait. Hold on—"

He tried to stop.

But his hands burned. The flow continued.

Gold poured faster.

The field disappeared beneath a sea of shimmering treasure.

His waist vanished beneath it.

He tried to climb, but the coins shifted like sand. Each motion dragged him deeper.

"Stop it! Stop!" he screamed.

He clenched his fists, tried to will the sensation away, but the gold only surged harder.

His chest disappeared.

He clawed at the heap, but it offered no grip. No mercy.

His head broke the surface of the mountain, gasping.

"Stop!!"

And then, it did.

The warmth left his hands.

Silence.

He lay still, half-submerged in gold, chest heaving. Sweat slicked his skin.

Only his shoulders and head remained above the endless gleam, like a man drowning in sunlight.

He said nothing.

Moved not an inch.

His whole frame trembled.

From shock.

From something deeper.

The sun slid across the sky.

Eventually, he moved.

Pulled himself free.

The coins shifted under him with every motion, an avalanche in slow motion.

He slid down the golden slope and collapsed into the grass.

The ground was solid.

Cool.

He pressed his face to it.

Dug his fingers into the dirt.

And stayed there.

"…It's not a dream," he whispered.

The words tasted strange. Heavy.

A tear slid down his cheek.

He wasn't sure why.

He had gold.

He was alive.

Everything he had begged for was here, more than he could carry, more than he could ever imagine.

Eventually, he sat up.

His tunic clung to his back. His face was dirt-streaked. His hair wild.

But his eyes, those had changed.

There was no understanding. No answers.

Only the gift.

Or the curse.

Gold.

He tied a handful into a scrap of cloth torn from his hem and stuffed it into his belt.

Then turned toward the distant forest.

He needed to move.

To find someone.

To understand what kind of world gave such power to a dying man…

…and what it might demand in return.

He glanced back once.

The mound of gold still shimmered in the sun, too bright, too vast.

"…Can I… make it disappear?"

The thought echoed, uncertain.

He raised his arms again, slowly, cautiously, calling forth the same sensation, but willed the opposite.

He focused.

"Return," he muttered, firm.

Instead—

Plinkplinkplinkplink!

Another downpour.

Faster than before.

"No! Stop, STOP!"

He broke the focus, dropped his arms, and stumbled back toward the trees.

"I've done enough," he muttered, breathless.

Then he ran, disappearing into the woods, leaving behind a green field buried under a tide of gold.