Seven days.
That was how long it took to strip the last chamber bare.
There was nothing heroic about those seven days. Just long days of grinding stretches of metal against stone. Their shoulders burned, fingers went numb. By the end of each day, the sound of picks biting into Aetherite still rang in their ears when they lay down to sleep.
By the third day, nobody bothered counting swings anymore.
By the fifth, Raul had stopped complaining out loud, not because he'd stopped hating it, but because he'd learned it didn't help. He worked with the same stubborn rhythm he used in fights, jaw set, eyes focused, every strike placed cleanly. Sweat soaked his clothes, dust coated his skin, and his hands ached in a way no wound ever had.
Mina worked more quietly than usual. No jokes, no banter. Just steady effort. When she rested, she sat with her back against the stone and closed her eyes, listening to the hum of Aetherite in the walls like a distant pulse. The Captain rank's strength made the work faster—but it didn't make it pleasant.
Victor barely noticed the pain at all.
He was in his element.
He mapped veins, marked fractures, and argued with Arin about structural stress and optimal extraction angles. He muttered to himself constantly, running numbers in his head, pausing mid-sentence to stare at a chunk of ore as it had personally offended him.
Arin mostly supervised—keeping track of time, watching for signs of exhaustion turning dangerous, stepping in when someone pushed too hard. Leadership wasn't loud. It was telling Raul to stop when his hands started shaking. It was calling breaks before Mina's breathing got shallow. It was ignoring Victor's protests and enforcing sleep anyway.
By the seventh day, the chamber looked empty.
Where veins once pulsed faintly through the stone, there was nothing but scarred walls and scattered dust. Sixteen large bags sat in a rough semicircle, swollen with weight, rope straining where they'd been tied shut.
Tank stood nearby, back already layered with bags stacked carefully and secured tightly. The undead didn't complain, didn't slow, didn't care. If anything, it looked more stable with the weight evenly distributed across its frame.
Mina wiped her hands on her trousers and looked around one last time.
"That's it," she said. Her voice echoed more than it should have. "We're done."
Raul dropped his pickaxe and let it clatter against the stone. He rolled his shoulders slowly, testing them, then stretched his fingers until they cracked. "Good," he said. "Because if I had to swing that thing one more time, I was going to start stabbing rocks."
Victor scoffed. "You'd dull the blade."
"I'd enjoy it anyway."
Mina smiled faintly. "Still," she said, thoughtful now, "after all that fighting… after everything in here… I feel more aligned with my Captain rank strength."
Raul shot her a look. "Yeah, yeah. You hogged most of the battles."
She raised an eyebrow. "You stabbed enough of them, didn't you?"
"I wanted more," he said stubbornly. "You always get the big ones."
Mina laughed quietly. "Don't worry, battle maniac. When we're back, I'll spar with you daily."
Raul's eyes lit up. "Deal."
Victor wasn't listening to any of it.
He stood in front of the bags, hands on his hips, staring like a man who had just stumbled onto a private treasure vault and couldn't believe nobody else was screaming.
Arin watched him for a few seconds, then said, "You look like a crazy hobo who just won the lottery."
Victor didn't look away. "Do you know how much this would sell for in Ashenvill Barony?"
"No," Arin said carefully, "but I assume you're about to tell me."
"Even the Baron's family would fight for this," Victor said. "Not negotiate. Fight."
Arin frowned. "We're not selling it, are we?"
Victor finally turned, clutching his chest dramatically. "Sell it? Hell no. These are for me to—" He coughed. "—for us to improve our weapons and armor so we can fight better."
Raul clapped Arin on the back. "Bro. Please. Let's leave. I don't want to spend a single minute more underground."
Arin nodded. "Agreed. Let's head out."
Getting out took two more days.
Not because the path was difficult—Ghost had already mapped it—but because exhaustion doesn't care how clear the road is. They moved slower, rested more often, and took turns riding on Castle when their legs gave out.
When they finally reached daylight, Mina recalled Castle before stepping into the village. The last thing they needed was a panic over an undead giant strolling down the road like it owned the place.
The village smelled like smoke and grain and life.
Victor split off immediately, practically jogging toward his smithy, muttering about alloy ratios and binding methods. Raul didn't even say goodbye—he waved once and headed straight home, intent on collapsing into a bed and not moving for a full day.
Arin and Mina went to Rasir.
The old warrior listened in silence as they explained—how the mine had been infested, how many Stonebacks there'd been, how deep they'd gone. His expression shifted gradually from skepticism to disbelief to something like stunned amusement.
"So," Rasir said slowly, "you're telling me you cleared the whole mine and killed five Captain ranks by yourselves."
Arin nodded. "It wasn't easy. But Mina's undead made the difference—and Raul reached Captain rank when it mattered."
Rasir stared at the wall for a long moment, then snorted. "Damn. Even that little brat became Captain rank already. I should start working harder, or you younglings will leave me behind."
"I think I already surpassed you, Father," Mina said calmly.
Rasir turned to her. Blinked. Then laughed. "Is that so? My own daughter getting cocky? Fine. Let's fight. Right now."
They went to the arena.
Mina stepped into the sand and summoned her undead without ceremony. Castle, Rook, Ghost, and Tank emerged in sequence, presence heavy, silent, absolute.
Rasir took one look at them and dropped his spear.
"Nope," he said. "I'm not fighting. That's cheating. You win."
Mina just smiled.