Orn continued, his tone steady but edged with warning:
[From the list of families I mentioned, the one holding the energy you seek is, of course, the Zaleskas. Do not be deceived by their seemingly weak demeanor. They are like symbiotic creatures, thriving by funding other soul beings to carry out their dirty work. We cannot be certain what they are hiding, and their keen architectural mastery suggests they may possess technologies far more formidable than you imagine—devices capable of keeping you far from their treasure.]
Orn paused, letting his words sink deep into Frank's mind. Then, with deliberate care, he pulled a blueprint from his drawer and drifted closer, placing it firmly into Frank's hands.
[I know this is the equivalent of going in blind,] Orn admitted, [but I believe this will be more than enough to guide you toward what you seek. Use it as a framework to craft an infallible plan—one that, with luck, won't collapse into ruin. Good luck, Frank. I wish you the best in this heist.]
With that, Orn clasped Frank's arm and ushered him out of the office. As the door shut behind him, Orn's expression shifted. A mischievous smile crept across his face, and in the silence of the room, a wicked plan began to take shape in his mind.
***
Meanwhile, Frank's mind was racing with an entirely different plan—an escape plan. A plan that, in his imagination, would guarantee his safety and bring him closer to the life energy he so desperately craved. Yet despite his determination, he knew the odds were stacked against him. In his past life, he had taken part in countless heists, but never as the mastermind. He had always been the tech specialist, the safe‑cracker, just another cog in the machine. To design and lead a flawless operation now felt almost impossible.
Still, Frank refused to surrender. He scribbled notes across the blueprint Orn had given him, sketched ideas, crossed out failures, and slowly discerned the true shape of the plan. Once resolved, he gathered what little equipment he owned: a battered pickaxe, a semantic device capable of tracking and recording minerals, and his custom miner's suit. At least the suit spared him the humiliation of wandering New Darkovia with bones and skin exposed. Finally, he strapped on a worn backpack. He doubted it had the capacity to hold the vast reserves of life energy he intended to steal, but it might carry other valuables—rare minerals, artifacts, or anything he could trade to Orn for another chance at survival.
With these meager tools, Frank steeled himself. The backpack might not be enough, the plan might collapse, but he clung to the faint hope that it would be able to have enough storage space to carry the life energy required to cure him—and perhaps, against all odds, secure his future.
With bated breath, Frank approached the invisible elevator and began his ascent to the surface, clinging to the fragile hope that his plan would bring him the life energy he so desperately desired. As he drifted upward, several of his fellow miners—low‑class soul beings hardened by endless labor—watched him with suspicious eyes. Their expressions, though muted by the nature of their race, carried subtle traces of emotion.
Some remembered the day Frank first entered the mine: broken, uncertain, and visibly out of place, his gaze filled with envy as he watched them work. Many of those miners had once longed to serve the royals, even in the humblest capacity, but seeing Frank—"an august visitor" from the prince's household—struggling so openly had changed their perspective. They realized perhaps their lot was not the worst, and that their own master was far kinder than the royal families who could reduce a man to such despair. Inspired, they began to labor without complaint, determined to make their boss proud.
Still, another group saw Frank differently—not as a struggler, but as The Miner. They watched him work with seemingly limitless stamina, never grumbling, never resting, never faltering. For fifteen straight days he labored without pause, taking breaks only after completing his quota, and returning early the next morning ready to begin again. To them, he was the model worker, the embodiment of endurance. His presence pushed the old miners not to slack off, while the new recruits strove to emulate his example. In their eyes, Frank had already become the heart of the mine, even though he had only just begun fifteen days ago.
Although the three groups had learned different lessons from Frank, one truth bound them together—they admired him deeply and longed to be more like him. Yet as they watched him ascend with bleak expressions, their minds were filled with vivid memories of his presence. Their hollow hearts, long accustomed to silence, resisted the thought of letting him go, a sharp contrast to the stoic faces they wore.
Meanwhile, the star of the story—Frank himself—was lost in thought. Although his mind drifted back to the soul beings he was leaving behind he had no idea they had such feelings towards him, instead he had a subtle sense that he was leaving what he had reminiscent to a family behind yet, the need to stay alive was a powerful motivator and it could in a sense be said to be greater than his "adoptive family bond" so with a grim expression he floated steadily upward toward the door that would open onto the surface and the wider civilization beyond. Every moment of his ascent carried the weight of uncertainty. His thoughts burned with doubt, questioning whether his plan was truly foolproof, whether the daring snatch‑and‑grab he envisioned would succeed, or whether it would collapse and leave him broken once more.