Oakhaven wasn't a village yet. It was a wound in the earth.
As they passed through the massive gates, Matheo didn't see cozy cottages. He saw a sea of mud, tents, and half-finished stone foundations. Thousands of workers were hauling massive blocks of obsidian-wood, their backs scarred and bent. The air smelled of woodsmoke, raw sewage, and the metallic tang of monster blood.
A Dungeon Blast, Matheo realized, his eyes scanning the chaos. He remembered his anime tropes—a "Blast" meant the dungeon overflowed, destroying the original town. This "village" was an emergency settlement built by the Guild to reclaim the territory.
"Eyes down, rat," Kael hissed, jerking Matheo's rope.
They reached a large, reinforced pavilion bearing the emblem of the Hunter's Union. Inside, the air was cool and smelled of parchment. A Guild clerk sat behind a high desk, looking bored as he tallied ledgers.
Vance slammed a heavy, blood-stained Spatial Bag onto the counter. "Processing. Coast of Bones run."
The clerk opened the bag, his fingers glowing with a faint blue light as he performed a Mana Audit.
"Let's see..." the clerk muttered. "Eight Rank-G Thistle-Wolves. Four Rank-E Razor-Beaks. And... one Rank-D Moss-Back. Impressive. But you're missing a man. Your squad registry says six. I count five."
"Dead," Vance growled. "The Moss-Back flattened him."
The clerk didn't look up. "Standard mortality adjustment. Total value: 12 Gold, 40 Silver. Now, for the deductions."
Matheo watched Vance's jaw tighten. This was the math of survival.
"The Guild takes its 25% administrative cut for the emergency zone," the clerk said, his quill scratching. "And the Kingdom of Valoria takes a 10% Sovereignty Tax."
"What!?" Vance roared, slamming his fist on the wood. "The King didn't send soldiers to the Coast! We bled for this! The Guild hired us, not the Crown!"
"The State provides the walls you're standing behind, Captain," the clerk replied coldly. "The 10% goes to the Capital to fund the S-Rank defensive line. Do you want the payout or do you want to argue with the Royal Guards?"
Vance spat on the floor. After the 35% total loss, the squad was left with barely 8 Gold pieces. For three days of risking their lives, it was a pittance. Vance turned his eyes to Matheo, and the look was predatory. He needed to make up the loss.
"What about the stray?" Vance asked, gesturing to Matheo.
The clerk finally looked at Matheo. He stood up, walking around the desk to inspect him like a horse. He looked at Matheo's thin frame, his dirt-caked skin, and his lack of mana.
"No mana signature. No ID. Probably a refugee from a collapsed border village," the clerk noted. "Physically... he's weak. But the camps are desperate for manpower. The labor mines need someone to haul stones."
"He's got a good head," Vance argued, trying to drive the price up. "He spotted a blind spot on a D-Rank. He's smarter than a standard worker."
The clerk laughed. "Intelligence makes for a rebellious slave, Vance. It lowers the value, it doesn't raise it. But... since he survived the Coast, he's got endurance."
The clerk pulled out a small scale. "For a non-mana civilian in a high-demand zone? I'll give you 25 Silver."
Matheo's heart sank. 25 Silver. 2,500 copper. In this world, his entire life was worth the price of a few high-quality meals or a set of basic leather armor.
"Make it 40," Vance hissed.
"30. And that's only because the Governor needs 500 more bodies before the Moon of Blood rises," the clerk countered.
"Fine. 30 Silver."
The clerk weighed out three heavy silver coins and slid them to Vance. He then turned to a guard standing by the door. "Mark him. Rank-Zero Laborer. Send him to the South Foundation Camp."
Vance didn't even look at Matheo as he pocketed the silver. The hunters walked out, already arguing about how to spend their 8 gold.
The guard grabbed the rope around Matheo's neck. "Come on, 'Thirty Silver.' Let's get you branded."
As Matheo was dragged toward the "Processing" tent, he passed a puddle of rainwater. For a second, he saw his reflection. He looked pathetic, but he noticed something else. The jagged wound on his leg—the one that should have been infected and rotting after three days in the mud—was closed. It was a thin, pink scar.
It's gone, he thought, a cold shiver running down his spine. The pain is gone. I didn't use medicine. I didn't see a healer.
He realized then that his wasn't his only asset. His body was doing something impossible. And in a place where he was just sold for 30 silver, that secret was the only thing that might keep him from dying in the dirt.