The volcanic landscape grew more alien with every step Mike took into its blackened expanse. Dawn had broken two hours earlier, illuminating terrain that seemed to belong to another world entirely—even by the standards of this already unfamiliar realm. The ground beneath his boots alternated between razor-sharp volcanic rock and patches of fine black ash that released sulfurous clouds with each footfall. Heat rose in visible waves from fissures that crisscrossed the land like angry scars, their edges glowing with the dull red of barely cooled lava.
"Like walking through hell," Mike muttered, pulling his shirt collar up to cover his nose and mouth against the occasional toxic plumes that wafted across his path.
According to his map, the obsidian source should be near the northern edge of this volcanic field, perhaps another mile ahead. The marker on the interface had shown what appeared to be a depression or crater, likely a cooled lava pool where the glassy stone would have formed in optimal conditions.
Navigation proved challenging. The unstable terrain forced Mike to revise his route constantly, detouring around active vents or impassable flows that didn't appear on his map. The volcanic region was clearly more active than when the map had been created, suggesting a cycle of eruptions that might be approaching a peak. Timing, it seemed, had not been in his favor.
"Just need to find the obsidian and get out," he reminded himself, wincing as his boot sank slightly into a patch of ground still hot enough to be felt through the sole.
"No lingering."
The temperature continued to rise as the sun climbed higher, combining with the ambient heat from the volcanic activity to create nearly unbearable conditions. Sweat soaked through Mike's clothing almost immediately, evaporating just as quickly in the dry air. He rationed his water carefully, taking small sips despite his body's demands for more.
By mid-morning, Mike crested a ridge of cooled lava and finally spotted what had to be his destination—a large depression nestled among massive boulders and jagged rock formations. From his elevated position, the pit resembled a crude bowl, its sides steep but navigable, its bottom a relatively flat expanse of dark stone. Several larger fissures ran along one edge, venting steam but no visible flame or lava.
"That's it," Mike said, relief momentarily overriding his discomfort.
The descent into the pit required careful navigation. The outer slopes consisted primarily of loose scree that shifted treacherously under Mike's weight. He took a diagonal approach, using the scattered larger boulders as anchoring points, testing each foothold before committing his weight. Despite his caution, he slipped several times, the sharp volcanic rock slicing through his pants and into his shin on one particularly bad fall.
Reaching the bottom, Mike paused to bandage the cut with a strip torn from his shirt. The wound wasn't deep, but in this environment, any injury risked infection. All around him, the walls of the pit rose thirty to forty feet, broken by natural shelves and outcroppings. The floor was remarkably even, almost as if it had been deliberately leveled, though Mike attributed this to the natural settling of a lava pool as it cooled.
And there, gleaming dully in the harsh sunlight, was exactly what he'd come for. Obsidian—not in small fragments, but in massive sheets and boulders of the glassy black stone. Some pieces were streaked with red or gold, others purely black and so reflective they functioned almost like mirrors. The quantity was staggering, enough to supply a hundred Void Ripper traps.
"Jackpot," Mike whispered, approaching the nearest formation.
The obsidian was beautiful in its alien perfection—a natural glass formed in the intense heat of volcanic activity and then cooled rapidly to create its distinctive smooth, conchoidal fracture patterns. Mike ran his hand along a particularly large sheet, feeling the glass-smooth surface that somehow remained cool despite the ambient heat.
According to the trap blueprint, he needed specific types of obsidian—primarily the pure black variety with minimal inclusions. The size and shape were also important, with the trap requiring both larger structural pieces and smaller, precisely shaped components. Mike began his collection methodically, selecting pieces that most closely matched his mental inventory of requirements.
Some pieces broke free easily, natural fractures allowing for clean separation. Others required more force, the Crafter's axe proving effective at cleaving along crystalline planes to create the shapes he needed. Mike wrapped each piece carefully in cloth from his pack, mindful of the razor-sharp edges that could slice through fabric and flesh with equal ease.
As he worked, a subtle uneasiness began to grow. At first, Mike attributed it to the inherently dangerous environment—the occasional rumble of seismic activity, the unpredictable venting of steam or gas from nearby fissures. But gradually, the sensation resolved into something more specific: the feeling of being watched.
Mike paused, scanning the rim of the pit carefully. Nothing moved along the jagged skyline, no silhouettes broke the harsh contrast of black rock against blue sky. Yet the sensation persisted, growing stronger as he returned to his collection efforts.
Then he saw it—or thought he did. A flicker of movement at the edge of his vision, gone when he turned to look directly. Just a small shift, as if one of the rocks on the pit floor had slightly changed position. Heat mirage, Mike told himself, returning to his work with heightened awareness.
Minutes later, it happened again. This time, the movement was more distinct—a definite repositioning of what he had assumed was an inanimate stone. When Mike turned to look, the object was motionless, indistinguishable from the countless other volcanic rocks scattered across the pit floor.
"I'm not imagining this," he muttered, setting down the obsidian piece he'd been examining and reaching slowly for his hammer.
A notification appeared, confirming his suspicions: [DANGER].
Mike stood, weapons ready, turning in a slow circle to survey his surroundings. The pit suddenly seemed more confining than before, its walls too steep for quick escape, its floor offering too many hiding places among the obsidian formations and scattered boulders.
Then he saw one move—unmistakably, deliberately. What he had taken for a small volcanic rock rose slightly on multiple jointed legs, revealing itself as a creature rather than mineral. It was roughly the size of a small dog, its body carapace nearly indistinguishable from the surrounding stone, eight crystalline legs extending from its core. Where a head should be, a cluster of glassy, faceted structures caught and reflected light like obsidian mirrors.
"What the hell?" Mike breathed, tightening his grip on the hammer.
As if triggered by his recognition, more began to move—first two, then five, then a dozen or more. Rock spiders, for lack of a better term, rising from camouflaged positions around the pit. They had been there all along, perfectly still, indistinguishable from the volcanic detritus until they chose to reveal themselves.
The nearest one skittered forward with alarming speed, crystal legs clicking against stone as it approached. Mike didn't wait to discover its intentions. He brought the hammer down in a powerful arc, connecting solidly with the creature's core. The impact produced a sound like breaking glass, the carapace shattering to reveal internal structures that resembled circuitry more than organic components.
Before Mike could process this discovery, more advanced from different directions. He swung the axe in a horizontal sweep, catching two at once and sending fragments of crystal legs skittering across the obsidian floor. The creatures weren't particularly durable once hit, but their numbers were increasing alarmingly—more rising from camouflaged positions with each passing second.
"Need to get out of here," Mike gasped, realizing he was being surrounded.
He had collected most of the obsidian pieces required for the trap, though not all. It would have to be enough. Securing his pack with one hand while fending off another approaching spider with the hammer, Mike began moving toward the pit wall that looked most climbable.
The spiders seemed to anticipate his strategy. Several raced ahead, positioning themselves along his planned escape route, while others continued to close in from behind. Their movements suggested coordination, a hive mind rather than individual hunters.
Mike changed direction, charging toward a different section of wall where a series of natural ledges offered potential handholds. A spider leapt at him from behind, crystal legs latching onto his pack. He felt the sharp points beginning to penetrate the fabric, dangerously close to the carefully wrapped obsidian and crystal components inside.
Spinning, Mike slammed his back—and the attached spider—against a nearby boulder. The creature shattered with a high-pitched sound like breaking china, its legs twitching briefly before going still. But the momentary pause had allowed others to close in. They began to coordinate their attacks, some lunging for his legs while others positioned themselves to cut off potential escape routes.
Mike fought with increasing desperation, the hammer and axe becoming extensions of his arms as he smashed spider after spider. But for each one he destroyed, two more seemed to emerge from the stones around him. A particularly large specimen launched itself at his chest, forcing him to block with his forearm. Crystal legs scraped across his skin, leaving shallow but painful cuts that immediately began to burn as if exposed to acid.
"Enough of this," Mike growled, bringing the hammer down on the attacking spider with enough force to drive fragments of its body several inches into the stone beneath.
Taking advantage of the momentary opening, he sprinted toward the pit wall, leaping to catch the first ledge. His fingers found purchase on the rough volcanic rock, enhanced strength allowing him to pull himself up despite the weight of his pack. Below, the spiders swarmed toward the wall, some beginning to climb with disturbing ease, their crystal legs finding imperceptible cracks in the seemingly smooth surface.
Mike climbed with reckless speed, prioritizing distance over safety. A handhold crumbled beneath his grip, nearly sending him plummeting back to the pit floor. He caught himself at the last moment, feet scrabbling for support as he regained his balance. The delay allowed the lead spiders to close half the distance between them, their clicking legs moving in unsettling synchronization.
Reaching the rim of the pit, Mike pulled himself over the edge and immediately began running. The terrain was even more treacherous up here—uneven, broken by fissures and unstable formations—but fear and adrenaline carried him forward. Behind him, the first spiders crested the rim, their crystalline bodies catching sunlight as they poured over the edge in pursuit.
"Keep moving," Mike gasped, each breath drawing superheated air into his lungs.
The chase continued across the volcanic landscape, Mike navigating by instinct more than plan. His only clear goal was distance—putting as much space as possible between himself and the obsidian pit with its crystal guardians. Yet the spiders showed no signs of abandoning the pursuit. If anything, their numbers seemed to be growing, joined perhaps by others that had been camouflaged across the broader terrain.
As Mike crested another ridge of cooled lava, a new sound reached him—the unmistakable rush of moving water. Ahead, the blackened landscape gave way abruptly to a steep cliff edge. Beyond it, he could see green vegetation and the silver thread of a river far below, winding through a canyon that marked the boundary of the volcanic field.
Hope surged briefly before reality intervened. The cliff was sheer, dropping at least a hundred feet to the river below. Even if the water was deep enough to survive the plunge—which he couldn't determine from this distance—the fall itself might prove fatal.
Mike spun to face his pursuers, hammer and axe raised. The spiders had slowed their advance, spreading out to block any lateral escape along the cliff edge. They moved with deliberate precision now, as if confident their prey was cornered. The nearest ones were perhaps thirty feet away, with dozens more visible behind them, a living wave of crystal and stone flowing across the volcanic terrain.
"Not many options here," Mike muttered, glancing back at the cliff edge.
A quick assessment confirmed his initial impression—the drop was significant, the river below swift-moving but of unknown depth. The cliff face itself offered few handholds, making climbing down impossible under the circumstances. It was a desperate gamble at best.
The approaching spiders suddenly froze in unison, their crystalline sensors all orienting toward Mike in perfect synchronization. Then, as if responding to a silent command, they surged forward together—not in a disorganized rush but in a coordinated attack pattern that would cut off any possibility of evasion.
Decision time had arrived. Mike took three quick steps backward, stopping just at the cliff edge. The ground beneath his heels crumbled slightly, sending small cascades of stone into the abyss behind him. The lead spiders were twenty feet away, then fifteen, their crystal legs a blur of motion against the black volcanic rock.
"Here goes nothing," Mike said, and stepped backward into empty air.
The fall seemed to last forever and no time at all. The cliff face blurred past, the wind tearing at Mike's clothes and hair as gravity accelerated his descent. He had just enough presence of mind to position himself feet-first, arms wrapped protectively around his pack with its precious cargo of obsidian and crystals.
The impact with the water hit like a collision with concrete, driving the air from Mike's lungs and sending pain shooting through his entire body. The cold was shocking after the intense heat of the volcanic region, the contrast almost as jarring as the physical impact. For a moment, disorientation threatened to overcome him as he plunged deep into the churning river.
Training and instinct took over. Mike kicked hard, fighting against the weight of his pack and the river's powerful current, struggling toward what he hoped was the surface. His lungs burned, demanding oxygen that wasn't available. Just as dark spots began to dance at the edges of his vision, his head broke the surface.
Mike gasped, drawing in precious air between coughs as the river swept him downstream at alarming speed. The current was much stronger than it had appeared from above, the water level higher than normal, perhaps swollen by the recent storm that had caught him in the mountain pass.
Turning onto his back while keeping his face above water, Mike allowed the current to carry him, focusing on simply staying afloat rather than fighting the river's power. Each breath came easier than the last as his body adjusted to the shock of immersion. The cliff receded rapidly as the river carried him around a bend, the volcanic landscape giving way to more lush surroundings.
Only when the immediate danger of drowning had passed did Mike check the cliff edge for pursuers. To his relief, no crystal spiders were visible along the skyline. Whether they had abandoned the chase at the cliff or simply couldn't be seen from his current position was unclear, but the imminent threat had passed.
The river continued to carry him swiftly downstream, the canyon walls gradually lowering as the watercourse widened. Mike began to angle toward the shore, using controlled swimming motions to work his way toward slower water near the bank. His entire body ached from the impact and subsequent battering against submerged rocks, but nothing seemed broken—another testament to his level-enhanced durability.
Finally, nearly a mile downstream from his entry point, Mike managed to grab onto a partially submerged tree that had fallen into the river. Using this anchor, he pulled himself to the shore, collapsing onto a narrow strip of gravelly beach. For several minutes, he simply lay there, chest heaving, allowing the adrenaline to subside and the full impact of his narrow escape to register.
When his breathing had normalized somewhat, Mike sat up and took inventory. His pack had remained attached through the fall and subsequent journey downstream—a minor miracle given the forces involved. His clothes were soaked and torn in several places, new cuts and bruises adding to his collection of injuries from this world. The hammer and axe, secured to his belt by improvised loops, had somehow remained with him despite the tumultuous ride.
"Let's see if it was worth it," Mike said, opening the pack with hands that trembled slightly from exertion and fading adrenaline.
To his immense relief, the obsidian pieces had survived intact, the careful wrapping having protected them from both the fall and the river journey. The crystals showed no damage either, their blue-white glow undimmed by their immersion. He had lost some of his food supplies to water damage, and his remaining clothing was thoroughly soaked, but the crucial components for the Void Ripper trap were secure.
"All three," Mike whispered, a smile breaking through his exhaustion. "Got all three."
The wood from the mill, the crystals from the mine, and now the obsidian from the volcanic pit—all the physical components required by the blueprint were now in his possession. What remained was the return journey to Crafter's Haven, where he could finally assemble the trap and create a defense against the most dangerous predator in this world.
But that journey would have to wait. For now, Mike needed rest, warmth, and time to recover from his latest brush with death. Looking around, he spotted a grove of trees a short distance from the riverbank that might provide suitable shelter. The sun was still high, giving him several hours to dry his equipment and make camp before nightfall.
As Mike struggled to his feet, his legs nearly buckling from exhaustion, a familiar yet unexpected sound reached him—the distant, metal-tearing roar of the Void Ripper, echoing across the landscape from somewhere beyond the river canyon.
"No rest for the weary," Mike sighed, gathering his strength and moving toward the tree grove with renewed urgency.
He had the components. Now he just needed to stay alive long enough to use them.