Wulfgar was waiting for us outside, arms crossed, breath fogging in the cold air. His bushy eyebrows climbed comically when Croc trotted out behind us in all his googly eyed glory.

  “Where did this little fella come from?” he asked, sounding both delighted and confused.

  “I was hiding as a backpack,” Croc answered, tail wagging. “Just in case you all turned out to be murder cannibals.” The mimic’s expression darkened. “That’s a lot more common than you might think. We just came from the twenty-fourth floor. Lot of murder cannibals down there.”

  Wulfgar winced and nodded knowingly. “Aye, I remember that floor well. Eternal Suburbia. There aren’t many hells worse.”

  He knelt briefly to get a better look at Croc. “You’re a mimic?” he asked, surprised.

  I patted Croc on the head. “Yep. But the friendly kind. Saved my life more times than I can count.”

  Wulfgar grunted, straightening. “Didn’t know there was such a thing.” He shook his head. “Always something new in this place. But if the Jarl is happy to have you, then so am I. Come, I’ll show you to the Inn.”

  Wulfgar escorted us from the workshop and through a winding row of houses and shops before eventually stopping in front of a squat three story long house, broad and rectangular, its heavy beams dusted with frost and the windows spilling warm, buttery light across the cobblestones out front. A wooden sign hung above the door that read The Holly Hearth. It looked sturdy enough to shrug off a siege, but the cheery golden light made it feel like something out of a storybook.

  We stepped inside at Wulfgar’s urging, and a wall of warmth hit me in the face, accompanied by the scent of body odor, intermixed with the aroma of food and the tang of woodsmoke. A large common room took up most of the first floor, and it was packed with red-faced Delvers who were crammed around rough-hewn wood tables, most sitting shoulder to shoulder. They shared platters of roasted meat and honey breads, mugs clinking in cheers, the air thick with good-natured shouting and laughter.

  In one corner of the room, a lanky man wearing mirrored goggles strummed an electric guitar plugged into a portable amp the size of a shoebox. Several other men and woman were crowded a portable karaoke machine, belting out an off-key rendition of Journey’s “Don’t Stop Believing.”

  I was pretty sure they didn’t hit a single correct note, but they were certainly an enthusiastic bunch. Others played cards and dice, gambling with Copper Loot Tokens like poker chips—one table cheered as a player flipped over a perfect hand and screamed, “Lootbox Royale!” right before someone pelted him with a bread roll.

  A pair of barrel-chest men with arms the size of ham hocks were locked in a heated arm-wrestling match, the crowd chanting something that sounded suspiciously like rip his arm off. Though which champion they were cheering for, I couldn’t say with any degree of certainty.

  “Cozy,” Jakob said, completely deadpan.

  I couldn’t tell if he meant it or if it was sarcasm so dry it had winterized itself.

  The crowd parted for Wulfgar like the waters of the Red Sea, and we followed in his wake, right over to a polished wooden bar with a stocky woman manning the helm. She was in her late forties with silver streaks in her dark hair, and a long-faded scar that traced a diagonal line from her scalp to the corner of her chin.

  “Lo, stranger,” she said. “It’s been a while since I last saw your lovely face.”

  The giant man lit up, a broad smile stretching across his face as he ducked behind the bar to plant a kiss on her that was definitely not rated for public consumption.

  “Lo, wife,” he rumbled, holding her close. “Told you I wouldn’t be gone long.”

  “Felt like a lifetime to me, my heart,” she murmured, running a hand down his chest with the kind of touch that made Temperance immediately gag.

  “I think I’m going to be sick,” she muttered. “Can I get a bucket or something?”

  Wulfgar grinned sheepishly and straightened, clearing his throat. “We have guests, love. The Jarl’s invited them to stay. Thought maybe you could find them a room? And some food?”

  The woman regarded us somberly, “They do look painfully thin and half-frozen. That won’t do at all. Not for honored guests of the Jarl.”

  She turned to us and smiled, the lines in her face softening. “I’m Hannah. And any friend of the Jarl’s is a friend of ours. Be welcome to our hearth.”

  From behind the bar, she grabbed two heavy brass keys from a pair of wall hooks carved to look like snarling wolves. “These are our nicest rooms. Top floor. Real mattresses—none of that straw stuff—clean sheets, and some privacy. But first, let’s get some food in your bellies.”

  Hanah shuffled toward the back hallway and threw open a batwing door.

  “Carla!” she bellowed, her voice thundering even over the blare of the music. “We need stew and ale. Fast like, and don’t burn the bread again!”

  The crowd didn’t even glance at her. Apparently, this was normal.

  While Hanah got us drinks, Wulfgar took us over to an empty table not far from the roaring fireplace, the logs spitting sparks into a brass-lined hearth. We’d barely taken our seats when a willowy blonde in a stained apron hustled over with a tray loaded down with food and beer steins. She deftly unloaded bowls of thick, hearty stew, a plate stacked with warm, crusty bread, and several tall pints of golden beer.

  Wulfgar gestured for us to dig in before promptly doing so himself.

  The stew was thick with root vegetables, chunks of charred meat, and enough heat to dispel the cold that had settled into my bones. The bread crackled at the crust and steamed when torn, and the beer went down smoother than a good Zima. Nutty, malty, and just bitter enough to let you know it wasn’t screwing around. It also came with a 5% Health and Toughness buff that lasted three hours.

  If we managed to lock down a trading partnership with this place, I wanted this stuff on tap at the bar.

  “This stew is delicious,” Croc said, licking the inside of its wooden bowl. “What kind of spices do you use? Is there… paprika? I’m definitely getting notes of paprika.”

  “Mostly garlic, onion, and a bit of root pepper,” Wulfgar said, amused. “And yes, paprika. Sometimes I think my Hannah loves paprika more than she loves me.”

  We ate the rest of our meal in companionable silence.

  When the dull ache of starvation had finally dulled and we were all feeling fat and happy, I prodded Wulfgar with a few questions.

  “So,” I said, wiping my mouth with a cloth napkin, “what’s the deal with this place? How long has it been here?”

  Jakob, true to form, broke out a small notebook and a pen. “Entschuldigung,” he said, “but do you mind if I take a few notes? I like to record what I learn as we move down. Trying to build something of a compendium about each level.”

  “Not at all,” Wulfgar said. “A guidebook to the Backrooms could prove to be very useful indeed. And I am happy to talk about Kringlegard. It is the pride of the forty-ninth. Not another place like it.” He leaned back, cradling his mug in both hands. “This place predates me by generations, but I will tell you what I know. According to the old stories, it used to belong to a group of gnomish Dwellers. Murderous, wicked little creatures, the gnomes.

  Royal Road is the home of this novel. Visit there to read the original and support the author.

  “They have other settlements not so different than this one,” he continued, “but those are places best to avoid unless you want to wind up being slow roasted over an open fire. The Delvers who built this place rooted their kind out and took the village as a stronghold.” He puffed his chest out in pride. “The taking of Kringlegard. We have a statue in the center of town to commemorate the event. Songs too, if you’d care to hear one?”

  “I think we’ll pass,” I replied, listening to the drunken singers who were now warbling out “Hey Jude.”

  He chuckled, “Probably for the best. Most of the songs are in German anyway, so I’m not sure you’d be able to properly appreciate them.”

  “Did the gnomes ever come back?” Harper asked.

  “Now and then,” Wulfgar said. “In truth, they’re worse than the Yetis. Once or twice a year, they launch an assault against our walls, but never have they fallen. This place is a fortress for people like us. For survivors. The 49th floor is not for the weak, but it is better than eking out a living in some endless mega-mall. We’ve got resources—wood, meat, water from the melted glaciers. And we’ve got Nikoli. He keeps this place running like a Swiss watch.”

  “I’m not sure I follow,” Temperance said, leaning forward in her seat, forearms rested against the edge of the table.

  “Well, Nikoli is a wizard when it comes to Artifact and Relic creation. That’s what he does in that forge of his. Tinkers away, crafting things for the Safe Harbor.” His face darkened considerably, and his voice dropped to a whisper. “Though things have been a little tight lately. Once he gets his soul foundry back from that cursed creature, though, everything will be right again.”

  “Is that the creature that took over the kiosk?” Jakob asked, scribbling furiously in his notebook.

  “Aye.” Wulfgar nodded. “I imagine that is what you are going to help him with, yes?”

  I nodded. “Is there anything you can tell us about this creature—whatever it is?”

  Wulfgar seemed to withdraw into himself and was silent for a long moment before speaking, “It is a terrible thing. Something we do not speak about here.” He shifted uncomfortably in his seat. “The residents fear even to say its name. They believe to speak it is to summon its gaze.”

  “But not you?” Temperance asked.

  Wulfgar grimaced and licked his lips nervously. “Krampus,” he said, barely more than a whisper before making the sign of the cross, as though to ward off any evil spirits that might be looking his way. “It is bloodthirsty, cruel, and ravenous. There is a reason Nikoli has yet to deal with it. But perhaps you will be able to turn the tides?”

  He took another long drink from his mug, then stifled a thunderous belch with one meaty fist.

  “Well, I think that is all for me tonight,” he said standing, clearly uneasy by the direction of our conversation. “It has been too long since I’ve seen my wife and our bed calls to me.” He grinned and waggled his eyebrows. “Your rooms are upstairs and if you need anything, do not hesitate to ask. Hanah will be retiring soon, but her apprentice, Carla, will be around until late.”

  We said our goodbyes to the bearded man then watched him stumble up the stairs before sharing uneasy glances with each other.

  Krampus? Of course, it was Krampus.

  That revelation didn’t leave me feeling warm and fuzzy, but I should’ve expected it. The HOA had been a hellish monster, so why would this be any different?

  We killed the rest of our beers and Croc devoured what remained of the bread, then we saw ourselves from the table and headed up to our rooms, leaving the raucous and still singing crowd behind.

  Thanks to the numbers etched into each brass key, it didn’t take us long to find our rooms—not that I had any intention of staying here tonight. The Delvers of Kringlegard had been nothing but hospitable and welcoming, but that didn’t mean I wanted to fall asleep with them right outside my door.

  Besides, I still didn’t completely trust Nikoli.

  My gut said he would honor his end of our deal, but the fact that he was actively keeping secrets about something was concerning.

  We all piled into a sparsely furnished room with a pair of twin beds on thick wooden frames, a simple wardrobe, and a porcelain wash basin with a jug of fresh water sitting beside it. A single window, covered in a thick coat of frost, overlooked the town square below while offering a spectacular view of the evening sky, painted with the lurid colors of the Polaris Vora off in the distance.

  The lights were beautiful, so long as I ignored the fact that they were actually a voracious monster that could strip flesh like a school of hungry piranha.

  As soon as we closed and locked the door, I affixed my plastic VIP doorway anchor and opened a way back to the safety of the shop.

  Although there wasn’t really day or night inside the Backrooms, it felt like evening and only a handful of customers perused the aisles, while a few more loitered at the plastic tables surrounding the concession stand.

  I wanted to make a pitstop at the Arcade, but I glanced at my ruined hand instead. Much as I didn’t want to, I had to do something about the frostbite, and the sooner I took care of it, the better.

  “Temp,” I said, “can you do me a favor and check in with Camo-Jo? Just make sure everything is, okay?”

  “Happy too,” she replied with a nod. “I’ll also pay the Room Keepers a visit while I’m at it and see how our war against the Red Hands is progressing.”

  Jakob suppressed a wide yawn. “I think I will call it a night,” he said, blearily. “That beer is finally starting to hit me.”

  “Actually…” I reached out and grabbed his arm. “I need a favor before you leave.” I raised my blackened hand. “I wouldn’t normally ask, but this is something I can’t do alone. I’ll need you too, Harper.”

  “What about me?” Croc asked.

  “Sure,” I said, patting the dog on the head. “For emotional support. I’ve got a feeling this isn’t going to be fun.”

  Temperance dipped away, heading toward the main breakroom and the security office, while the rest of us beelined for the pharmacy. Jakob pushed the door open, letting us into the restricted area. I dragged my feet over to one of the stainless-steel prep tables, devoid of elixirs or lab equipment, then stripped down to my grimy white wife beater, leaving my arms bare. I noticed the Frostbite had spread past my wrist and all the way to my lower forearm.

  Fuck.

  I thumped my mangled arm down on the table, then fished out the Relic I needed to make this whole terrible plan work.

  Molt and Mend

  Rare Relic – Level 1

  Range: Self

  Cost: 100 Mana + One Limb

  Cast Time: 5 Seconds

  Cooldown: Once per limb

  Like the crustaceans of the Cambrian period, you’ve just unlocked the healing power of extremely aggressive regeneration. Molt and Mend is the miracle cure for grievous bodily trauma—provided you’re brave, desperate, or dumb enough to tear off the damaged part first. The spell does not “repair” limbs. Instead, it forcibly initiates a molting cycle. And since humans aren’t exactly built for clean molts, you’ll need to jumpstart the process the old-fashioned way…

  Yep, you guessed it, violent amputation.

  Once the mangled limb is forcibly removed, casting Molt and Mend will cauterize the wound and trigger accelerated tissue reconstitution. Over the course of several days to several weeks—depending on race, how complex the limb is, and how much you’ve been drinking—a new, fully functional appendage will emerge. Eventually. Just don’t expect it to be quick or painless.

  The regrowth process is excruciating, nausea-inducing, and occasionally accompanied by phantom limb spasms, fever dreams, and the smell of boiled cabbage. This is completely normal. You may also experience brief but vivid hallucinations of the Crabfather, an ancient crustacean entity who seems very proud of your decision to embrace the way of the molt.

  Please note: you cannot regrow more than one limb at a time. You are not a starfish. Stop trying.

  This Relic enables Mana usage.

  After reading through the description, I sighed. This was gonna suck a bag full of dicks, I thought as I swapped the Relic for Spike Fault.

  “Alright,” I said, already hating myself. “Here’s what’s going to happen. Harper, I want you to hit me with Painkiller OD—though I’m not sure how much it’s going to help.” I turned to Jakob. “Once she’s done, you’re going cut off my hand.” I locked eyes with the Cendral. “You need to make sure to cut above the Black Rot. If you leave any of it behind, it’ll just keep spreading.”

  Jakob visibly blanched. “Are you sure?” he asked.

  “Unless you want me to die slowly and painfully, yeah,” I replied. “Trust me, I wish there was another way, but if Noclipping has taught me anything, it’s that you play with the hand you’re dealt. And if I don’t take care of this now, I’m going to be playing with one hand for the rest of my life. As soon as the deed’s done, I’ll activate Molt and Mend and pray to 8 pound 4 ounce sweet baby Jesus that it works out okay.”

  “What do you need from me, Dan?” Croc said, its eyes as wide as saucers.

  “Like I said, you’re here for moral support.”

  “Just like when Edward finally turns Bella,” the dog said. “The process was extremely painful, but he never left her side. Not for a moment. I’ll be here for you, Dan. I’ll be your rock. Your Edward.”

  I offered the mimic a nauseated smile. “I couldn’t ask for more, bud.” I exhaled as I squared my shoulders and braced myself for what was about to happen. “Let’s get this bullshit over with.”

  Harper extended a trembling hand as she activated Painkiller OD. The spell surged through me—a cold, numbing wave that dulled the edges of everything in sweet bliss. My fingers stopped throbbing. My heartbeat slowed. Even the frostbitten pain seemed to recede into the background.

  I doubted it would be enough, but better than nothing.

  “Jakob,” I said.

  He stepped forward, plasma shield igniting with a sharp hum. “You’re going to hate me for this,” he said in all earnestness.

  “Already do,” I replied.

  He moved in a blur before I could reconsider and brought the edge of his shield down on the center of my forearm, an inch or so above the line of creeping black rot.

  The surge of pain hit like a lightning bolt.

  Even with Harper’s spell dampening my senses, it was like someone had shoved my entire nervous system into a meat grinder, set it to puree, and then tossed the meat grinder into an active volcano.

  I screamed once and my knees buckled as the agony overwhelmed me and everything went black.