Sporemageddon

Black Mould - Twenty-Nine - The Legend of Worthington Along the Gutter

Since visiting the dungeon had proved somewhat unwise, I found myself with no big plans. No big plans, and a persistent cough that left me gasping for air for an entire day. I didn’t notice any hallucinations, so maybe I’d been lucky and only a few spores had slipped past my mask during that little altercation near the Ditz dungeon.

At least it was one way to level up my [Poison Resistance].

I wasn’t going to pop back over there for a bit, which left me back at home and at the farm with a lot of time on my hands and not much to aim for.

So I did something halfway clever and found some paper and a pen. I wrote down all of my problems in an orderly fashion.

• I lacked knowledge and an education
• I lacked money and resources
• The local gangs could prove to be a problem and I needed to find a way to protect myself from them
• Feronie wanted me to do something (kill someone, maybe?)
• I needed to find a way to fix Dad’s hand
• I wanted to be able to defend myself better

Six goals, some more plausible than others. Some which depended on others too.

The education and the healing would both become significantly easier if I had any money to my (lack of a) name. The local gangs would become more of a problem if I started to rake in the cash though, which meant that I had to be able to defend myself before I started making the big bucks.

Feronie’s thing… well, I’d figure that out eventually. Maybe learning about the religions and such of this world would solve that issue too.

So, the first step was obviously getting stronger.

I raised my arm up and tested my bicep. It wasn’t impressive. I’d spent far too long sick, and what exercise I did mostly amounted to running back and forth between home and the farm. I wasn’t thin, I was scrawny, and that was before I even hit puberty and reached that gangly stage.

I had this terrible suspicion that I’d never be tall and muscular.

Sighing, I let my arm drop. What could I do, then? Moping around wasn’t helping, and I was too young to pull off brooding, so I went around and tidied up my farm. It had taken a while, but I’d replaced nearly all of the [Brown Chanterelle] and [Horse Head] with [Brown Horse Head], all except for a rack of each, in case I ever wanted a sample of either one for fungal combinations.

The [Brown horse Head] was more nutritious and grew faster and with less fuss. It had a nicer taste too. Not as nice as [Dead Horse Head] though, but it was also not poisonous. Maybe I could find a way to reduce the effectiveness of that mushroom’s poison? It was an idea.

I had been pushing some mana into the mycelium for the [Brown Horse Head], looking for the minimal amount needed to turn them into their magical variant.

[Mana-Infused Brown Horse Head] - Uncommon

A magical variation of a cultivar of two popular mushroom types. Grows rapidly and is nutritious and mana-rich. Can be found next to the decomposing meats of magical creatures.

I sampled one of them, chewing it while thinking. With a bit of warm oil or butter, maybe a bit of garlic… I could cook them on skewers. It wouldn’t take much.

I stared at the mushroom in my hand with the bite missing from its side and all.

That… was a great idea.

I had seen a few merchants around the dungeon selling things. All I’d need was something like a hot-plate, maybe a small stand of sorts. Butter was relatively cheap. Garlic couldn’t cost that much, and I didn’t need much to flavour things. Mana-rich food would sell well around the dungeon.

But as with all of my other problems, I needed some capital to be able to kick start that project. Still… I like the idea. It would be nice to earn some coin doing what I liked. Mom already sold a bit of our surplus to some locals she knew for a bit of extra money. This would be the same thing but at a bigger scale.

I packed everything away while chewing on the last of the mushroom, then darted out of the farm. “Debra!” I called to the bundle not too far off.

Debra raised her head and blinked. “Hmm?”

“Hey, do you know where I could buy… like, a really small portable stove? I mean something really small that I could carry.”

She eyed me. “You couldn’t carry much, you know. Coal stoves are heavy. Maybe one of those little gas lamps?”

I nodded. That could work. I knew kerosene lamps, or something similar, were pretty common. There was electricity in this world. We had incandescent lighting nearly everywhere, though bulbs went missing in the slums all the time. They tended to last a long time, much longer than those back on Earth.

I hadn’t seen anything battery-powered though, and I hadn’t seen a single wall-socket yet, let alone anything designed to plug into one. Maybe in the houses of people significantly richer than we were.

So, no electrical hot-plate for me. Debra’s idea wasn’t terrible. “Know where I could get one of those?” I asked.

“Check the Gutterside market?” she asked. “There’s plenty of shops there. They should have what you’re looking for.”

“Where’s that?” I asked.

“Next to the Gutter,” she said.

I shrugged. “What’s the Gutter?”

Debra looked up to me. “Oh. Well, I suppose it’s a little ways away from here.” She fixed her blankets around herself, then stood up. “Not doing anything better, I suppose. I’ll show you. Don’t need you getting lost.”

“Oh, well, thanks,” I said. Going with her would be a bit slower than running across the city myself, but there was no accounting for potential time lost getting… well, lost.

Debra shuffled ahead of me, then found a stairwell up to a layer above. “So, what are you needing a stove for?”

“I was thinking I could make money selling mushrooms,” I said.

“Don’t you sell a few already?” she asked.

“A few, here or there. But I’m looking to the future. I think I could make more selling them cooked. Get some skewers and a flame, coat them in something that smells nice. Could sell them for more than I can sell an individual mushroom, you know?”

Debra laughed. “We have ourselves a little Bill Worthington here.”

“Who’s that?” I asked.

“Ah, he’s famous. Started as a nobody way back when. Started a little business all on his own out of his home. Then he opened a shop, then a factory. Started by making straw hats, I think. Then a few decades down the line he had ten factories making everything from hats to farming machines. Everyone knows his story. His motto was ‘A week’s hard work is worth an hour’s pause.’”

Well, he sounded insufferable. “I’m just trying to make enough to keep my family healthy,” I said.

“You’re a good kid, then,” she said.

She didn’t know that some of my plans involved dealing with a possibly homicidal and definitely unpopular goddess who whispered sweet nothings into my dreams.

We crossed the city, soon leaving the spots that I knew and heading deeper into the slums.

It’s strange, but I thought that I lived in the worst parts. As it turns out, even our lows weren’t the lowest things could go. The mood shifted as we continued heading more or less northward. The buildings here were far more dilapidated and rough, older, and with less maintenance done to them.

Around my bit of the slums, it wasn’t hard to find neighbours chatting or people joking around. Sure, there were beggars and homeless folk, but they were mostly just around to rest. If they were going to beg, they’d usually do it next to the busier roads away from the district. Some people there actually had extra they could afford to give away.

Here, there were no such beggars.

Debra and I stepped over a body, some teenager left in the middle of the road with a gash in his back. They didn’t even bother leaving the knife in.

We picked up the pace as we crossed homes where downtrodden women stood next to families with a dozen or more children. They were all flesh and bones.

I think the flies were the worst part.

“I’m sorry,” Debra said. “Should have gone around and taken the main road, but the Bullies don’t look kindly on anyone beggar-looking.”

“It’s fine,” I said.

The area changed as we reached a small break in the houses. A wall split the area apart. It wasn’t all that big, but it was a clear cut across the slums. On the other side were big factories with lots around them.

We skirted around the edge of those, then made it to a busy street where cargo was being moved back and forth.

“That over there’s the Gutter,” Debra said as she pointed.

A river. There was a river cutting across the city, and not a little one either.

“Oh,” I said. “Let’s check it out then?”

***