Like the soft morning light over the Dawn Tavern or the fine wine served by the fine Wine Lady, Annan had always thought that "ghost" was just a prefix noun for gold mines. Yet he didn't expect "haunting" to be an actual verb.
By the time Annan came to his senses, the ghost had vanished, and Martin was nowhere to be seen.
Picking up the pickaxe Martin had dropped, Annan retraced his steps with an oil lamp in hand. Soon, he found Martin, who was holding a broken pickaxe and relentlessly digging at the rock wall in the darkness.
The scene looked as though Martin had been possessed by an evil spirit.
"What are you doing?" Annan asked.
"Mining."
"Was that a ghost?"
Martin replied calmly, "Ghosts are just the spirits of dead miners. They wander the mines day after day, aimlessly. There's nothing to fear."
"Where's your pickaxe?" Annan questioned, gesturing to the two pickaxes he carried.
"Here it is," Martin said, lifting his broken pickaxe and staring at it in surprise. "Why is it broken?"
After handing a pickaxe to Martin, Annan couldn't help but recall the ghost's behavior—it had seemed eerily similar to Martin's. Perhaps ghosts weren't as terrifying as he'd imagined? Nevertheless, just to be safe, Annan led Martin back to the shallow layers of the mine and switched to a section where other miners were working.
The steady clanging of tools echoing from deeper within the tunnels brought a small sense of security.
A few minutes later, sore from the exertion, Annan crawled out of the cramped tunnel previously dug by other miners. Resting beside the oil lamp, he watched as Martin continued to swing his pickaxe in the narrow space.
Old Zoren paid them 60 copper coins a day, but Martin barely earned his share—at best, 55 copper coins.
After a brief rest, Annan noticed the rhythm of the pickaxe strikes had suddenly grown uneven. Moments later, accompanied by the clinking of iron chains, a pair of bare feet appeared at the edge of the oil lamp's glow.
The figure was covered in dark brown skin, dressed in tattered linen. The iron pickaxe in its hand looked oversized for a human, but in its grip, it resembled a toy meant for children.
As the figure stepped closer, the hood fell back, revealing a pair of horns protruding from its forehead.
"We meet again," it said.
"Is it you?" Annan recognized the half-minotaur instantly.
"Stay away from my cousin!" A sudden shout rang out from the narrow tunnel behind them.
Remembering Aunt Susan's instructions, Martin grabbed his pickaxe and charged forward. But in his haste, he forgot how low the tunnel was. His head slammed into the rock ceiling, and he collapsed unconscious.
Annan looked down at Martin in silence. When it came to disappointing others, Martin never failed to deliver.
The minotaur glanced at Martin's unconscious form and spoke in a low voice. "Don't be nervous, boy. I won't hurt you."
"I know," Annan replied, remaining seated. He was certain no one would get hurt—except, perhaps, Martin.
"You don't look like family," the minotaur remarked. Martin's tawny hair was in stark contrast to Annan's dust-covered gray hair, which had been black before.
"It's just adoption..." Annan answered dismissively. Then, eyeing the heavy chains around the minotaur's ankles, he asked, "Are you free?"
Clang.
The minotaur stepped out of the shadows, allowing the light to reveal the thick iron shackles on its legs. "Not quite. I was sold to the gold mine."
"I'm curious..." the minotaur began, its deep voice resonating in the narrow space. "Why do you show kindness to a bastard with dirty blood?"
Annan took a moment to process the question. Finally, he answered, "I've seen the holiest succubus and the ugliest Holy Light believers."
The line wasn't his own; he'd borrowed it from the bards, who had likely stolen it from somewhere else. Their stories spoke of chaste succubi and lustful elves—paradoxes that carried a strange truth.
"Did you encounter a ghost, too?" Annan asked as the minotaur prepared to leave.
The minotaur nodded. "It's no surprise. Gold mines are where the most brutal sides of humanity are laid bare."
Annan didn't fully understand, but it sounded plausible. "See you next time."
The half-minotaur left with the clinking of iron chains. Annan watched its figure dissolve into the darkness and wondered if his own curiosity had drawn the creature back to speak.
"Hmm..." A muffled groan interrupted his thoughts. Martin sat up, clutching his forehead. "Where's that monster..."
"It didn't knock you out," Annan replied flatly.
"I'll get it next time!" Martin declared, gripping his pickaxe unsteadily.
Annan thought to himself, It didn't even react, and you still managed to lose.
Martin, still dizzy, couldn't continue working. Annan pressed on for another ten minutes before exhaustion forced him to emerge from the mine with limp arms. Old Zoren arrived to inspect their progress, his expression a mix of irritation and concern—or perhaps the stale air was simply getting to him.
Due to Martin's injury, Zoren allowed them both to stop for the day.
As they left the dark, oppressive mine, Annan carried a basket that seemed to contain ore. The fresh air and warm sunlight outside had never felt so beautiful. Old Zoren took the basket back to the shed, returning shortly after with an empty one. His single good leg trembled as he walked—another day without results, Annan guessed.
"We'll try again tomorrow," Zoren muttered, setting down a new basket. Inside were loaves of coarse, dark bread and a bowl of salted peas.
The sour peas paired surprisingly well with the cold, hard bread. Old Zoren wasn't a bad man—just impatient. He was paying them 60 copper coins a day, after all. If he were lucky enough to find a gold nugget the size of a fist, it would all pay off.
As Annan and Martin ate in front of the shed, commotion erupted at the mine entrance. Miners spilled out of the tunnel, their frantic shouts punctuated by the screeching of bats. Words like "ghosts" and "spirits" echoed in the chaos.
It seemed others had encountered the ghost as well.
Some miners outright refused to re-enter the mine. The foremen gathered to discuss a solution, with Old Zoren standing among them, looking out of place.
Annan's gaze shifted to the half-minotaur, now sitting in front of a small house, flipping through a worn, yellowed book. Bathed in sunlight, it looked more like a scholar than a laborer.
The foremen eventually devised a plan: they summoned a mage apprentice and assembled a group of miners who could fight. Among them was the half-minotaur.
As dusk fell, miners emerged from the haunted tunnels, claiming to have driven the undead away. Annan couldn't tell if it was true, but he resolved to stay near the entrance tomorrow—no matter how much Old Zoren begged.
Later, in the fading light, Annan sharpened a charcoal pencil and, recalling tales of ghosts from bards, scrawled on a piece of papyrus:
"To the kindest undead:
I know you exist, and I know we're not welcome. But we're only here to mine. I hope you'll give us a chance and leave us be."
After reviewing his crooked writing, Annan handed the note to Martin and headed toward the woods, stomach churning. The salted peas weren't sour after all.
Minutes later, Annan returned to find the note haphazardly stuck to the door. Unbothered, he stepped inside, not noticing that the papyrus had fallen and stuck to his foot as he walked to bed.