Point Exchanges Dungeon Collector - Chapter 2

Chapter 2: Leveling Up Through Point Exchanges

"Ahh... today's haul wasn't half bad either."

Dusk — though in this third floor, where the sun never sets, any "sense of time" comes down entirely to the body's internal clock. Back at the tent, I rolled my shoulders and let out a stretch. Then, with the pleasant fatigue of a day's trading behind me, I sat down on the mat spread over the ground.

The negotiations went about as expected. A few people and I couldn't agree on a price, but that was already factored in. I'd secured what I was after, and cleared out most of the surplus stock besides.

"Now then... let's see what today brought in."

Muttering that, I gave a light snap of my fingers. A moment later, a translucent panel drifted into the center of my vision. Tinted faintly blue, it hung in the air, quietly displaying information.

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——【Recovery Potion (Empty Bottle): 10P】

——【Broken Magisteel Sword: 1,500P】

——【Total Points Held: 2,010,225P】

——【Exchangeable Item List】

At the end of dozens of transaction logs, the total point count stood proudly on display.

"Oh, it's been a while... broke two million, did it."

I narrowed my eyes slightly, a smile tugging at the corner of my mouth. Thinking back to the first time I picked up a single empty can for one measly point, this number felt like a real achievement.

"Guess it's about time I took on the next floor..."

Muttering to myself, I tapped a finger against the "Exchangeable Item List" floating on the panel. There was a light beep, the panel flickered once, and a new list unfolded.

"If I remember right, the experience points needed for the next level were... just under a million."

I searched through the list for what I wanted. I remembered the name — the "Advanced Experience Conversion Orb." Squinting, I scrolled through — and there it was.

Tap.

In an instant, a small vortex of light bloomed in front of me, and as it converged, a palm-sized, rainbow-colored orb drifted gently into the air.

"...Whoa, flashy. Guess that's what a million experience points buys you."

Light drifted across its surface like scattered particles, glowing as it slowly shifted color. Watching it pulse as if it had a will of its own, I found myself smiling, seeing a little of my old self in it.

"Takes me back — there was a time a single thousand-point orb had me on edge."

I reached out gently and set the orb in my palm. Sliding my fingers around it, I closed my hand and pressed down —

— and with a sensation like a silent pop, the orb burst apart into motes of light. In the next instant, the light was drawn into every part of my body, an invisible surge of heat racing through me from head to toe.

"...Phew."

A few seconds of silence. Then, opening and closing my hand, I checked the "inside" of my newly changed body. My nerves felt clear all the way to my fingertips, and my vision seemed just a touch sharper.

"There we go."

Just to be sure, I pulled the Checker out of the inner pocket of my coat. A thin, card-shaped device — when I closed my hand loosely around it, a string of text rose to the surface.

【Race: Human】

【Level: 56】

【Experience: 24,066,802】

【Vitality: 352 (+5)】

【Mana: 124 (+2)】

【Strength: 268 (+3)】

【Spirit: 366 (+6)】

【Evasion: 652 (+9)】

【Luck: 23 (+1)】

"Oh, even my Luck went up."

The words slipped out on their own, and I nodded, pleased. That "+" modifier is the increase gained on leveling up, and the amount is random. Apparently, though, aptitude and other factors can shift which direction it leans. Luck, as you can see, is the stat that tends not to rise at all more often than the others.

Which reminds me —

Gotou, from earlier. The last time I got a look at his Checker, the numbers went something like this.

【Race: Human】

【Level: 15】

【Experience: 7,802】

【Vitality: 92】

【Mana: 8】

【Strength: 65】

【Spirit: 42】

【Evasion: 28】

【Luck: 3】

...A wry laugh slipped out of me. The stats spoke for themselves, but the gap in experience points alone was staggering.

Experience points. They're the fuel for growth, and could be called this world's "invisible currency" — and with every level gained, they're demanded, no argument allowed.

For "ordinary humans" — meaning your run-of-the-mill adventurer — the ways to earn experience points are quite limited. The most orthodox, the most reliable, is still hunting monsters.

Grotesque things that appear throughout the dungeon. Some are cut down by the sword, some burned away by magic, and sometimes a group works together to take one down. Each time, "experience points" are added to whoever landed the kill.

"It's just like a game," someone said once — I don't remember who started that line. But honestly, it hits the mark. After all, monsters don't just give experience points — every now and then, they drop items too.

A grimoire that appears without a single scratch. A shard of metal wrapped in light. Something is always left behind — inconsistent in shape and material, unmistakably not a part of whatever monster had been standing there.

Utterly unscientific. A phenomenon that shatters common sense head-on.

When dungeons first began appearing, the older generation and academics threw themselves into figuring out this absurdity somehow. Gravitational fields, quantum interference, unknown particles, optical illusions, theories of artificial phenomena — every hypothesis imaginable flew around, and research funding poured out like water.

"They'll just chalk it up to some 'dimensional distortion' and call it a day, won't they?" I remember saying something like that back then, half-joking.

In the end, the mystery stayed a mystery. Scientists are still scratching their heads over it to this day — but as for us people actually working the field —

"Well, if it drops, you pick it up, and if it's useful, you use it."

That's about the attitude — we've folded this "phenomenon" into everyday life without a second thought.

Besides, monsters aren't the only source of items. Sometimes "treasure chests" show up inside the dungeon — wooden, fitted with metal hardware, a little lid and all, exactly like something out of a picture book. They appear just as abruptly, and just as randomly. It looked so much like something straight out of a video game that everyone doubted their own eyes at first, but by now it's just a familiar sight.

But what's inside them could sometimes be worth an absurd amount.

Not just tools needed for fighting or exploring inside the dungeon, either. Some of what turned up was, without question, genuinely "useful" out in the real world too.

Herbs with the power to cure illness. Fabric with an abnormal degree of durability. Crystals and alloys that don't exist anywhere in nature —

"It still works once you're back in the real world." That single fact alone is the biggest reason the item market has gone out of control.

The value of dungeon items keeps drawing attention precisely because they blur the line between "this world" and "that world."

That's exactly why every fighter out there says the same thing.

"Experience points matter, sure — but items are the real prize."

That's the silent, shared understanding among today's explorers.

* * *

This is only a partial finding, but — a research team at some university has apparently finally pinned down the existence of an unknown molecular structure in the makeup of items excavated from the dungeon.

"An entirely new bonding structure that doesn't exist anywhere in nature," some said, or "a stability that can't be explained by existing theory," said others — and for a while, the academic world was thrown into an uproar, like a kicked hornet's nest.

Well, for those of us actually working the field, honestly, molecular structure and all that was neither here nor there.

What mattered was the simple fact that dungeon-sourced items actually worked.

Once that was proven, the tide turned dramatically.

In the beginning, the world had said, all in one voice: "Too dangerous." "Something with an unknown structure and unknown origin has no business being used." Newspapers, TV, scholars, bureaucrats — every one of them, without exception, was dead against it.

But then —

Once a real track record started piling up, human beings turned out to be exactly as greedy as you'd expect. Medicine that actually cured you. Swords that never broke. Fabric that cleaned itself. The instant it became clear all of it was real, reproducible, and — best of all — sellable, everyone's attitude did a complete about-face.

"Can't this technology be applied to civilian use?" "It should be managed at the national level." "Legislation needs to be pushed forward to protect dungeon resources." — all of a sudden, everyone put on their most dignified face, and the scramble for a piece of the pie began.

It all happened at a dizzying speed.

Legislation was put in place almost overnight, and a nationwide system for tracking item origins and managing buybacks was built. An explorer registration system, floor-by-floor permits, safety standards — bureaucrats who usually couldn't be bothered to lift a finger suddenly displayed an almost unnerving level of competence, hammering the whole framework into place.

"Hey now, where'd they all go — those guys who kept quiet because they didn't want to take responsibility for anything?"

Everyone who remembered the old uproar laughed and said as much, all in agreement. And of course, I was one of them.

But even as I laughed along, inside I was laughing wryly. Because — this whole turn of events was, to me, exactly what it meant to be human.

Even something dangerous — the moment it turns out useful, people flip on a dime. Everyone wants to be the first to claim a monopoly on it. And then they fence off that stake with something called "law," and rule over it under the name of "management."

Items carrying that kind of bizarre worth — I can pull them freely into these hands of mine. Or rather, onto this panel.

The method is dead simple. Use "trash." That's all there is to it.

Reach out a finger, and the translucent panel hovering in the air responds. Operable almost like a pair of smart glasses, it's now become the single most reliable "asset management tool" I have.

Of course, it's not like just anything can be turned into points.

There are conditions.

— it has to be "something within reach of my own two hands," and, on top of that, "something recognized as 'trash.'"

That restriction had me stumped at first, but once I got used to it, it was nothing. If anything, figuring out how to work within it was the real key to surviving in this world.

The interesting part is that no matter how broken something is, or how used up, the point conversion works out the same as it would for something brand new.

Take an empty potion bottle, say, or a talisman whose effect has completely burned out — each converts to roughly one-hundredth of its "original value" in points.

"If a single piece of trash can buy you the future, that's a pretty convenient arrangement."

Inside the tent, in front of a panel lit by lantern light, I muttered that to myself. I have no idea when this abnormal system came into being, or why. All I can say for certain is this: if it can be used, then I'll use it for all it's worth.

These days, I've made a name for myself as a "scavenger," a "trader." I buy up the "worthless things" picked up inside the dungeon — what most people would just call "junk" — in exchange for cash or useful items. On the surface it looks like barter, but behind the scenes, the real point is turning it all into points through the panel.

Cash, well, that circulates normally out in the world same as ever. But items — those are a different story.

For ordinary people, the ways to get their hands on an item are limited. A drop from a monster, or finding a treasure chest if they're lucky. Or buying whatever's already made it to market from an auction or a dealer.

But in this world, even everyday-use items have unstable supply, and when it comes to "rare items" nobody uses day to day, winning one at auction eats up a mountain of money, time, and paperwork.

"On that front, I'm a different story."

In the wooden crates stacked at the back of the tent, I'd already set aside a few reserved orders. Tell me what you want ahead of time, and I'll trade points to secure the stock myself. It costs a bit more, but it's certain — no bidding against anyone, no wasting time on tedious paperwork.

And on top of that — you can offload whatever items you don't need anymore while you're at it.

"With all that, why wouldn't you use it?"

A smile came to my lips without meaning to. — But of course, it's not all good news.

Under the name of "trash collection," no small number of the things I gather have been classified by the Association or the government as "hazardous materials." Fragments with structures beyond human understanding, the remains of magic tools that no longer respond. That some of them might be "capable of being reused" is not something publicly acknowledged.

Thanks to that, I'm on the radar of the national oversight bureau.

"Possible illegal possession of hazardous materials." "Unauthorized resale." "Illegal recirculation of items." —

Thankfully, for now, it's stayed at the warning stage. No open investigation, no punishment. But I can feel the number of eyes quietly fixed on my back growing, day by day.

"Well... I suppose I can handle whatever comes, the way things are now."

I flicked the panel with a fingertip, and closed the dimly glowing screen.

Smirking to myself, I found myself thinking back to the first time this panel had ever appeared before me — and further back still, to when dungeons had first appeared in the world.