Midnight in Ravengate wasn't exactly prime shopping time, which is why the glowing shopfront on Tarnish Alley stood out so conspicuously. "Finch's Curiosities & Oddments" proclaimed a creaking wooden sign, swinging gently despite the absence of wind. Beneath it, in smaller letters: "Open whenever catastrophe looms."
I'd spent the rest of the day hesitating between ignoring the message entirely and arming myself to the teeth. In the end, curiosity won out, as it usually does right before someone gets killed in a dungeon. I'd compromised by bringing my Kobold Fang Dagger and the minor healing potion, both concealed but accessible.
The shop windows displayed a bewildering array of items: stuffed creatures in anatomically improbable poses, jars of liquid containing objects that occasionally moved, weapons that seemed designed for appendages humans didn't possess, and in the center, a small placard reading "Receipt Collection – Inquire Within."
Well, that was direct enough.
A bell jingled as I pushed open the door, releasing a cloud of incense that smelled like cinnamon mixed with old books. The interior was even more cluttered than the windows suggested. Every surface covered with display cases, shelves overflowing with oddities, hanging specimens dangling from the ceiling. Narrow pathways wound between the chaos like dungeon corridors.
"You're late," called a raspy voice from somewhere in the back. "Punctuality is a virtue in receipt-bearers. Or it was in my day."
I followed the voice, weaving through the maze of curiosities until I reached a small cleared space containing a counter, behind which sat possibly the oldest man I'd ever seen. His face was a map of wrinkles, with bright blue eyes that seemed too large and too young for the rest of him. Wispy white hair stuck out at odd angles, and a pair of magnifying spectacles perched on his forehead caught the light.
"You sent me the package," I said. Not a question.
"Observant too. Promising." He hopped down from his stool, a surprising feat of agility for someone who looked old enough to remember the first dungeon appearance, and stuck out a hand. "Finch. Formerly D-rank, if you can believe it. Just like you."
I shook his hand cautiously. "Jin Harker."
"I know who you are, boy. Why do you think I sent you that little replica? Just for giggles?" He snorted, shuffling around the counter to flip the shop's door sign to "Closed." "Let's see your proof, then."
I hesitated. "Proof of what, exactly?"
"That you're a receipt-bearer, obviously." He rolled his eyes with the exaggerated patience of someone explaining basic arithmetic to a particularly dense child. "The replica receipt? The note saying 'bring proof'? Any of this penetrating that thick skull of yours?"
"I don't have the receipt anymore," I admitted. "It disappeared after I used the points."
This seemed to interest him. "Did it now? And what did you spend them on?" His eyes studied me with sudden intensity, as if searching for visible purchases.
"A dagger and a healing potion. Later, a skill book."
"The Kobold Fang at your hip, I assume?" When I failed to hide my surprise, he cackled. "Don't look so shocked. I recognize receipt-purchased items. Had plenty myself, back in the day." He squinted at me. "Trap Detection skill, if I had to guess. Explains how you spotted those pressure plates in the central chamber."
A chill ran through me. "How could you possibly—"
"Know about your little adventure in the Crimson Labyrinth?" Finch grinned, revealing surprisingly intact teeth. "This shop isn't just for show, boy. I collect things. Information's just another collectible, and often more valuable than the junk I sell to tourists."
He beckoned me to follow him through a beaded curtain at the back of the shop. Beyond was a small sitting room that seemed the physical embodiment of the word "cluttered", books piled in teetering towers, maps covering every wall, and display cases holding an array of unusual objects.
"Sit," Finch instructed, pointing to an overstuffed chair. "Tea?"
"No, thanks." I remained standing. "I want answers, not refreshments."
"Suit yourself." He shuffled over to a particularly ornate display case and unlocked it with a key from around his neck. "But you'll be here a while, so you might as well be comfortable."
Reluctantly, I sat. The chair exhaled a cloud of dust that made me cough.
"Now then," Finch said, retrieving something from the case, "let's establish our bona fides, shall we?" He turned, holding an object that made my breath catch.
A receipt. Not crystal, not replicated, but an actual, glowing blue dungeon receipt, somehow preserved beyond its normal brief existence.
"How did you—"
"Preservation enchantment," he said, setting it carefully on a small table between us. "Extremely expensive. Worth every coin." The receipt's text was still visible, listing fifteen deaths and 1,500 points. "The Howling Chasm disaster, thirty-six years ago. My first receipt. Rather memorable day, all things considered."
I stared at the preserved receipt, then back at Finch. "You were a receipt-bearer."
"Still am, technically, though the power goes dormant when you stop adventuring." He settled into a chair opposite mine. "Once you've been marked by the system, it never quite leaves you. Like dungeon mold — gets in the cracks and stays forever."
"Why did you contact me?" I asked, cutting to the heart of the matter.
"Because you're making rookie mistakes, and it's painful to watch." Finch leaned forward, those too-young blue eyes suddenly intense. "Joining Blackwood's expedition specifically hoping for casualties? Planning your next move based on point calculations? Amateur hour, boy."
Heat rose to my face. "You don't know what—"
"Oh, but I do." He tapped his temple. "Been where you are. Made the same mistakes. Watched friends die and thought, 'Well, at least I got something out of it.' Calculated which dungeons had the best death-to-point ratios." His expression softened slightly. "And then wondered why the system stopped working for me."
That got my attention. "The Crimson Labyrinth. I didn't get a receipt when Dain died."
"Of course you didn't." Finch snorted. "The receipt system doesn't reward calculation or exploitation. It's not a consistent resource you can farm."
"Then what is it?" I demanded, frustration breaking through. "What's the point of a power that only works sometimes, unpredictably?"
"What's the point of life? What's the point of dungeons appearing in the first place?" Finch shrugged. "The universe isn't generally concerned with our convenience, boy."
I took a deep breath, forcing patience. "Fine. Then can you at least tell me when it does work? What triggers a receipt?"
Finch considered this, absently stroking a stuffed creature on a nearby shelf that looked like a cross between a rabbit and an octopus.
"In my experience," he said finally, "receipts appear when three conditions are met. First, you witness deaths you didn't cause or expect. Second, those deaths affect you emotionally, the system can tell the difference between genuine shock and calculated indifference. And third..." He hesitated.
"Third?" I prompted.
"You have to be chosen." He said it simply, as if it were obvious. "The system picks specific people at specific times. Not everyone who witnesses dungeon deaths gets receipts."
"Chosen by what? Or whom?"
"That's the million gold question, isn't it?" Finch winked. "Gods? The dungeons themselves? Some cosmic accountant keeping tabs? No one knows for sure."
I processed this, connecting it to my experiences. The kobold warren deaths had genuinely shocked and horrified me, despite my survival instinct. The Crimson Labyrinth expedition, by contrast, I'd joined specifically hoping for casualties and points.
"So the system... what? Has a moral code?" I asked skeptically.
Finch burst into wheezing laughter. "The system that rewards you for witnessing gruesome deaths with magical shopping points? Not exactly the moral high ground, is it?" He wiped his eyes. "No, it's not about morality. It's about balance."
"Balance between what?"
"Those who profit from death and those who cause it." Finch's humor vanished. His bright blue eyes fixed on me with surprising intensity.