The labor was grueling, a rhythmic punishment of bending, lifting, and hauling that left Jack's muscles burning in a way that felt entirely too real for a simulation. The tropical sun, now high and merciless, beat down on the back of his neck as they dragged the spoils of the Lucky Strike above the high-tide line, depositing them near the treeline where the shade offered a modicum of relief.
It wasn't just driftwood and splintered hull plating, either. As they sifted through the tangle of seaweed and foam, true treasures began to reveal themselves, things that made Jack's heart rate spike with the thrill of acquisition.
"Grab that ring," Jack grunted, pointing toward a flash of orange bobbing in the surf.
Jerico waded out, snagging a heavy-duty life ring, while Jack wrestled a tangled mess of nylon mesh onto the dry sand. It was a fishing net, torn in places but largely intact, and crucially, it still had its buoyant handles attached. Untangling it revealed even more prizes caught in the snarl: three Personal Flotation Devices—the vest kind, stained with grease but functional—and a hard plastic buoy connected to a length of frayed blue rope.
"Pull the line," Jack instructed, breathless as he dropped the net. "See what's on the end."
Jerico hauled on the rope hand-over-hand, his biceps flexing under his wet canvas jacket. Breaking the surface with a splash was a wire-mesh box. A crab trap. It was battered, but the door mechanism still snapped shut with a satisfying clank.
"Dinner," Jerico muttered, a hint of approval in his voice as he tossed it onto the pile.
Jack's eyes scanned the rest of the haul. A white plastic box with a red cross, sealed tight against the elements—a first aid kit. Next to it, a smaller, bright orange waterproof case. Jack cracked the latch on the smaller case, revealing a flare gun and a handful of shells. He snapped it shut immediately; that was a weapon, or a fire starter, or a signal. It was power.
"We can't carry all this," Jack noted, looking at the mounting pile. His inventory was full of wood, and Jerico's smaller grid was quickly reaching capacity.
He kicked one of the three large blue plastic barrels they had rolled up the beach. "These are storage. If the System works like I think it does, items don't despawn if they're in a container. We wash these out, cut the tops off one or two, and use them for bulk storage. Water, fish, spare wood."
Jerico didn't answer immediately. He was staring at a coil of hemp twine he'd scavenged from the wreckage, holding it in one hand while gripping a smooth, fist-sized river stone he'd found near the tree roots in the other.
Suddenly, the older man's posture shifted. The tension and confusion that had defined his arrival seemed to evaporate, replaced by a strange, focused calm.
"You okay?" Jack asked, pausing in his sorting.
"The menu," Jerico said, his voice distant. "It changed."
Jack stepped closer. "You unlocked Crafting."
Jerico looked up, a wry, almost incredulous grin breaking through his rugged stubble. "My best friend's kid... he plays this game. Survival Island or something. Never understood the appeal. You punch trees, you pick up rocks." He looked down at the stone in his hand. "I used to tell him it was a waste of time. Now I'm looking at a blueprint floating in my eyeballs telling me how to tie a knot I've been tying for thirty years."
"Use it," Jack urged, watching intently. "Show me."
Jerico sat cross-legged in the sand. He didn't move with the mechanical jerkiness of a video game character; his movements were fluid, but guided. He placed a thick branch on the sand—wood he had pulled from the flotsam—and set the stone against it. With the twine, he began to lash the stone to the wood.
It was fascinating to watch. Jack could see the man's hands moving with a speed and precision that suggested the System was correcting his technique in real-time, tightening the knots, adjusting the angle of the stone head.
Within thirty seconds, Jerico held up a crude tool.
[ Stone Mallet ]
"It's flimsy," Jerico critiqued, weighing it in his hand. "Good for maybe a dozen hits before the lashing gives or the handle snaps. But it's enough."
He didn't stop there. He reached for another stone, a larger piece of grey slate. Holding his new mallet, he struck the slate with a sharp, calculated blow. Crack. The stone shattered, flaking off a large, razor-sharp shard.
Jack watched, mesmerized, as Jerico discarded the mallet, took the sharp stone shard, a fresh piece of sturdy driftwood, and more twine. The process repeated, but this time the result was a weapon. A tool.
[ Stone Axe ]
Jerico stood up, swinging the stone axe through the air. It whooshed menacingly. "Crude. But it'll cut wood better than my bare hands."
Jack nodded, impressed, but his mind was already drifting back to the numbers. The Entrepreneur in him was always counting.
He walked over to a piece of driftwood that Jerico had missed. As his fingers closed around it and willed it into his inventory, a small text notification floated in the periphery of his vision.
[ +0.5 Resource Points ]
Interesting.
He walked a few feet further down the wet sand where the tide was still receding. Half-buried in the silt was a large, white clam, its shell tightly shut. He dug it out and stored it.
[ +1.0 Resource Points ]
[ New Resource Discovered: Giant White Clam ]
Jack paused, the formula clicking into place. Farming known resources—basic wood, rocks, sand—gave a pittance. Half a point. It was a grind. But discovery... discovery paid double. The System wanted him to explore, to find new things, not just hoard the old ones.
He looked back at Jerico, who was now using his stone axe to break down a larger piece of the boat hull, feeding the scraps into his inventory. Jack watched the man work, waiting for the notification. He waited for his own RP counter to tick up.
Nothing.
Jack frowned, checking the log. No points.
So that's the catch, he thought, eyes narrowing slightly as he watched his new employee work. I don't get credit for their labor. If Jerico picks it up, he gets the utility, but I don't get the currency.
It was a crucial distinction. It meant Jack couldn't just sit on a throne and let his minions farm points for him. If he wanted to expand the island, if he wanted to summon more people or buy upgrades, he had to get his hands dirty. He had to be the one picking up the rocks, chopping the trees, and finding the clams.
"Keep breaking that down," Jack called out, turning back to the treeline with a renewed sense of purpose. "I'm going to scout the perimeter. We need more points."