The sun hadn't fully cleared the rooftops when I stepped through the battered gates of the warehouse district.
Old habits die hard; a survivor always returns to what they know.
For me, that meant the same job as before, shuffling crates and getting barked at for not working faster, day after day.
I expected my nerves to betray me, maybe a twitch, or something off that would give it away.
But if anything, my new body seemed eager to move. There was a tension and spring to every step, a strength eager to surface.
Don't show off, I reminded myself.
Of course, I blew it up the moment I entered the work yard.
Jojen, the biggest of the crew, was already there, unloading the fish trucks with two others. He froze mid-joke when he saw me, jaw slack.
"Draven? Since when did you eat steel for breakfast?" he blurted.
"Had a rough few days," I said, flexing my fingers absently.
"You weren't this…" He gestured over my favorite shirt, now clinging tighter to new shoulders. "…built. What happened, man? You run into a miracle doctor?"
The rest of the guys circled up, tossing me mock punches and slaps to "check if the muscles were real."
I grinned and dodged. Some things, it turned out, were enjoyable.
I guess change isn't so bad after all.
"Guess all that crate-lifting paid off?" I offered.
It didn't take long for the jokes to fade and talk to slide back to the usual.
What was for lunch, who lost money at cards last night, who was dating whose cousin, all blending into the background noise.
But the peace didn't last.
About an hour into the morning shift, my phone buzzed violently. I wiped my hands on my pants before answering.
PING. PING. PING.
[Breaking News]
Hero Saves Market. Mysterious Man Stops Attacker!
There I was, blurry but unmistakable, captured by at least a dozen different handsets: helping Mazu, the moment of the scuffle, the fight's end. Comments streamed below:
"Who is he?"
"That punch! Did you see the flame?"
"Emberflame user? But records show no one with that power in this area."
"I swear, I've seen that guy at Westfield market!"
My heart jumped into my throat. For a moment, paranoia sharpened every sense.
Were people already watching me now? Would the police come?
Jojen leaned over. "Is that…?"
Before he could get the word out, I shut my phone and pocketed it.
I didn't want to cause trouble for myself.
If the people around me knew about my power, it wouldn't be helpful.
I muttered, ignoring the sudden swarm of questions. "Back to work."
I tried, but my focus was poor. Every second brick I lifted, I caught faces peering through fences, pausing half a beat too long.
It seems like people weren't fully convinced that it was me but they were still curious.
My Shift passed, every movement, every skipped beat punctuated by the Trickster's silent reminders.
I ducked away at lunch, completed my situps, and did some jumping jacks.
For "ask someone about their day," I asked Jojen. It seems like he was pleased.
He had things going on in his life that he told me about. He was relieved that he could finally talk to someone.
For "help a woman cross the street," an old lady appeared and required help. I assisted her across the road, and she gave me a thank you, and I was on my way.
All my tasks were done for the day.
The system didn't make a big show, but the moment the tasks were done, I felt it:
[Cycle 2 Complete – Upgrades applied: Strength +1, Senses +1]
Power rippled through me.
A refreshing wave lighting all my nerves.
My grip seemed firmer, every sound in the warehouse a note I could pick apart, every smell more distinct.
Not invincible. Not even close. But real.
After work, I ducked into a shabby weapons shop.
If I want to get stronger, I need to get a weapon for myself.
The racks were lined with castoff blades, reinforced sticks, even some old artifact remnants; anything was better than bare fists.
Something that I can infuse my power with that also packs a punch.
"Looking for practice swords?" the owner asked, eyes flitting up and down my frame.
"No. Real ones. Something sturdy."
"Those are in the backroom. Follow me." I followed him back to the backroom.
I entered and found a room filled with multiple insane swords.
All of them were perfect. But one of them caught my eye.
It was a long sword, like a claymore. It was orange, sharp and powerful. It was perfect.
"This is the one." I looked at it with stars in my eyes.
"How much?" I asked.
He quoted the price.
FUCK
I counted my crumpled salary—still far, far short.
"Come back next payday," he said with a wink, already turning away.
Great. I barely have enough for bread, and fighting is supposed to make money, not cost it.
I left with nothing but frustration, which turned to resolve as the Trickster's screen glimmered again.
In a world like this, there was always a way to make money if you didn't plan to stay pretty.
The city's job boards were full of requests, but the high‑pay ones risked contact with the real monsters: Essence Storms.
ESSENCE STORM – AREA 12. Bounty for monster clearance. Clean out all threats for administration repair squad.
Perfect.
Essence Storms, teeth of the new world.
They appeared when Essence pooled, forming swirling zones where everything warped: earth twisted, metal bent, creatures changed, and power ran wild.
Anyone near a storm without essence died, or worse.
That's why the Essence Administration existed.
An institution controlling several factions that trained essence users to protect, police, and remediate these phenomena.
The low-ranking Essence Storms were left to the city board, where people with essence and not in a faction can go to either train or make money.
The high-ranking ones, however, were left to the factions.
There are five factions. All of them answer to the Essence Administration. The factions are kind of like the police or military, and the administration is more like the government.
You could only join factions in two ways:
1.) Get scouted for outstanding ability (rare).
2.) Enter the annual open exam; the winner earned cash and a coveted spot in an elite squad.
But most only saw the teams repairing storm sites after brave contractors did the dirty work: clearing anomalies, monsters, mutates, and failed scavengers.
I jogged to Area 12 as the first clouds spun into burning green spirals overhead.
The moment I stepped past the warning ropes, the world shifted.
Colors bled, the ground thrummed underfoot.
A puddle near the curb started to boil, and twisted roots broke the stone.
A monster stalked from the shadows: a canine-thing warped by raw essence, eyes burning green, jaw split wide. Its hide was ridged, almost plated.
It was weak, but I promised not to get too confident.
I steadied my breath.
When I moved, I felt each muscle, all the strength in my legs.
It lunged.
I sidestepped, dirt and stone cracking where its jaws snapped shut.
I caught its flank with a punch, flames bursting from my fist; it howled, rolling free, but I chased, dropped low, and swept an arm beneath its belly.
It was heavier than it looked, but I was stronger than before.
It barrelled into me with force, grazing my ribs, but I twisted and, relying on speed, landed a hard kick into its jaw.
A burst of heated air sent it flipping backward. Roaring, it tried for a last charge.
I slipped aside, grabbed the back of its neck, and hammered its skull onto the curb with every ounce of strength.
Stillness.
The essence storm's wind seemed to fade, and with it the light in the creature's mutated gaze.
A team from the Essence Administration arrived within minutes: suited in blue, badges silver, powers flickering.
The rest of the job was beyond me: repair specialists, storm-sappers, people with Essence tuned to undoing damage.
A supervisor approached. "Whoa—did you clear the threat alone?"
I just nodded, already drifting toward the barricade. "Got lucky. It was slow."
"You new?" he started, but I turned fast, avoiding the questions.
Can't let the same thing happen again.
Another glance, and I saw two medics busy on their comms, maybe calling the press, maybe scanning for remaining dangers.
No way I'm letting my face hit the news again.
I slipped away through a side alley, pulse steady but heart racing. One more step, then another, and I was out of sight before they could shout.
Back at my apartment, I collapsed into the creaky old chair, every part of me humming with relief and uncertainty.
The system flickered on the edge of my vision:
[Cycle 2 Summary: Strength +1, Senses +1 applied.]
But then, lines began to trickle in beneath it, glowing in chilling red:
[Milestone reached: Path Lock Initiated.]
[Random Stat—LOCKED. Further growth in this stat is now impossible.
The Trickster's Path demands balance. Every climb costs you something.]
Shit. I'm getting locked out of a stat this early?
This could affect my weapon choice. Hopefully, it isn't something that will be too harsh.
But it didn't say what was locked. Not yet.
I stared at the screen, suddenly aware that every step forward could mean losing something forever.
My fists clenched. "Doesn't matter," I whispered. "I'll pay any price they want. I'll win. I will get stronger."
Elsewhere
"That same guy cleared the Essence Storm by himself, sir."
"Him again, huh? Well, the open exam is arriving soon. It seems like he wants money."
"What makes you think that, sir?"
"Why is someone that strong taking down low-tier Essence Storms? For money, of course."
"You are very insightful, sir."
"Tell the administration to increase the prize fund for the next exam."
"Yes, sir."