One.
Two.
Three.
The spear snapped forward and stabbed, cutting through the stale basement air and stopping exactly where my eyes told it to stop. My feet shifted as I swung, making small adjustments with each strike.
Four.
Five.
Six.
By the seventh thrust, my forearms were already burning.
But I couldn't stop now. So I continued. Again.
Again. And again.
A few days had passed since I'd brought the spear home.
There were now scuff marks on the floor where my lead foot kept landing. A faint dent in the wall where I'd misjudged my reach on day one. The smell of oil on the spear shaft that wouldn't wash off, no matter how much I wiped.
A few days of waking up sore, eating too little, working too much, then dropping back down here to stab at the air until my lungs protested.
It worked.
Not fast.
Not kindly.
But it worked.
A faint shimmer of text formed in the corner of my focus, clean and simple, like the world had decided to acknowledge my stubbornness.
[SKILL UNLOCKED: SEVENFOLD THRUST]
[RANK: F]
A second later, another line followed.
[SKILL UNLOCKED: SPEAR MASTERY]
[RANK: F]
I exhaled through my nose, sweat running down my temple.
"Good," I muttered. "Now the hard part starts."
Unlocking was the easy bit.
I'd always known that, even back when in the game. Skills weren't that hard to obtain. But they were damn near impossible to cultivate to the highest levels. Mastery was everything.
I executed the sevenfold thrust again. But this time, something felt… off.
I hadn't made a mistake. I hadn't misstepped or done anything wrong.
No. Instead, it felt that the skill I had executed thousands of times in the game was now something more than what I knew.
It was alive.
The thrusts weren't identical. The spear didn't move like a rigid animation that fired the same way every time. It responded. Tiny shifts in my grip changed its trajectory. A fraction of a second in timing changed the weight. My breath, my stance, my intent, all of it bled into the motion.
Sevenfold Thrust was no longer a simple skill that I recalled. It was something that could evolve.
As was I.
I stopped mid-practice and my mouth went dry.
There was a deeper layer to this. A layer I could only assume the game had flattened and erased. A layer that only existed in this reality.
I tightened my grip.
"Alright," I said quietly. "Let's see what you can really do."
I started varying it. I started by changing the weight.
The first thrust was light, almost a feint. The second was heavier. The third with full commitment.
Then speed.
I snapped the first three out fast, then slowed the fourth deliberately, forcing control, forcing precision. The fifth and sixth came like a whip. The seventh, I held for a second longer.
Then reach.
Short thrusts that stayed inside my range. Long ones that made me step deeper using a half step, a full step, or even a lunge.
The basement filled with the sound of my panting breaths and the whisper of steel through the air. Sweat dripped off my chin. My lungs tightened. My hands started to slip on the shaft.
I ignored it.
Again.
Again.
Again.
[Sevenfold Thrust has improved slightly]
[VARIATION DISCOVERED]
[Sevenfold Thrust --> Sevenfold Strike]
I froze, chest heaving.
Variation.
So it wasn't just "use skill, get better."
It was "understand skill, reshape it, own it."
My fingers clenched harder, knuckles whitening.
I lowered the spear and let my forehead rest against the shaft for a second, breathing through the burn. Then I wiped my face with my sleeve and forced myself to stop before my arms went numb.
Once I finished, I wrapped the spearhead again, leaned it against the wall, and climbed the stairs.
Marin was already moving, his sleeves rolled, his hands deep in a bowl, as if he were wrestling it into submission. He glanced up as I came in. For some reason, his eyes went to my hands. Then to my shoulders.
"How is the practice going?" he asked, voice flat.
I paused, thrown off by him saying it first.
"It's… going," I said carefully.
Marin grunted. "Be careful."
"I will."
"Hm."
He went back to kneading as if that settled the matter. We worked in our usual rhythm. By the time the first loaves went in, the light outside was turning pale gold again. I wiped down a counter, hung a cloth to dry, and started to reach for my apron string.
That was when the bell over the door chimed.
A gust of cold slipped in.
And with it, a presence that made the air feel heavier. I looked up. The man who stepped inside wasn't in uniform, but I knew him anyway.
Viktor.
Same rough jaw. Same tired eyes that looked like they'd seen too many breaches up close. His coat was dark, collar up, band faintly glowing at his wrist as the ward pylons outside pulsed.
He looked at me. Then at Marin. Then back at me.
"Well," Viktor said, tone dry. "There you are."
My stomach tightened.
Marin didn't move. He just stared at Viktor.
"I've been looking everywhere for you," Viktor continued. "Fortunately, the volunteers at the camp finally told me you'd moved here."
I didn't know what to say, so I picked the safest thing. "Why?"
Viktor's mouth twitched. He stepped up to the counter and reached into his coat.
He pulled out a band and set it down in front of me.
"Your registration," he said. "It's verified. I figured I'd deliver it personally."
I stared at it.
A simple strip made of magic and metal.
And yet my chest loosened a fraction, like I'd been holding a breath.
"I didn't know the Awakened Corps did deliveries," I said, still not touching it.
Viktor chuckled. "We don't."
That made my eyes lift.
He leaned on the counter slightly, lowering his voice.
"I'm here for another reason."
Marin made a low sound, impatient, then jerked his chin toward the door.
"Take your talk outside," he said.
Viktor nodded once. "Fair."
He glanced at me. "Come on."
I wiped my hands, hesitated, then picked up the band and followed him out.
The cold slapped me again the moment the door shut behind us.
Viktor didn't waste time.
"Stimeri told me," he said.
My shoulders tensed.
He saw it immediately and raised a hand.
"Relax," Viktor said. "I'm not here to press you about anything."
"Stimeri told me a boy was planning to join the Academy," Viktor continued. "He didn't have much to go on, just the name and the fact that the kid didn't have a band yet."
He looked at me again, eyes narrowing slightly.
"This town's small," he said. "I heard 'Noah' and connected the dots."
I swallowed. "So you came to check."
"I came to help," Viktor corrected.
That didn't sit right either.
He nodded at my hands. "Stimeri said you bought a spear."
I didn't answer. My silence was answer enough.
Viktor reached into his coat again and pulled out a thin manual.
The cover was plain. Worn at the edges. The title was stamped simply.
[BASIC FOOTWORK]
He held it out to me.
"It's not worth much," he said. "But it pairs well with spears. Better than learning everything the hard way."
I stared at it, then at him.
"Why," I asked.
Viktor blinked, almost surprised by the question.
"Do I need a reason to help someone?" he asked back.
I went quiet.
Because the honest answer in my head was yes.
Didn't people always need a reason? I was a stranger to most here. As such, receiving any sort of kindness felt odd. Marin was the only exception.
Viktor scratched the back of his head, suddenly looking more awkward than dangerous.
"It's a privilege," he said, quieter now. "Joining the Academy. I didn't get it when I was younger."
I kept my face still, but my attention sharpened.
He shrugged. "I went straight into the corps. Learned everything the ugly way. On the line. In the mud. With people screaming at you to hurry up before you get someone killed. It was hell. I barely made it out back then."
His eyes flicked away for a second, then back.
He smiled, small and self-aware.
"Maybe I'm saying too much," he muttered. "Forget it."
He turned like he was ready to leave.
I moved without thinking and caught the edge of the manual, stopping it from disappearing back into his coat.
"Wait," I said.
Viktor paused.
I took the book properly.
"Thank you," I said. "Sincerely."
Viktor blinked once, then his expression softened.
"To be honest," he said, "half of it was Sylvie's idea."
That name landed like a quiet echo. The woman from the first night.
Viktor stepped back and waved once.
"Good luck," he said, and then he was gone, walking down the street like a man who couldn't afford to linger anywhere too long.
I stood there with the band in one hand and the manual in the other, cold air biting my ears.
For a moment, I didn't move.
Then I turned and went back inside.
In the basement, I set the manual on the table like it was something fragile.
I stared at it for a fraction of a second, then forced myself to tuck it away in the shelf where I kept my notebook and the books I'd been tearing through.
"After," I told myself. "Read it after."
If I opened it now, I'd probably mess up my routine. For now, I slipped the band onto my wrist. It tightened automatically, a soft click as it fitted itself. A faint warmth spread under my skin, like the device was taking my pulse.
I exhaled and rolled my wrist slowly, watching the band catch the light.
Then I grabbed my coat.
And stepped back into the cold.
My legs started moving before my thoughts could catch up.