Cal turned the shortsword in his grip, running his thumb along the flat of the blade without touching the edge. The metal was a matte black that seemed to swallow light, its surface faintly granular; smooth beneath his fingertip but with a fine roughness underneath. Down the exact center, from tang to tip, ran a line of red metal no wider than his thumb. The vein bisected the darkness like a thread of blood frozen in iron.
Ka-vae'zhar. Heart-Iron.
He extended the barest thread of Stamina into the blade and the weapon answered. His awareness spread through the metal as his spiritual energy resonated, and he could almost imagine the bonds between particles growing tighter in response.
Yorrin had said every item forged of vae'zhar deserved a name, so he had given the sword one in the Mythren'dir tradition. It was called Bael'zhar, which meant the enduring blade. They both had high expectations of it.
Cal set the shortsword on the workbench beside Amina's bow. That weapon was a different kind of beautiful: functional and understated, with dark wood wrapped in cord that had been worn smooth by years of the scout's calloused hands. He had no idea if the bow had ever been named, but he wanted to honor it and Amina both, selecting one from the same tradition as the sword. Nen'tae, to draw from within.
Bael'zhar was new and hungry. Nen'tae was seasoned and patient. He would carry both on his person for the journey ahead, although he hoped he wouldn't need them. Well… not too much, anyway.
His void rings were being kept hidden beneath his gloves. Most people didn't recognize spatial artifacts in Deadfall, but he didn't intend to take any chances on the road or in Mirathra.
He picked up his spear, trailing his hand along the fel-oak shaft as his thoughts drifted back over the last month.
The training yard had been chaos, and he'd loved every second of it.
Cal's E-tier body fired with a speed and force that he was still getting used to. He realized he had been very lucky with those stonemaw worms; his first week of training had been humbling. He'd thrown a [Sundering Strike] at a practice dummy and the energy had discharged incorrectly, exploding the bicep on his right arm. A [Dash] had launched him into a wall at one point.
Things… had gotten better after a few days of working with Vane, Ria, and Arany, although his old sparring partner jokingly resented the fact Cal was more powerful than him now. Eventually their work together paid off.
[Old Skill Synthesis Lost: Spear Mastery (F) - Low]
[New Skill Synthesis Achieved: Spear Mastery (E) - Low]
Beyond consolidating Skills and Abilities, the Mastery's upgrade had restructured his understanding of how to fight at this tier. New intuitions flooded the gaps between his existing techniques: calibrated shifts in weight distribution to account for his body's increased baseline, adjustments to his energy expenditure that optimized the flow of his denser Stamina. A complete operating system update, downloaded directly into his combat instincts.
This is, as my son Jack would say, completely overpowered.
He had stood in the yard after that session, breathing hard, spear resting across his shoulders and thinking through the implications. A Mastery was more than a consolidation of Skills. It provided a foundational platform for each new tier, a shortcut that transformed months or years of recalibration into days. Getting more Masteries had to be a top priority. Unarmed combat, magic, alchemy, weapons; anything he could synthesize.
Then there was the other side of the coin: the grind. His individual combat Skills all had E-tier versions that crawled upward compared to how quickly he'd improved during F-tier. The proficiency requirements at E-tier were steeper, the repetitions needed to advance from Practiced to Adept having clearly increased, just like with magic. Adept to Expert felt completely out of reach for the time being. Each rank improvement demanded considerably more effort.
Maybe I should have stuck it out at F to try and learn more masteries? Bah, there's nothing for it now.
Sword work had been an enjoyable project. Bael'zhar was finer than his Legion-issue gladius and more responsive in his hand. Vane drilled him through the shield-wall vocabulary until the motions felt automatic, while Arany pressed him on every defensive sequence the Legion taught. Repetition layered the techniques into his bones.
[Your proficiency with Cross Guard Parry (E) has increased to Practiced]
[Your proficiency with Overhand Chop (E) has increased to Practiced]
[Your proficiency with Gut Thrust (E) has increased to Practiced]
[Your proficiency with Draw Cut (E) has increased to Practiced]
Archery had been another revelation.
He'd taken Amina's bow to the Legion's range almost daily. Random scouts had offered tips on how to grip the bow, nock an arrow and draw, aim, then release. His Impartments had devoured it all. Within the first week he was grouping arrows tighter than most scouts could manage, and the jealous looks that followed had been their own kind of reward.
Feeding the ka-vae'zhar bow was something else entirely, but he'd managed it through trial and error just like his new shortsword. He had spent two evenings alone at the range, working by the light of a conjured orb, learning to channel Stamina through his upper body to give him the extra strength needed to pull back the empowered bow.
And boy, was it worth it.
The first Stamina-infused arrow had punched clean through the practice target, its wooden frame, and six inches into the stone wall behind it.
[New Skill Gained: Power Shot (E) - Novice]
Cal returned to the present and laid the spear across the workbench beside his other weapons. Then he reached for the next item on his mental checklist.
The letter.
He lifted it from its place on the bench, holding it up to Sunny's light. Thick parchment and sealed with a disk of red wax stamped with the unmistakable mark of Legion High Command: a spear crossed over a shield. The letter was important enough that even his perception caught a faint whiff of power; a minor authentication mark that would confirm the seal's legitimacy to any officer with the training to check.
Cal fed Mana into the silver void ring on his left hand and stored it.
He'd organized his storage with painful experience in mind. Both rings held a core loadout of emergency supplies: healing and energy potions, backup weapons, rations, water, and other essentials. Redundancy was paramount; if he lost a hand again, he wouldn't lose his life. The silver ring housed the bulk of his non-combat assets, like documents, reserve funds, and valuables.
He flexed his fingers as he thought back to his visit with the captain.
Hatch stood behind his desk, back straight, silvering temples catching the light from the window as he studied Cal's projected status display.
"E-tier," Hatch breathed. "And on the Sovereign Path at that."
"Yes, sir."
"In less than… what? Has it been three months?"
"Closer to two, sir, but I can't really take credit. Selara paid for it all before they had to leave."
"Perhaps, lad. Perhaps. Others would say that your fate, or luck, or whatever you want to call it; that it's just as important a part of you as your skill with a spear or sword."
Something that might have been a smile ghosted across Hatch's lean features before he got back to business and reached into his desk drawer for some writing supplies. He proceeded to draft and stamp a letter, holding it in his hands and meeting Cal's eyes.
"This is for Commander Theresa Stroud with the Legion in Mirathra. It contains my personal assessment of your abilities and a formal request for consideration into a specialized training program." He set it on the desk between them. "The Commander is a C-tier, and also a woman who does not suffer fools. Present yourself to her garrison within three days of your arrival and be on your best behavior."
Cal picked up the letter. The wax seal was warm to the touch. "Thank you, Captain."
Hatch waved the gratitude away. "There is also the matter of regulations to discuss. Should you choose to relocate to Mirathra more permanently we will need to put in a transfer request. You are still a Legion adjunct, after all. If you return to stay in Deadfall you will be required to integrate with an E-tier unit and we can discuss placement when the time comes."
"Understood, sir."
Hatch regarded Cal for a moment, with an expression that was harder to read than usual. Then he rounded the desk and leaned against its front edge, crossing his arms.
"Mirathra is not Deadfall, Valorn. This is a frontier post. Out here, talent speaks for itself, and a man's connections matter less than his ability to follow orders and stick things with the pointy end of his spear." He paused, looking somewhere above Cal. "The provincial capital is… different. It might be the capital of one of the smallest provinces in the empire, but there, just like any other major population center, talent without patronage is a commodity to be acquired or eliminated. A Sovereign Aspirant with no noble house or real backing, with the rate of advancement you've demonstrated? You will attract much attention once word of your deeds spreads."
"Attention, huh? The good kind or the bad kind?"
Hatch uncrossed his arms and straightened, looking back at Cal. "Both, lad. Always both, in the circles you will tread. That is the nature of power. Now, just worry about presenting the letter and following the Commander's lead. And do not, under any circumstances, demonstrate the full scope of your capabilities in a public setting until you understand who is watching."
Cal sighed to himself and thought, nothing is ever easy.
"I appreciate the candor, Captain."
"I am just being practical, Valorn. I like you, lad, but you are still an investment the Legion wants to hold on to. I do not make a practice of seeing my investments squandered."
Cal took a leather-bound notebook from the corner of the workbench in his basement. Its cover was scuffed from a bit over a month of handling, the binding already cracked at the spine from being opened flat too many times. His handwriting filled the margins, dense annotations in a cramped script that would be illegible to anyone without [Perfect Memory] or the patience of a saint.
He slid it into his travel pack alongside the trail rations, bedroll, and spare clothing already stowed there. As he looked at the remainder of what he needed to pack, his mind drifted to the nights spent down here, bent over the workbench with the book open and his Mana flowing. He'd made progress, but it felt like at a snail's pace. None of his Spells had climbed to Adept, and while he continued to grow and learn, he wasn't any closer to being able to internally cast.
He closed the pack and reached for the last item: his coin pouch. It was light. Distressingly, laughably light. He bounced it in his palm, listening to the muted clink of a few dozen gold pieces.
Thirteen thousand gold.
The number still gave him heartburn when he thought about it. It was the sum total of every accumulated asset he'd earned, inherited, or extracted since arriving in Veraxus, all of which had gone into a massive acquisition of E-tier essence stones.
The logistics alone had been a nightmare. Deadfall's market struggled to supply what he needed in the timeframe he had. Jakob though… Jakob had thrown himself into the procurement challenge with visible relish. Tireless from the first day, he'd drafted messages to suppliers before Cal had left the shop, reaching out through his network of traders and merchants to source stones from across the village. Felicity had supplemented through the Guild as well, but the adventurers didn't deal in essence stones as much. Cassia had more luck, posting some requisition orders in the Hearthsong Inn itself that got traction from a few traveling delver teams.
Cal remembered standing in the back room of Jakob's Magnificent Market, surrounded by small, velvet-lined cases, each containing rows of E-tier stones that pulsed with contained energy.
"My friend," Jakob had said, his voice uncharacteristically subdued, "in seventeen years of moving merchandise through this village, I have never, and I mean never, participated in a single transaction of this magnitude. You have, in the space of one month, become my most valued client, my most terrifying client, and, I suspect, the reason I will need to hire a dedicated bookkeeper." He'd paused, then added with a grin that showed every one of his teeth: "Now, about that finder's fee."
The money had come from everywhere. Selara and Aurelian's money they had left him in the silver void ring. The contents of Cillian's confiscated ring, which had yielded a small fortune in gold, but also exotic alchemical supplies that Felicity had appraised and liquidated through the Guild. The credit from Yorrin for the ka-vae'zhar commission had added a substantial share, of course, not to mention the sales from over a month of potion brewing, sold at competitive prices through Jakob's storefront as they bled customers from the Verdant Phial.
Every piece of silver and gold had been redirected toward the purpose of getting him to the pseudo peak of the E-tier for power and safety. He'd worry about paying the Toll through slower, more cost-effective means like spirit stones when he was stronger. He wasn't taking any chances being underpowered if he could help it.
After he'd secured the supplies he needed for his attributes, he'd handed Jakob a pouch containing the gold earmarked for the Golden Mortar's renovation into Leo's bakery. The contractors were already on site, tearing out Aurelian's old lab setup and reinforcing the floor joists to support the heft of professional bread ovens. Leo had been present for the handoff, standing in the doorway of the half-gutted shop with plaster dust in his sandy hair and an expression that shifted between overwhelmed gratitude and fierce determination.
He'd even managed to squirrel away a tidy sum for the procurement of Mira's healer, and left Jakob with a couple crates stuffed with more potions to sell. There would be plenty of more coin coming in while he traveled.
And then, because the universe had a sense of humor, the tax notices arrived.
Two official documents bearing the seal of the Imperial Chancellery. One for the Caldorn house, and one for the Golden Mortar.
Cal had stood in his kitchen, holding both notices, and laughed until he cried.
The coin pouch went into the travel pack with the rest, with some emergency coins in his rings. Cal cinched it shut and straightened, surveying the workbench one last time.
Everything was packed and secured. He was ready.
With his armor on, he slung Nen'tae across his back and settled the pack on top of it, then checked Bael'zhar's sheath on his left hip. The quiver hung on his right. Finally, he grabbed his spear and cast a final glance around the basement. The stone walls he'd smoothed and reinforced with [Earth Manipulation] looked polished, their compressed surfaces harder than the original quarried rock of his foundation. Plans for this space lived in his head. He wanted to build a dedicated alchemy station, a blacksmithing forge, a training chamber with enough room to swing a spear and shoot a bow, and much more. All of it would have to wait until he returned.
Cal climbed up the stairs.
The muted earth gave way to the muffled sounds of the world filtering through the house's timber walls as a cart rumbled by, and he heard the distant shout of a merchant calling out opening prices. Deadfall was waking up. It was time for him to be off.
He stepped through the front door into the fresh morning air and felt the seasonal change against his skin.
The harsh bite of winter was gone. In its place, a cool dampness that carried the scent of thawed earth and new growth. The woven thatch on the nearest rooftops had shifted from the dull grey-brown of winter dormancy to a vivid green. Somewhere in the Virethane canopy beyond the village wall, a bird was singing.
Spring had come to the temperate rainforest. Life, decay, and regeneration, all happening at once.
Cal walked the streets of Deadfall toward the eastern gate. Past the shuttered front of the Golden Mortar, its door boarded up with a sign reading CLOSED FOR RENOVATION in Leo's careful hand. Past the wide frontage of Jakob's Magnificent Market, where the chalkboard already proclaimed: "SPRING CLEARANCE! All Winter Cloaks 40% Off! (Slight Mildew: It's Character-Building!)"
The Hearthsong Inn's towering silhouette fell away behind him. The stone walls of the Legion garrison stood to the north, and those of the Dominion's zone beyond. Ahead, the eastern gate rose against a brightening sky, its iron-strapped wooden doors standing open and flanked by a pair of bored-looking guards.
Beyond it, there was the caravan.
A dozen covered wagons, their canvas tops treated and giving them a faint, oily sheen. There were ten outriders on sturdy frontier horses, their armor well-maintained and their weapons loose in their sheaths. Pack mules loaded with camping supplies. And at the head of the column, waiting beside the lead wagon, were two figures he recognized.
Corinne was armored and gesturing in animated arcs as she made some emphatic point to the man beside her. Christoph listened with his hands clasped behind his back, his posture perfect, his expression carrying the patient, indulgent benevolence he reserved exclusively for family. He wore a traveling cloak of dark blue over tailored clothes that looked deeply out of place against the rough and tumble travelers surrounding him.
Cal watched them for a moment and recalled something Cassia had said to him the week before.
"Gareth's father Balbus built the first inn with his own hands. He and his wife were always the Hearth, bringing tradition and craft; the thing that made it all stand out. That made it special. But it was Christoph who turned one inn into a dynasty. He's the Song. The one who spun the tale of what could be to everyone who would listen. Without Balbus, there'd be no soul. But without Christoph… there'd be no empire."
An empire builder, heading home to his seat of power with his grand-niece in tow. And Cal had secured passage alongside him.
Opportunity and access, and a month on the road to figure out how to leverage it. Maybe I'll become this world's wheelchair tycoon? But I have a hard time believing there's really that much of a market for it in a world where magic can heal every injury…
Cal paused at the gate, chuckling at the thought. He turned and looked back.
Deadfall Village spread behind him under a ceiling of thinning mist, the plume of smoke from Yorrin's forge curling upward into the dawn sky.
The town where he had been reborn. Where he had been beaten, threatened, and rebuilt himself from the wreckage of two lives into something new. Where he'd earned his name, forged his path, and planted the first roots of something that would, if he had anything to say about it, grow far beyond this gritty frontier outpost.
He turned his back on it.
The road stretched east through the Virethane, its magically paved surface disappearing into a corridor of ancient spruce and hemlock draped in fresh green moss. Corinne spotted him and waved, her new bracelet glinting in the sunlight. Christoph inclined his head in polite acknowledgment.
Cal shifted the bow across his back, adjusted his grip on his spear, and walked toward the caravan.
Thanks for reading! I hope you enjoyed the chapter. Have a great rest of the week.
Jon