Jack hid the dagger under his clothing and entered his home in a good mood. He smiled when he smelled his mom’s cooking. His mother tended to cook more when worried.

  “Is everything alright, Jack? You’ve been gone for hours.” His mom said, noticing the dirt on his knees. “What happened? Are you alright? Are you hurt? Do you need a priest or a healer?”

  Jack chuckled. “Everything’s fine. I just took a long walk to clear my head before choosing.” He wiped some dirt from his knees. “I tripped over a tree root, but it wasn’t serious.” Glancing at his younger sister, Polly, he offered a sly smile. “The dirt should wash off easily.”

  His mother gave him a mistrusting look but said nothing as she checked him for injuries.

  His younger sister, Polly, stood with her hands on her hips, “Well?”

  “Well, what?” He already knew what she was asking about.

  “Your class, you idiot.” Polly sighed, “Are you a boring scribe now?”

  “Scribes aren’t boring!” He transitioned into lecture mode. “We get to study ancient texts and unlock the secrets of the past from before the Great Cataclysm. Without great scribes, like grandfather, we’d be doomed to repeat the mistakes of the past.” He pointed at Polly with the blood-red rose he still carried. “It’s far more exciting than being the Town Fool.”

  Polly scoffed, “All I heard was scribes are boring.”

  Their mom smiled after picking up on the ‘we’ in his non-answer. “You took the scribe class.” She spun him around by the shoulders and looked into his eyes. “Congratulations, Son… your dad will be over the moon to have you follow in his and your grandfather’s footsteps.” She clapped her hands and gave him a big hug. “Why do you smell of hay… and why do you have a rose?”

  His mother never missed anything; it was like living with a damn bloodhound. Jack frowned. “I took a rest and sat on a pile of soft hay. An old lady left the rose in the temple… and I sort of, erm… forgot that I was still holding it.” He would have to be more careful in the future. At least I hid the dagger.

  She gave him another mistrusting look. “You should be careful where you sit… Your third cousin, Frank, fell asleep in a pile of hay and almost lost his foot when a horse sat on him.”

  Jack smiled and held out the blood?red rose to his mom. “A beautiful flower for a beautiful young woman who brightens our days with her warm smile,” he said. One thing he’d discovered in his past life was that women loved compliments, even when they weren’t completely genuine.

  His mother beamed and held the rose to her nose to savour its sweet aroma. The sound of Polly’s loud scoff prompted her to give her a firm look that conveyed the unspoken message, ‘I dare you to say anything to ruin this lovely moment’. Polly wisely remained silent… for once.

  Jack spent quality time laughing and enjoying time with his mother, sister, and younger brother over a delicious meal; the benefits of having a mom with the Expert Cook class. Afterwards, he went to his room to hit the books.

  Despite having memorised the contents of thousands of books, his perfect memory for the written word was no replacement for holding and smelling a book. “Where did I put that book?” He looked at the small bookshelf above his bed in dismay. Polly had stuffed his books back onto the shelf without the care they deserved. They were all higgledy-piggledy, with some sticking out willy-nilly. “What has she done to you? My poor books.”

  Jack checked and sorted his books, arranging them how they should be. “Damn, philistine. I’ll have to get her back for this,” he muttered with an evil smile.

  Every practical joke had to be reciprocated… it was sibling law. The first time Jack was sixteen, he found several spider egg sacs, which he hid around his sister’s room. He chuckled as he recalled Polly complaining that her room was filled with little spiders. A matter that their mother and father ignored until she developed a nervous tic. The condition didn’t subside until her father brought in a mage to cleanse her room, and her mother called a priest to exorcise the house.

  He retrieved an old, leather-bound book from his now-organised shelf and ran his fingers over its surface. Savouring the feel and aroma of the old leather, he read the title to himself: “How To Train The Most Commonly Selected Classes, by Viscount Lebrohn.” He smiled before adding, “There you are, old friend.”

  He’d studied this book many times in his past life as he planned his revenge on Baron Greaves. The book listed training advice for over 100 commonly selected classes, including archer. There were whole books dedicated to training the archer class. Jack had read and memorised several of them. But, for now, this general guide would suffice.

  He flicked through the book to the relevant section on archery training, read the introduction and jumped to the training advice.

  Basic Strength Training.

  The following exercises will improve core strength and strengthen back and shoulder muscles.

  Push-ups, sit-ups, planking, and core rotations.

  Add weight where appropriate.

  These exercises improve shoulder muscles, core stability and help strengthen the muscles used for drawing the bow.

  He remembered the improvements these exercises had produced, though with scarred skin on the right side of his body, including his right arm and hand, the training was painful. “It should be much easier this time,” Jack whispered as he continued reading the section on basic strength training.

  It is advised to run a minimum of five miles every second day for general fitness. Through meticulous research, it was observed that a fit level 10 Novice Archer could run five miles in under thirty minutes. Although endurance per se isn’t a primary factor for the archer class, the archers of the Kingdom of Merciar’s army are expected to be capable of forced marching twenty miles in under five hours.

  “I don’t think so,” Jack scoffed at the idea of running five miles a day or joining the army. “Maybe I could jog a couple of miles every day.”

  He closed the book and returned it to its rightful place. Without a bow, he’d be limited in how much he could practise, so for now, he’d concentrate on fitness and general strength training.

  He looked at the assassin’s dagger he’d placed on the study table amongst the scrolls. Was it a mistake to buy the dagger? Now I’ve got no coin for a bow. Not having a solution to a lack of gold, he put on some suitable clothes for exercise and did a few stretches before starting on a basic training regimen.

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  With his body not used to exercise, all he could manage was five push-ups, eight sit-ups, a couple of minutes twisting his body to exercise his core muscles and twenty seconds of planking. Planking was sheer hell.

  He lay out of breath and aching on his damp bed. Stupid little sister. He’d forgotten it was wet. “By the Gods, this will be harder than I thought. I need a break…”

  After a minute’s rest, he had an idea. “I’ll sketch the twelve nobles.” He sat in comfort at his old study desk, preparing to create a sketch of the dozen blood magic cult members. The familiar scent of aged parchment, fresh scrolls, and ink filled his senses like a welcome embrace.

  “This brings back memories,” he murmured, running his hand over the time-worn surface. His fingertips traced the wood grain and the faint grooves left by years of scribbling and note-taking. Faded ink stains still marked the desk, little accidents of creativity from a younger self.

  “This used to be Dad’s.” A frown crept onto his face as he remembered the fire that had consumed this and so much more. “I have to kill him to protect my family… to protect this life,” he whispered. Jack closed his eyes and bowed his head. “Thank you for this second chance,” he prayed to the Gods. “I will not waste it.”

  When he opened his eyes, a smile bloomed as he spotted a tiny figure perched at the corner of the desk. “PenDragon…” he breathed, the name falling from his lips like a reunion with an old friend.

  The miniature clockwork dragon, no more than six inches tall, sat atop a little wooden pedestal, wings folded along its glittering blue back, its tiny jaw agape in silent vigilance. It was a mechanical toy powered by magic, a marvel of delicate rune enchantments and clever gears, and one of the finest presents his mom had ever given him.

  At the sound of its name, PenDragon, the little dragon’s eyes glowed bright blue, ready for voice-activated commands from its master.

  “I’d forgotten all about you,” Jack said, reaching out and lifting the tiny dragon into his palm. Before the fire that destroyed everything, he hadn’t activated the toy in years, having grown beyond his childhood.

  “PenDragon,” he whispered again, stroking the tiny dragon’s polished head. “Still on duty, huh?” He placed the toy back on the desk, where it blinked once as if to acknowledge its master’s return. “What the hell, let’s have some fun,” he said, with a big smile. “PenDragon, fly around the room three times and return.”

  PenDragon’s eyes flashed blue, acknowledging the commands. With a puff of aether-steam, the tiny mechanical dragon flew in the air and lapped Jack’s room three times before returning.

  Jack laughed while recalling the hours of fun he’d had as a child ordering the dragon to fetch his crayons or to send his mom a message via the voice recording option. ‘Mommy, me and PenDragon are hungry, can we have a snack, please?’ was a popular one.

  He had an idea. “PenDragon… record the following message. ‘Hi, Mom. I love you.’” Jack smiled. Mom will like that, he thought. “PenDragon… deliver the last message to Mom in the kitchen downstairs and return.”

  As the little dragon’s eyes flashed blue, acknowledging the command, Jack rushed to open the door; the toy couldn’t open doors. PenDragon took flight, a puff of aether-steam in its wake as it navigated its way to the kitchen.

  Jack listened at the door. From the kitchen, he heard his own voice, ‘Hi, Mom. I love you.’ Followed by his mother shrieking in fright and the clatter of pots and pans.

  His mom yelled, “Fucking hell, Jack! Are you trying to kill me?”

  Jack’s eyes widened at the realisation; he ran to the kitchen, almost getting hit in the head by PenDragon as it returned up the stairs to his room. “Sorry, Mom… I was, erm, being nice?”

  His mom looked at him while she picked an old pan off the floor. “That’s my cast iron skillet… the good one!” She shook her head while checking the pan for damage. “Aren’t you a little old to be playing with toys?”

  “Sorry, Mom,” he said, feeling guilty. “Do you want me to clean it?” Pointing at the old pan that was ‘the good one’, which looked no different to any other pan.

  She looked at him like he’d threatened to use it as a chamberpot. “Do you have any idea how much effort it takes to maintain a good skillet like this one?” She shook her head again and added, “Barbarians, the lot of you. No respect for good kitchenware.”

  Jack shrugged. As far as he was concerned, it was just another pan. As he returned to his room, he heard his mom say, “The idiot wants to clean my good cast iron skillet. I failed to raise him right.”

  He sat back down at his desk. “PenDragon, be vigilant, there’s evil afoot,” he said in a serious tone, before laughing again.

  The little blue dragon’s eyes flashed in acknowledgement.

  Jack took a deep breath and reached for a clean sheet of parchment and a well-sharpened pencil. He closed his eyes, letting his fingers move instinctively, guided by muscle memory and the Draughtsmanship skill. Lines flowed across the page with practised ease, each stroke capturing precise detail; the nobleman’s refined features, the sweep of his long silver hair, and the tall, ostentatious top hat.

  Without the burn scars hindering his right hand, everything felt amazing. His right hand itched a little from the rose thorn, but that was nothing compared to how it used to feel. “I forgot how good this feels without the damage.”

  The sketch began to take life. Shadows gave depth to cheekbones; the curl of a sneer shaped his lips. His waistcoat was richly embroidered, marked by traces of red, a subtle, but deliberate indication of wealth and power.

  “Based on the way he carried himself…” Jack muttered, glancing at the haughty tilt of the head he’d drawn, “he might’ve been the leader.” He paused, studying the finished sketch. “I wonder if he was Viscount Tides?”

  PenDragon puffed a tiny cloud of aether-steam as if sharing his suspicion.

  “That is really high-quality.” He was admiring the finished sketch. “It’s so life-like.” Jack laughed when he realised why. “It’s my higher Compatibility score.” It was now 70% vs 43% before he died. The higher affinities would have helped as well, he thought.

  “Whichever Gods have given me this chance, thank you. Thank you so much.”

  As he completed the last noble’s likeness, Baron Greaves, his Draughtsmanship skill levelled up. He dropped the pencil in shock. “I got a level from a simple sketch… and it’s a scribe skill!”

  [System Message-Internal View]

  Apprentice Scribe Skill Levelled.

  Draughtsmanship (5)

  After the first couple of levels, it was rare for a skill to level from performing a basic activity like sketching a dozen faces. Of more importance, Jack had assumed his scribe skills would be frozen like what occurred when someone hit a levelling milestone and chose a new novice class.

  Had his assumptions been correct, he’d have been able to use his scribe skills, but only his new archery skills would level.

  Jack couldn’t sit still due to excitement as he looked at his scribe skills list.

  [Class Screen-Internal View]

  Class: Apprentice Scribe (31)

  Compatibility: 70%

  - Copy Text (4)

  - Translate Text (3)

  - Draughtsmanship (5)

  - Perfect Recall (4)

  - Create Cypher/Decipher (3)

  - Inscribe Spell (5)

  - Bind Book (2)

  Draughtsmanship was now his joint highest level skill.

  He stood in shock, “I-I must have been close to a level before I died.” He paced the room, still excited at what this meant. “I can still level my scribe skills.”

  He’d assumed his scribe skills would be locked at their current level for the rest of his life, and so he would never become a Journeyman Scribe. “After dealing with Greaves, I can carry on my life as a scribe.” He pumped his fist in the air in celebration and shouted, “Yes!”

  A few moments later, he heard his mother call from the bottom of the stairs, “Are you alright, Jack?”

  Jack calmed down. “Erm, yes, fine.” He took a deep breath. “I got a little excited about using my new scribe skills.”

  His mom laughed and went back to whatever she was doing… cooking.

  He took a quick look at the sketches of the twelve nobles before hiding them in a book and placing it on the bookshelf. “Mom won’t check there,” he whispered. His bookshelf was one of the few things his mother wouldn’t ‘dust’ while cleaning.

  After spending thirty minutes drawing the noble’s likenesses, he’d recovered from his earlier exercise. Jack strapped the dagger under his top, so his mother wouldn’t see it and went for a jog through the city. Having realised he was unfit, his jog was on the slow side; it was more of a brisk walk.