For two hours, David practiced with the dagger, figuring out his new, nasty little [Portal] trick. He fed demonic energy into the blade until it hummed like a disturbed hornet's nest in his grip. The activation was a violent, simple, almost violently elegant motion. A hard, focused stab into empty air. When it worked, rather than the world slicing open neatly; it ripped like cheap fabric, a jagged tear of darkness that pulled at the light and air around it. The edges of the rip bled a chaotic, sputtering energy.

  He had to force more power through the dagger just to keep the rip from snapping shut, the opening jerking and fighting his control the whole time. Maintaining it was a constant, draining effort. The a few seconds after his focus wavered, the hole slammed closed with a concussive thump of displaced air, a force he was sure could shear through a steel beam.

  Sometimes, if he shoved too much power in, the rip would vomit something out. A few times it was just scuttling, shrieking things the size of rodents, all claws and anger issues. He cut them down, but killing them gave him nothing. No stats, surge of strength, and no flashes of insight. So much for demonic pest control as a growth industry. The whole idea of using this as a reliable way to level up was a bad joke. It gave him stats, sometimes—demonic energy and mana, if he drained his reserves empty. But nothing for kills. These critters were either too worthless to count, or the system's rules were completely busted.

  The real kicker was the complete lack of targeting. The rips didn't open where he wanted. They just connected to random, broken slices of some barely visible hellscape—places of jagged rock and thick, shadowy air. He was essentially punching random holes in a cosmic prison wall. And if his concentration slipped and that self-closing door snapped shut on a limb or his weapon, the result would be a very clean, very permanent amputation. He wanted to master a spell, instead he was wrestling with a dimensional bear trap that occasionally spat garbage at him.

  David sat under the plane’s wing, cross-legged in the dirt, and decided to try something stupid. He focused everything on a single, simple goal: go up. He pushed, and the demonic energy inside him responded like a kicked hornet’s nest. It was a wild, burning pressure that recoiled violently, slamming back down through his own body instead of lifting him. The force jarred his spine and made his reinforced muscles twitch. He landed flat on his back in the grass, the wind knocked out of him. OK, that was a catastrophic muscle spasm, guess that’s a hard no on instant stress-free flight. It felt less like flying and more like trying to use live badgers tied to a raging bull as a propulsion system.

  He lay there, panting, his nerves humming from the backlash. I have no idea what I’m doing. The thought was a calm, factual observation. His [Calm Mind] skill triggered on its own, a reflexive dam against the chaos, smoothing the ripples in the hostile energy now coursing through him. It was a weird feeling, like developing a new sense specifically for tracking the feral, burning pressure currently trying to shove his organs out of alignment.

  He focused on the circulation of the energy. It felt like a violent pulse originating from the area around his heart, a crude engine forcing a corrosive fuel through his veins. It felt like his body had adapted—not just absorbed the energy, but aligned with it. Maybe that’s what affinity means; adaptation, he speculated. That would explained why he gained demonic energy stats in ways that didn’t always involve leveling, but almost always involved risking his life. His strengthened blood vessels stretched to contain the flow, but he could feel tiny, constant losses—his body was a leaky container for this power. Is my heart a generator, or just a really aggressive pump? The energy used his veins, but he felt that it did much more than that; it crawled through his connective tissue and hijacked his nerve pathways, a hostile squatter that overrode the building’s original wiring.

  Manipulating it was a far cry from guidance or control; it was brute force. As the demonic energy stat grew, it became easier, but he still remembered those first few attempts. How hard it had been. Now, his body would automatically tense, muscles clenching and breath tightening as he mentally shunted the energy where he wanted it. Can I do this to some other creatures demonic energy? Or someone’s Mana? The question was filed away for later. For now, he was just trying to get the stuff to do a simple trick.

  He spent what felt like hours just moving the energy around inside himself. It was strangely calming, a function of his [Calm Mind] skill forcing a partnership with the hostile force. He finally pushed it to the tip of his index finger. It felt inefficient, like spending more energy to push it through meat and skin than through the vascular highway. He pushed a little more, and it vented from his fingertip with the consistency of oily smoke. So my body’s adapted to leak. Good to know. Perhaps his body’s adaptation and affinity was directly tied to the demonic energy stat. Maybe if I boost it I could fly. And grow horns.

  His head began to pound, a psychological toll from the internal roar. Knock it off. He took a slow breath. [Calm Mind]. He pushed more energy out, forcing it to extend a centimeter from his finger. He used [Calm Mind] on the external energy itself, trying to compress the smoke into something thinner, sharper. The ringing in his ears intensified. He pushed more density into the extending tendril of power, shaping it with sheer mental force.

  With a quick swipe, he moved his finger across the plane’s metal fuselage. The demonic energy at his fingertip vanished in a violent release. His hand shook, and a sharp, biting pain flared in his finger, like he’d slammed it in a car door.

  But it worked. A deep, clean groove was scored into the hardened metal hull, as if a industrial laser had taken a quick, precise bite out of it.

  He heard a slow, deliberate tapping from the other side of the fuselage. A moment later, Rhea’s head appeared around the torn edge of the wing. Her eyes, sharp and analytical, scanned him, then the new scratch on the plane.

  “Are you dying?” she asked, her tone flat.

  “Just redecorating,” David said, flexing his aching hand. “Thinking of adding some accent stripes.”

  She stared at the groove for a second longer, then back at him. “Don’t break our shelter.” She disappeared back to her watch. David looked at the mark. Note to self: demonic energy makes a hell of a box cutter. His head still hurt, but his body had held up. That was the important part.

  David’s internal musings cut off as Rhea stepped in front of him, her usual flat expression in place.

  “The suns haven’t moved,” she stated. “Not even a degree since we arrived.”

  He had already clocked that. We’ve been here for what feels like half a day, and the god of lighting directors hasn't changed a thing. “I heard about places with months of daylight. Maybe we won the geographic lottery.”

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  “Harris says it’s impossible. Says with three suns that close, we’d be ash. The gravity would turn us into paste. He’s ranting about binary star systems.”

  David shrugged. “So the rules are different. What a shock.”

  “I got my Telekinetic Tug to level two,” she added. To demonstrate, two jagged shards of metal lifted from her palm and began orbiting each other, a slow, precise ballet of potential shrapnel. Show-off.

  “Have you tried giving your throws multiple mid-flight shoves?” David asked. “Or make a larger wall of force? Like you did with the warg, but up close?”

  “It’s inefficient. Most of the time, a regular focused boost has more force. For now.”

  “What about the others?”

  “Most are too panicked to focus. The younger ones are adapting faster, but only a handful have managed to use their skills at all.” Her eyes never stopped moving, scanning the tree line even as she spoke. “Theo can use his Deflection. You throw something at him, and he sends it back a few times harder.”

  David’s focus sharpened. “Theo’s back? When?” That’s useful. He was one of the few who ran into the woods. Lost, maybe. He might have intel on new threats, resources, terrain. He kept his expectations low, but the potential was there.

  “He said he ran in a straight line, hid when he ran into a suit of armor, and ran straight back after he dealt with it.”

  Smart. Run, hide, retrace. David was mildly impressed the kid had survived a solo encounter with one of those things; they were easy to handle with numbers. Alone? A single possessed armor should have been a death sentence. I need to see that Deflection in action.

  Rhea continued, her tone dry. “He came back with a gash on his arm, a sword, and a piece of the armor’s chestplate strapped over his shirt. He was tripping over his own feet and grinning like he’d won the lottery.”

  “He say anything?”

  “He said he can’t wait for his Demon Lord class.”

  This guy, David thought, a thread of weary amusement cutting through the calculation. He’s like a kid who just found a live grenade and thinks it’s the best toy ever. An insightful, resourceful kid, but juvenile-minded nonetheless.

  A group of schoolkids moved closer, led by a boy who seemed to be powered by pure, unfiltered caffeine. David watched them come, a minor incursion into his personal bubble of misery. The one bringing up the rear was a giant, a kid built like a future NFL lineman, but he hung back, quiet, reserved, with an intelligent air about him. The leader, however, was all teeth and nerve.

  "You must be the Warlock slayer!" the boy announced, his smile blindingly out of place. "I expected you to be bigger."

  David just stared. His personal policy was to never encourage this sort of thing.

  "Your clothes are dirty, and you kinda smell like blood," the kid added, conversational, like he was commenting on the weather. "Like the big monster wolf, but worse."

  A girl with her black hair in a tight bun shoved him. "Jamie!"

  Is he asking for a beating? David wondered, his fingers idly tracing the shape of a good, throwing-sized rock near his leg. I’m not above it. It would be a civic service.

  "Anyway, nice to meet you." Jamie thrust a hand out.

  David looked at the hand, then back at Jamie’s face, and didn’t move. He remained on the ground, a statue of uncooperative grime.

  The same girl pushed Jamie back again, her cheeks flushed. "W-we are sorry… Jamie is… bad sometimes. He’s a weirdo and mean."

  "Hey!" Jamie protested, but she steamrolled his outrage, offering David a shy, apologetic smile.

  "Everyone heard about the warlock. And we saw you fight the imp. We wanted to thank you for…" She gestured vaguely at the general state of not-being-dead. "For everything, I guess."

  So the rumor mill is fully operational. It was the world’s worst game of telephone, but at least this time it came with a side of appreciation. Praise me more, his brain supplied, the thought dry and automatic. Bring me offerings. A hot meal would be nice. Or the still-beating heart of my enemies, but I doubt the student council is running that errand. He’d done it all for himself, of course, a fact he saw no need to advertise. He gave a single, slow nod.

  Rhea let out a quiet sigh. "At least introduce the others, Jamie."

  She started pointing. "Jamie Perez. Fifteen.” David took in his appearance. Messy brown hair that looks like a bird tried to build a nest and gave up. Jamie just grinned wider, a weirdly fearless confidence radiating off him.

  "Mia Miller. Sixteen." The girl with the bun flinched slightly at the attention. She was short, her posture trying to make her even smaller. Her black hair was pulled so tight it looked like it was stretching the skin around her eyes.

  "Son Nguyen. Fifteen." This was the giant. He had small, round glasses that looked comically delicate on his broad face. His body was pure stock, thick-necked and wide-shouldered. What did his parents feed him? David mused, feeling oddly compact in comparison. Pure protein powder and the souls of smaller children? What kind of fifteen-year-old is built like a Dallas cowboy centerguard?

  "The others are on a rotation around the clearing," Jamie cut in, his energy undimmed. "They're calling it 'watch duty.'"

  My worst enemy, David thought, watching the boy’s incessant smile. An extrovert. He could feel his social batteries, not just draining, but being actively ripped from their housing and crushed. Is this a skill? Some kind of life-force vampirism? Is he a necromancer?

  Rhea, sensing the dark turn of David’s silence, cut Jamie off as he started rambling about class choices. "—and I think the Assassin class will be totally OP, you know? With a dagger and—"

  A murderer class? David wondered, baffled by Theo’s ‘demon lord’ and Jamie’s desire for ‘Assassin’. What happened to the Hero? The Guardian? What’s with this generation’s career path straight into villainy?

  "I wanted to show you something," Jamie announced, his eyes glinting. "Try throwing a stone at me."

  David didn't need to be asked twice. He palmed the rock he'd been eyeing and threw it, hard, aiming for the center of the kid's forehead.

  Jamie’s eyes widened in surprise, but a pane of ice snapped into existence a foot in front of his face, angled to deflect. The rock veered off, its speed and force noticeably weaker. The ice shattered into falling chips.

  A cocky smile started to form on Jamie’s face.

  A second rock, which David had already picked up and thrown a half-second after the first, thwacked into the kid's stomach.

  "Hey! Ow! You’re not supposed to—" Jamie staggered back, clutching his midsection, his look one of pure betrayal.

  David held a third stone, tossing it lightly up and down in his hand. Freeze that, dipshit.

  "Hah," David said, the sound flat and dry.

  The kid wasn't bad, really. And David was the first to admit he could hold a grudge like a trophy. But this was the cover charge for invading his personal space.

  "Why’d you do that for?" Jamie whined, rubbing his stomach.

  "It’s my lesson fee. I'd recommend more practice," David said. "Angling it was a decent idea. Now try making the ice thicker than a window pane. Or a different shape. Something stabby you don’t have to hold. The skill seems useful. The person controlling it… not so much."

  Jamie sighed, a dramatic, full-body performance. "You sound just like my mom. 'Study harder, Jamie. Practice more, Jamie. Think, Jamie.'" He waved his hands around. "I will, I will, don't worry. Man, you're kinda uptight for a warlock slayer."

  Something tells me he isn't taking the whole 'fight for your life in a monster-infested hellscape' thing too seriously, David observed. The other two, Mia and Son, were a different story. You could see the fear in the way they twitched at every forest sound, their eyes constantly darting toward the tree line. Jamie’s relentless cheer was probably the only thing keeping them from screaming. You do you, Jamie. More power to you. Just do it over there.

  "See ya later," Jamie said with a wave, already bouncing back. The others followed. Son gave a respectful, almost nervous nod. Mia offered another fragile smile.

  "I'll go back to watch," Rhea said.

  David nodded.

  "Milo, Milo, come here! Where's my cat?" Jamie called as they moved away.

  "It's not your cat, it's…" Mia's voice faded as they passed out of earshot.

  David got back to practicing.