Monday. Trial Day.
The courtyard was crowded, a slow river of students spilling between the buildings under a pewter sky. The air held that early-autumn bite, cool enough that breaths came sharp but not yet cold enough to numb. Rem spotted Noah cutting through the flow without hesitation, head down, shoulders squared as though the gray morning and the bodies pressing around him barely existed. He quickened his pace to catch up, his own steps scuffing damp grit from the flagstones.
“How you holding up?” Noah asked. His voice was low, the grin stretched across his face thinner than usual.
Rem dragged a hand through his hair. His fingers tangled in the neglected mess. “Making it work.” He forced the words out steady. “Thanks for what you did back there. I was—yeah, not ready.”
“Nobody is. They don’t exactly hand you a manual.” Noah let out a sharp huff, misting the air in front of him, then nudged at a cracked bit of pavement with his boot. His gaze slipped away, toward the heavy clouds pushing low across the rooftops. “Listen. I talked with the group. We don’t wanna wait till someone levels out before testing replacements. Safer to know where people fit now. Mara’s probably first to hit four anyway. They… they said they’d give you a trial run. If you wanted.”
Rem slowed a step. The thought tightened in his chest, both sharp and sweet. Running with Noah, Eva, Finn. Not alone, not anymore. He could split his passes—one with them, one solo. It was a fix for his XP problem. For an instant the gray morning seemed lighter, almost clearing. The thought nearly drew a grin, and then the fear of losing it slammed in behind, heavy as the sky.
“Wait,” he said instead, masking the twist in his chest. “Why aren’t you all on the same level? You’re running the same challenges. Shouldn’t the XP… I don’t know, average out?”
Noah gave a short, humorless laugh. “You’d think. But it always favors damage. Me, Finn? We drag behind. Every run, the gap gets worse.” His tone dipped, quieter.
“And the others are damage, I take it?” Rem asked.
“You’ve seen Mara’s bow.” Noah’s mouth twisted. “Rare plus damage. She tops every run.”
Rem studied him, the bruises under his eyes, the half-healed scrape along his jaw. “So that’s why all the armor—why you’re always banged up. You put yourself in danger on purpose because you’re supporting them?”
“Tank.” Noah tried a crooked smile, but it faltered. “Somehow it sounds dumber when you say it though.”
Something in Rem almost broke then. A thin sound escaped him, halfway between a breath and a laugh. “I’d like to group up. Really.” His voice snagged. He looked down, fingers dragging through curls. “But you should know what you’re asking for. I’m… pure support. No damage worth counting. If you’re hoping for an easy swap with Mara, I’m not it. And if that’s where it lands, fine. I’ll understand.”
Noah blinked, head tilting as if Rem had just confessed a crime. “Support?” His voice cracked sharp, disbelief shading into worry. “Then how the hell are you clearing solo?”
Rem finally met his eyes. His words came low, almost apologetic. “I told you before. I don’t run it the way you do. I talk to people. Bribe kids with oranges... learn stuff.” The words sounded lame coming out of his mouth.
Noah looked at him, as if seeing something he couldn’t quite name. He shook his head and turned back toward the academy, shoulders hunched against the cool wind. “I’ll tell them,” he sighed. Rem watched as he made his way to the others, Eva as impeccable as ever. Finn, his hand healed, held his tablet - the glow lighting up his glasses. Rem didn’t bother waiting.
He already knew what they’d say.
Trials. What had been a hassle before — too much essence pushing him too fast past challenge levels he needed to milk for every advantage — was now his savior. Essence from the trials meant merges, and merges meant short-cuts in alchemy. More than that, a fast clear would be recorded, ranked, compared.
Proof to everyone that he wasn’t trash-tier.
Rem stepped into the trial, intent clear. The chamber unfolded like a cloister garden left unfinished. Flagstones ringed a square pool of still water, shallow yet dark. At the bottom a golden key gleamed, haloed by a shaft of sun. Eels shifted beneath the surface, slick bodies knotting and uncoiling, silver arcs flashing whenever they touched.
Trial Five (Timed)
Free the bird, without killing it.
The cage waited at the pool’s edge. Wrought iron, black bars, a padlock dulled but strong. Inside, a bird no larger than his hand clung to a perch, feathers white as frost, chest fluttering with sharp, fast breaths. Its eyes met his, wide and frantic, as if it too knew the trap.
Rem stepped to the flagstones. Damp chill rose off the water, worming into his clothes. He leaned forward. The key glimmered through the weaving coils, close enough to tempt a reach. He could almost hear the Academy whisper: Go on. Reach. Prove what you can endure.
Another student would. They’d plunge their hand, get shocked or bitten, thrash until they hurt themselves or broke the cage. The bird would laugh. Probably.
But this wasn’t a problem for him.
He drew in breath, slow, steady, the way he practiced before shifting his domain. With a thought the square flared into being, wrapping the key. The eels swam through it, blind. The key floated up inside his cube.
That was the easy part.
He pulled. The cube strained as though it weighed tons. His lungs burned. His knees bent to keep balance, boots grinding grit into the stone. His scalp prickled with sweat, salt stinging his eyes. Inch by inch the cube rose, his muscles bracing though nothing physical bore on them. His vision blurred at the edges, the effort clawing at him. A tremor wracked his arms though he never touched the weight. He gasped, dragged breath like drowning, then heaved one last yank.
The cube broke the surface, water sheeting off the key as it was pulled up with it. The bird squawked at the sudden appearance.
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Rem reached in, shaking, and took the key. The shadows below whipped in frenzy, silver flashes sparking up the water. His chest heaved. His hand closed around the padlock, the key slotted neatly into place.
He turned it a fraction. A click trembled through the metal. His breath caught, a flood of want rising in his throat — essence, ranking, proof. His hand shook.
wait.
He yanked back, the lock clanging against the cage and startling the bird. A tremor ran through his hands, stubborn, refusing to stop. He paced the edge of the pond, fists clenching and unclenching.
“Wait what? What am I waiting for? It’s a timed trial,” Rem muttered.
the trials. they are not what you think. think about it. you think they are just looking for the best overall rank? no, they are strategically varying the contents of the trial to find people that are good at specific things. they are instruments for profiling - a way to skirt the union’s build secrecy directives.
“You’re being paranoid,” Rem argued.
there is a real chance at that. but this feels too intentional to be coincidence.
“I need that essence. I want to prove I’m not a loser.” – the admission came easily as he couldn’t keep secrets from himself.
they are using that weakness to reveal details about what you can do. and it almost worked.
He removed the key from the lock, closing it with a final click. He threw the key back in, and stood staring at it as it sank.
After a minute of grumbling silently he fixed his attention on the eels. There’s still essence here for the taking. How best to kill these things? Pulling them out one at a time will take a while. He considered it.
At the pond, he knelt and reached over the water. Eels thrashed beneath the surface, stirring the top layer into restless ripples. His power slid into place under the surface, trapping the head of one before it could whip away. He gripped the upper jaw as his first item, released the rest of the head, then locked onto the lower jaw as the second. He could have merged them, one solid non-opening jaw would eventually kill it, but that would cost essence and defeat the point.
Rem slowly rotated the two jaw parts apart, well past the natural limit. The eel writhed in his hold, a blind panic rolling through its length. His grip didn’t waver. There was a moment – a silent pause – where the eels' jaws resisted. Then they buckled.
A soft, rupturing pop, followed by the grotesque fold of bone caving in on itself. Flesh tore in reluctant strands. The front of the creature inverted, turning itself inside out. Its whole length convulsed once, a last arc of electricity flicking through the water — harmless, almost pitiful — and then it was over.
You killed a Level 3 Charger Eel
Reward: 15 XP
The eel dematerialized into water, a glowing white core sinking to the bottom. Rem looked over the rest of the thrashing eels. A dozen he guessed, plus a bird — he eyed the cage. Rem got to work.
Essence. That was the word in his head when he shoved the linen aside and stepped into Madarox Outpost. How to earn it? Where to farm it? There was no way trials would solve that problem. Not reliably. No. That would have been too easy.
He bent and picked up the blue wooden whistle, the paint chipped smooth, slipping it into his pocket. He moved with intent, scanning for places he hadn’t yet explored.
The central building loomed rough-cut and heavy, the only one with earth piled against three of its walls. Defensive, purposeful. He went to the open side and knocked. As he waited, Madaline Cooper passed by leading her goat, the girl smiling as if they were neighbors on some quiet lane. He smiled and nodded before turning the latch to let himself inside.
Darkness swallowed him. The doorframe cast a bar of light that barely reached the back wall. The air was cooler, carrying that cellar smell he knew too well: burlap, earth, old herbs. The front was piled with supplies: tools, firewood, sacks. Deeper in, food: jars wax-sealed, clay pots damp to the touch, bundles of dried leaves. He picked out a few herbs and a coarse bag of salt, slipping them into his bag. Nothing screamed essence, but still, something to pocket.
The system bled across his vision.
CHALLENGE THREE
Skills, traits, and class abilities unlocked.
Objective: Help defend the people of Madarox Outpost.
Reward: Variable.
He started his mental clock. From the storage, he cut across the yard to the tent — the only canvas structure among the timber. Outside, healer Rachel Moorse knelt, rinsing bloody bandages with practiced hands.
He pulled back the tent flap, peeking inside. Six cots in two rows. Two were filled. One by an old man, snoring through his own mustache, the whiskers lifting and falling with each breath. The other by a man doubled over, arms clamped around his belly, skin stretched pale and tight.
Rachel didn’t look up as she said, in that lilting accent of hers, “Och, now, don’ ye be frettin’. They’ve nothin’ ye can catch.” She gave the words a soft laugh that tugged at the edges, then added, “But don’ be makin’ a fuss, so. Last thing any o’ us wants is to wake that drunken old bastard.”
Rem’s eyes flicked to the sleeper. He swallowed. “And the other? He seems to be in a lot of pain.”
“The gripes’ll do that to a man, so they will,” she said, the syllables rolling gentle and precise. “Serves him right for eatin’ the shipment o’ figs all by his lonesome, what we shoulda shared. Quartermaster that’d steal from his own store, aye, right bunch o’ heroes we have out here.”
Ah. The missing quartermaster. A note to himself: next run, inventory the stores.
A horn blasted. The scouts thundered back into the yard, a level three corrupted wolf’s head landing on the wagon. The sound of panic and triumph mingled.
Rachel vanished into motion, shouldering her bag, nearly colliding with him as she rushed past. “Get somewhere safe, Rem, will ya!” she called, and was gone, headed for the gates.
Could I earn essence for helping her? The thought came raw. If he carried bandages, tended wounds, played the part of support — the challenge wording was precise. Help defend. It hadn’t said he needed to kill a single wolf.
He turned back inside. Catalog the supplies. The quartermaster groaned louder, his pain filling the tent. The old man still snored, indifferent, whiskers twitching. On the table: jars of ointment, folded bandages, small knives that caught what little light crept through the canvas. Implements for surgery, crude and barbaric.
Not that it matters. They are all going to die.
The thought stopped him cold. They were all going to die. He looked at the drunk. At the quartermaster, pale and sweating. The wolves would make pulp of them before the hour was through.
unless you kill them yourself.
His gaze fell on the surgical knife.
The flap was shut. No one would see.
The drunk kept snoring, whiskers twitching. The quartermaster curled tight, pale and sweating, a low groan rolling out of him.
Rem’s eyes fixed on the knife. He reached, lifted. Cool hilt. Too light. His hand shook.
“They are going to die anyway.” Rem whispered thin and harsh.
one cut. fast. mercy. The thoughts pressed mercilessly.
Rem considered it. The wolves would finish the rest. No one would know.
essence. you need the essence.
Outside, the captain’s voice bellowed for spears.
His breath came ragged. Sweat stung his eyes. He bent close, blade angling for cartilage, for the line across the throat.
these are not real. not people. just do it.
His arm trembled. Wouldn’t move. The knife quivered.
The system interrupted him.
SURGE ONE: Repelled.
Exit now to receive a reward (common).
Warning: Failure later will forfeit all rewards.
The message landed like a punch. The knife slipped. It clattered on canvas, metal ringing small and obscene.
He staggered back, heart hammering. Shame tightened him from the inside out. For a breath he could only hear the beat of his blood.
Children’s voices rose—reckless, bright, running toward the gate. He ignored them. He fled.
The glyph stone hit his palm cold. Light folded the world.
Locker. Tile. He fell to his knees. Heat surged up his throat and burned. Bile. He vomited, tasting salt and metal, retched until his shoulders shook.
He stayed on the floor, shaking. The image would not leave: the knife, the quiver, the thing he almost did.
He’d made peace with his cowardice. Built himself back up with small steps, told himself he was learning. But this was worse. He couldn’t pin it on the system, couldn’t blame the Union. This was a part of him. His hand. His choice.
He had nearly become a murderer. It had been a close thing. Too close.
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