Day 17, Challenge 3
I must have missed something. There’s no way they actually expect a level-3 kid to beat a level-4 boss. The numbers don’t line up. Either there’s a trick I haven’t found, or the whole challenge is meant to be failed. And if that’s true, I really do feel bad for the people of the Madarox Outpost.
Yes, people. They real. I’m going with my gut on that.
Separate note. After a lot of testing, I’ve confirmed the level-3 vial of duplication only works on items level 3 or lower. Anything level 4 or higher just refuses to copy — makes sense, I guess. But it means I’ll have to build new duplicating gear every single time I level up.
Skipping the math this time: after three rounds of merging, the cost curve turns brutal. I can either push merges or focus on leveling — not both. There just isn’t enough essence to sustain both paths.
Still, there might be a workaround. If duplication works on upgraded cores, I can chain it. Merge low-tier duplicators into level-2 ones, use those to duplicate level-2 cores, merge those into level-3 cores, and keep climbing. Each generation feeding the next.
It’s a grind, but doable.
If it holds, I can finally stabilize resource growth instead of chasing it.
I’m close to breaking Challenge Three. I can feel it.
Friday.
The first day back after Noah’s memorial.
Rem had left the service before the speeches ended. He couldn’t stand hearing the Union turn his friend’s death into motivation. The stench of propaganda followed him out of the chapel, faint and rehearsed.
He walked into class and felt the weight of eyes that never looked directly at him.
“I’m telling you—he’s still on level three. Planning his next record run,” Sophie Brouwer said.
She looked wrecked. Shadows under her eyes, hair in its perfect braid that now looked forced. Her glasses made her seem smaller, though her stare dared anyone to say so. Something in it softened him for half a heartbeat — then hardened again, because softness didn’t help.
“What are we talking about?” Rem slid into his desk and set his satchel down.
“Zelfstryt,” Lars Bakker said. “Just saying he moved on, that’s all.”
“What makes you think it’s a guy?” Eva’s voice cut through.
“Oh, is it you?” Lars asked. “Are you the great Zelfstryt?”
Rem turned toward her. Eva’s uniform was creased, her skin pale from too many nights awake. Her eyes wouldn’t hold still. He’d seen her fearless before. Now her silence felt fragile.
Eva looked down. “No, I’m not. I’m just saying—”
“I hope he’s not a girl. Or an old man. Or some creep like Thames,” Sophie said.
“Thames is level four, so it’s not him.” Finn dropped into his seat—late. He was never late. “Statistically, the odds of him being from our city aren't worth mentioning.”
Rem almost smiled at that — Finn, still counting the world into neat ratios while the rest of them unraveled.
The instructor’s voice droned at the front. No one listened. Words came and went.
Rem opened his journal, holding it more than writing in it. The pen hovered above the page, unmoving. Around him, the others did the same—busy in ways that meant nothing. Finn rubbed his temple. Sophie tightened her braid until her skin pulled. Lars kept time with his fingers on the desk. Eva’s nails dug into paper.
No one looked at the empty seat.
Noah’s seat.
A note landed on Rem’s desk.
Mara’s handwriting.
He stared at the note. His first instinct was violence—rip, shout, break the taboo that everyone was pretending not to notice.
Then a flicker of satisfaction: the childish thrill of imagining the monitors scrambling, alarms blaring, someone finally paying attention. It almost made him smile. Almost.
The smile died before it reached his mouth.
He breathed once, twice. The air felt thick, as if even the room disapproved.
The anger didn’t fade so much as sink—like metal cooling, darkening, too heavy to move.
He folded the paper carefully, the way you’d handle something fragile, not rebellious. The sound of it sliding into his journal was absurdly loud. It made him flinch.
When he looked up, the others were still pretending to work. Sophie’s eyes glistened, fixed on nothing. Finn’s lips moved, counting silently. Lars stared at his own reflection in the desk’s polished surface.
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Grief sat between them. Anger waited under it.
The Union hadn’t just taken Noah. It had taken the space to mourn him.
SURGE TWO: Repelled.
Warning: Failure in later surges will forfeit all rewards.
Rem jogged through the encampment, lungs burning, boots kicking up dust. Heat pressed from every side, the air still alive with the echo of the defense—metal on metal, shouted orders, the sharp stink of smoke and sweat.
He searched for what he’d missed. There had to be something.
He went to the blacksmith. Maybe a hidden tool, an overlooked weapon that could shift the fight against the alpha wolf.
Identify.
Iron Spear Level 3Rank: Common
Durability: Medium
Rem’s gaze flicked from spear to spear as a boy hauled them off the rack. Every one the same—common, level three, ordinary as they come.
He swept the workshop again, eyes stinging in the haze.
Worn Sword Level 3
Durability: Low
Smith’s Hammer Level 3
Durability: Medium
Nothing. Only noise, heat, and wasted effort.
Maybe it wasn’t an item. Maybe it was a person.
Tandem Frecass
The blacksmith didn’t even glance up. His hammer rose and fell in rhythm with the forge’s glow.
Rem exhaled and pushed on, sweat running into his eyes. He tagged everything that moved—tents, tools, people—until the camp dissolved into amber light and flickering names.
SURGE THREE: Repelled.
Warning: Failure in later surges will forfeit all rewards.
The camp erupted in cheers, but Rem barely heard. His mind had locked into rhythm: Identify, move, Identify. His breath came rough, his pulse steady. Everyone: level three. Everything: level three. The alpha: level four. No bridge between them.
He ducked into the healer’s tent. The air struck damp and sour—herbs, iron, blood. Two men on cots: one muttering, one dead to the world.
Danny Orleston
Rem turned to the sleeper.
Mac “Tiny” Loerda
The number burned across his vision.
Tiny’s mustache twitched with each breath. His shirt clung with sweat, and the air around him stank of ale.
There it was –finally– an outlier.
Rem wiped his forehead with the back of his wrist. A dry laugh escaped him. The image rose unbidden: this drunk standing against the alpha. Ridiculous. Maybe impossible.
He stepped back into the glare. Blood-stained water in a pail. Rocks ringing the well, waiting.
A plan formed in the space between one breath and the next.
He turned toward the glyph, heat closing over him again, the next run already taking shape in his mind.
Rem waited by the well, a bucket of cold water balanced on the stone rim beside him. When the horn sounded and sent Rachel scurrying toward the gate with her medical gear, he rose without hurry. He crossed to the tent, retrieved the pail, and came back to the well—filling it until the water ran clear and cold.
He stepped into the tent, hefting the pail, and without a word dumped it over Tiny, drenching the man in freezing water.
Tiny jerked upright with a strangled gasp, sputtering, beard dripping, eyes wide. For a heartbeat Rem thought he’d drowned him—then the cursing started.
“Seven hells and a barrel of piss!” Tiny barked, swiping at the water running down his face.
He swung his legs off the cot, boots squelching as they hit the floor. The tent filled with the sour reek of ale and bitterness. He rubbed his face with both hands, water pattering onto the dirt. Then he reached into his coat, pulled out a copper flask, and took a long swig.
When he finished, he slumped forward, elbows on his knees, still dripping, still muttering.
“We’re under attack,” Rem said. “Wolves.”
Tiny didn’t even look up. The words drifted over him, fading into the haze of his drink and exhaustion.
“Ain’t my problem.” His voice came low, gravel-thick, worn to the bone. He gave a short, bitter laugh. “I’m no hero.”
He leaned back on the cot, eyes half-lidded, watching sunlight thread through holes in the canvas above. The flask hung loose in his hand. He tilted it, the liquid sloshed inside, and he sighed through his nose.
“Not your problem? Those wolves get in, you’re as dead as everyone else.”
“Fine by me.” Tiny raised the flask in a mock toast. “I’ll die doin’ what I’m best at—disappointin’ others.”
He took another long drink, the flask clinking empty, then waved Rem off with a lazy gesture as the noise of battle rolled closer.
The phrase hit harder than it should have. It stayed in his chest, behind his eyes, until it sank into the quiet place all the other truths went.
Rem stumbled out of the tent and headed for the glyph stone—his locker to change, then back through the Academy’s arch.
He was still turning over the exchange with Tiny when he stepped into the academy yard.
Cold hit first. The heat of Madarox fell away, replaced by a bite of autumn air that stung his lungs and sharpened his thoughts. Tiny still lingered in the back of them—what to do about him, how much he mattered—right up until a shove from behind sent him staggering forward, boots scraping on stone.
He caught himself on his hands, breath quick in the cold.
“Rembrandt.”
Thames growled the name, the usual calm stripped from his voice. “Your name isn’t on the ranking list. Yet you’re still here.”
Rem looked up. Thames stood a few paces away, sharp in his academy blacks. Beside him, Jessa—arms folded, face unreadable.
“And?” Rem stood, brushed the dust from his palms, and smoothed his uniform back into place.
“You’re last every trial,” Thames said, stepping closer. “Then your name disappears from the board—same as the ones who get expelled. Only you keep showing up. The teachers act like nothing’s wrong. So I’ll ask straight: what’s going on? Did you forget you’re expelled?”
Rem’s jaw tightened. Of course someone had noticed. Foolish to think otherwise. His mind ran through excuses, found none worth saying.
“I don’t owe you an explanation,” he said. “If you’ve got a problem with how this place is run, take it to the headmaster.”
“So it’s true.” Thames’ voice cooled, anger draining into something more deliberate. “My father told me your dad and the headmaster used to work together.”
He turned slightly, catching the attention of the students nearby, his tone loud enough for them to hear.
“So the headmaster’s playing favorites—keeping you here because of your father.”
Then back to Rem, a slow smile forming. “Saved by him again.”
A voice cracked through the courtyard speakers, sharp and mechanical:
“Thames van Alst, please report to the headmaster’s office.”
Silence. Then the whispering started—thin, fast, hungry.
Thames froze for a beat. His smile slipped. He straightened his collar, shot Rem a glare edged with pride and venom, and walked off toward the main hall. Jessa followed, saying nothing.
Rem stayed where he was. The air felt colder now, the kind that found its way under the uniform and stayed.
Mara appeared at his side. “It isn’t worth it,” she said quietly. “Let it go.”
He didn’t answer. His pulse still hammered, muscles twitching under his skin, the rush of blood loud in his ears.
The crowd broke apart. One by one the students drifted away, leaving only the echo of footsteps.
When, at last, Rem was able to steady himself he left heading in the direction of Oldetown.
