Hope kept flipping through the pages of the book. It was… long, to put it mildly. So much crap to keep track of—what materials went into the crafting, what each could handle for skill boosts, and every bloody arrangement was completely different. Just… too damn many.

  Forget the clock, forget whatever Gob said—at this pace, he was never gonna get it. Too much to cram in his head, too much to tiptoe around, too much to memorize. And half the shit didn’t even make sense. Structural Magika stability? Reactive feedback? Seriously—who the hell uses those words? Sounded more like some pompous Yvris name than a real enchanting term.

  He let out a sharp sigh and flopped back onto the pile of crates and junk, careful not to skewer himself on a stray spear in the process.

  The clock caught his eye—looked like the big arrow had crawled maybe a tenth of the way around.

  Whatever. Might as well just give it a shot and screw the instructions.

  He sprang up and snatched a spear—more his vibe than any of the other weapons lying around.

  It was solid work. Nothing flashy, just a sharp steel tip on a long wooden shaft.

  “Alright… let’s just make you a nice little G-grade, yeah? Spear Handling +1.”

  He flipped the book open again, using a lazy gust of Air Magika to turn the pages until he found the signature for Spear Handling +1.

  He looked from the page to the spear. How hard can it be? I mean, anything in existence could handle a G-grade enhancement—or so the book claimed—so no worries there.

  “Okay, so… it had a bit of Earth, Air, and Kinetic Magika… you have to be fuckin’ kidding me!? Three—three types of Magika for this shit? Linked together in thin threads? Held stable until I finish dozens of lines?!”

  Hope hesitated. His levels in those Magika types were low, and the mental strain was going to be no joke. And Kinetic… hell, he had no idea how to link a Magika that lived inside an object with two that floated as motes in the air. Was he supposed to merge the lines directly inside the damn spear?

  He stood there for several seconds, weighing it. He’d figured the first attempt or two wouldn’t be too hard—just follow the diagram, right? But reality hit him fast and hard. And the worst part? He still had all the other crap Gob wanted done. Couldn’t just spend the whole day beating his head against this.

  It seems being good at enchanting required a decent skill with several Magika types—something he wasn’t, and had no interest in becoming. He was already sharp with Air Magika, and when it came to Spacetime… well, he could give even a Magus a run for their money. So why waste time fumbling with a bunch of useless types? Hell, why even bother learning enchanting if he could just kill creatures, loot their drops, and pay someone else to make the gear? Much easier.

  Shouldn’t he be spending this precious time experimenting with what he was good at? Maybe snag another Spacetime skill?

  But alas… this was work. And as friendly, grinning, and easygoing as Gob might act, at the end of the day he was still a pirate—a space vulture with zero morals. And he had made it very clear: no completed task, no meal.

  Hope cursed under his breath.

  Annoyed but resigned, he grabbed the other book and started sorting through the junk. It took time, with all the mess piled around, but at least he could see an end to this job—unlike enchanting. He worked his way through the clutter, quickly memorizing the layout, shifting crates into place, using a flick of Air Magika here and there to help, and the occasional twist of Spacetime to lighten a crate before tossing it toward the right corner.

  Minutes blurred into hours, and by the time the place was actually tidy, the big arrow on the clock had crawled past halfway.

  He sat down, admiring a job well done. It had been long, sure, but he’d kind of enjoyed it, and it showed him Magika had uses beyond fighting and killing. Plus, he’d found the enchanting tools Gob had mentioned.

  Now… he’d said something about getting Enchanting to level 3 and making an F-grade piece. Maybe… doable?

  But right now, Hope didn’t care about “general learning.” He cared about results. So—sod Spear Handling.

  He grabbed a leather hat. It looked mage-ish, so it should hold.

  He flipped the pages to the pattern he wanted—and grinned.

  Nice. Only one Magika type. The diagram looked more complex than the easy and intermediate ones he’d seen, and the margin notes flat-out called the difficulty “hard,” but still—single type. And more than that: his one and only.

  He eyed the tools, but decided to pass on them for now.

  Focus on the diagram.

  He breathed in, let it settle, and reached. Space tightened under his will, fine as silk. Lines formed. Held. Wobbled. He coaxed them straight and felt a prickle of victory—then the whole thing sagged and blew apart with a soft hiss.

  “Shit.”

  Again.

  He drew faster. Thinner. He tried to be gentle. He tried to be brutal. Each time the pattern met the leather it wrinkled, skidded, slipped out from under him and died. A pop. A fizz. A sting up his fingers. The hat twitched like it hated him personally.

  “Come on… hold.”

  It didn’t.

  His temples throbbed. The steady burn of Magika use crawled behind his eyes until his skull felt two sizes too small. Sweat ran down his spine. His hands shook, not from fear but from grind—minute after minute of focus, breath, hold, and fail.

  He glanced at the corner where the tools sat, waiting, tempting him.

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  He looked away.

  “No. Not yet.”

  He dragged the lines again. He kept the pulse even. He counted heartbeats. He swore under his breath until the words lost meaning. Halfway. Three-quarters. Almost. Collapse. Every near-miss hurt worse than the clean failures.

  The clock’s big arrow crept on like it was laughing at him.

  He rubbed his eyes, blinked away the grit, and went back in. The frame hovered, quiet as a held breath. He eased it down, whispering a promise to kill something if this peeled again.

  It peeled again.

  “Bloody—” He bit it off, jaw tight enough to crack.

  Tools. Hat. Book. Back to the lines.

  Again.

  And again.

  Until the air in front of him was full of ghost-patterns and the smell of warm leather, and the only thing keeping him upright was spite and the faint, stubborn belief that if the universe could be bent, he could bloody well bend a hat.

  ***

  The door eased open and Gob slipped into one of the storage rooms.

  A quick glance put a grin on his face. Neat stacks, clean aisles, labels where they ought to be. He didn’t need to check deep to know everything was where it was supposed to be. Not that it mattered much—this was the cheap end of the haul.

  Still, good to get the boy on track. Prideful geniuses snap easy. Mundane tasks early on build discipline, temper the edge.

  He spotted the kid. Out cold.

  Gob padded closer and saw the faint crust at the temples. Dried blood. Magika strain.

  Kiddo… why push so far?

  He shook his head, then his gaze fell to the hat in front of the boy—and his jaw went slack.

  “What the—”

  Mage’s Hat

  Rank 1 Gear (Grade: F, Type: Head)

  Requirements: Spacetime Handling (Level 3), Magia 120

  Effect: +10 Magia, +1 Spacetime Handling

  He’d actually done it! And Spacetime, at that. Sure, the brat might be a Magus, but enchanting was a different game. Stabilise and merge, first time in under a day?

  Colour me blind. The little test meant to show his limits… backfired.

  Gob chuckled under his breath. Truly, this kid was somethin’ else. Gut had been right. Worth more than all the extra loot put together.

  And he’d learned the tools quick, too—

  Gob froze. His eyes slid to the kit neatly tucked to the side. Lenses pristine. Clamps spotless. Not a scratch of use.

  He zoomed his focus, hunting smudges, dust lines, anything. Nothing. The tools hadn’t been touched.

  “…Hells.”

  Cold sweat prickled his back. This wasn’t just talent anymore.

  How in the seven space seas did a half-starved stray pull off a tool-less enchantment?

  Just… damn, kiddo.

  Gob frowned, all mirth gone. Being very talented was one thing. Being the sort that breaks the board? That gets you owned or dead. No third road.

  They’d have to be careful. Very careful.

  He sighed and rubbed his chin, eyes lingering on the sleeping boy. “Making things hard on your Senior already, lad.”

  He uncorked a small vial and poured a thin line of potion along the kid’s temples and hairline; it hissed softly as it sank in. Gob wiped away sweat and dried blood with a clean rag until the skin looked less ghostly.

  From his Inventory he set out a simple meal—bread, dried meat, a wedge of cheese—and a capped flask beside the boy’s hand. He tore a scrap from a ledger, scrawled a note, and tucked it under the flask.

  Lantern wick turned low, coat straightened over the kid’s shoulders, Gob slipped to the door and let it click shut behind him—mind already counting the lies he’d need if anyone started asking questions.

  ***

  Hope’s eyes fluttered open and he groaned.

  The light was dim. He adjusted quick and looked around. But more than the room, it was the scent riding the air that hit him.

  Food!

  He stared, mouth watering, snatched the bread and bit in, then grabbed the flask and downed the water.

  As he did, a note slipped loose and fell. “Call me when you finish. Next task waits.”

  Gob? Nice fella.

  Maybe pirates aren’t that bad after all, huh.

  He finished the meal fast, feelin’ it hit the spot. He eyed the hat in front of him and grinned at the prompt. Damn, am I good.

  He flicked to the System messages.

  ??Enchanting (Level 4 + 1)

  Threads draw true, patterns accrue; the weave hums in time with you.

  ? 25% reduction in mental strain when Enchanting.

  ? +20 Magia permanently.

  Straight to level 4? Nice surprise.

  Also—finally!—another skill that gives Magia. He’d thought only Magika Sensing did that.

  Maybe… he should treat Enchanting a bit more seriously from now on. Maybe even get some gear just for it.

  Hope pushed to his feet and, not sure what “call” meant exactly, just—

  “GOB!!!”

  He yelled at the air and waited. It didn’t take long for the goblin to slip through the door.

  “Not that loud, kiddo—I’m not deaf.” Gob looked him over. “All done?”

  “Just as you asked. And… thanks for the meal, Senior.” Hope flashed a grin.

  Gob stared, then shook his head. This brat.

  “Come on. Gotta introduce you to someone special,” the goblin said, a grin tugging at his mouth.

  Hope, curious, nodded and followed him out.

  The corridors ran like a maze through a giant wooden hull. Ribs arced overhead, tar-dark and polished. Lanterns burned in iron cages. Doors lined both sides—some plain, some carved with old sigils.

  They passed warped charts on sailcloth, jars of oddities—too-long teeth, a coil of silver hair, a rune-scratched skull—and a row of masks in bone and copper, eyes blank.

  A mirror caught him: thin, tired face, hair a mess. He looked away.

  They took a tight stair down, then another, then a third. The air cooled, briny and alive. The timbers thrummed underfoot, a slow heart below.

  Gob halted before a heavy door banded in dark iron, its edge etched with fine, pale lines. He turned, all trace of grin gone.

  “So, kiddo—don’t speak unless told to. Don’t do anything funny. And above all, no Magika handling inside. Got it?”

  Hope nodded.

  “Don’t just nod, lad. When ordered, say something like ‘understood, Senior.’”

  “Oh… understood, Senior,” Hope said, not putting much ceremony into it.

  “Good.” Gob set his hand to the latch. “Let’s get in.”

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