The salamander writhed, a grotesque dance of fire and fury in the dim light. Lyra, a blur of motion, danced around its snapping jaws, her short blade carving arcs of pain. Gregor held the line, steady and unshaken, his spear driving forward with practiced, brutal precision. He hadn’t bothered with the shield this time—it stayed slung across his back, untouched. Tara, her hands alight, focused her energy, subtly disrupting the beast's movements and leaving it vulnerable.

  Vaan still did not draw. Not yet.

  His hand lay quiet on the hilt of his sword, the leather cool beneath his grip. His eyes, however, were anything but still. They darted, tracked, absorbed. He watched the salamander's darting form, the precise angles of its attacks, the subtle shifts in its weight. He watched his comrades, their stances, the almost telepathic understanding that flowed between them. The seamless cohesion with which Lyra's blade flashed, Gregor's spear thrust, and Tara's magic bloomed resonated within him, a silent understanding clicking into place.

  Orderly – In the presence of allies, your movements become instinctively synchronized. When fighting alongside comrades, your strikes flow with theirs, reducing wasted motion and increasing efficiency.

  (+5% damage, +5% defense when fighting in formation.)

  (+10% synergy bonus if fighting alongside a trained ally.)

  (+1 Vigor, +1 Finesse, +2 free distribution point.)

  The perk's description, once a jumble of numbers and vague synergy bonuses, suddenly felt less like an abstract concept and more like a forgotten instinct awakening. It wasn't a sudden revelation, but a shedding of mental clutter. He recalled the clumsy survival of the boar hunt with Ronald and Tal, a far cry from the focused coordination he witnessed now.

  His skills had progressed since then, and he could now spot the subtle beat of the battle, the intuitive grasp of fighting as one. The numbers – the damage and defense percentages, the fuzzy synergy – faded into the background, replaced by a visceral sense of timing. He still couldn't articulate what synergy meant, whether it amplified a collective assault or offered a shared defense, but watching them, he felt its truth. Fighting as a unit amplified both the attack and defense.

  He saw the subtle shifts in Tara's stance as she channeled her magic. A flicker of silver light around her hands as she cast Seeker's Pulse, targeting the salamander's movements, disrupting its flow. He noted the way Gregor's spear parried a snapping jaw, not with brute force, but with a precise redirection that left the salamander open for Lyra's swift counter.

  The salamander, weakened and disoriented, thrashed wildly, its fiery breath sputtering. By the time Gregor had hamstrung the beast and pinned it with a grunt, Vaan was already there, sliding into the opening without waiting for a signal. His blade sank into the soft joint between its scales, ending it cleanly.

  Vaan lowered his sword, a strange sense of… rightness settling over him. Gregor was already turning away, and Lyra wiped her blade clean without a glance. Neither seemed to notice anything different. But Tara did. He caught her watching him—curious, thoughtful. Then came a small nod, a silent acknowledgment passed between them. Something had shifted. He had found the rhythm.

  They moved on for some time, the stride of their travel now subtly different for Vaan. It wasn't a conscious effort, but an internal metronome, keeping time with their unspoken coordination. He found himself anticipating their movements, his flow adjusting to match theirs, the ringhorn's reins feeling lighter in his hand.

  The monotonous terrain stretched before them: a desolate expanse of jagged rock and ash. The crunch of their boots and the rhythmic plodding of the ringhorns were punctuated by the unsettling crackle of distant lava flows. The oppressive heat pressed down, yet for Vaan, the discomfort was tempered by a growing sense of belonging—a strange orderliness in this desolate place.

  Suddenly, the ringhorns snorted and shook their massive heads again as before, their nostrils flaring. A few tense minutes later, the reason became disturbingly clear: a gargantuan skeleton lay half-buried in the ash, its size hinting at some monstrous beast that dwarfed even the salamanders they'd faced. Ribs like blackened pillars reached towards the sky, and a skull larger than their ringhorns stared blankly at the oppressive sky. The party gave it a wide berth, the ringhorns practically dragging them away from the unsettling remains.

  "I'm not sure how deep into the Ashlands we've wandered," Tara said, her voice unusually uncertain, her gaze sweeping across the desolate landscape. "Perhaps we should veer east a bit. I don’t like hearing the hiss and rumble of lava; that's usually closer to the core."

  Aside from the sun and the endless stretch of soot-stained nothing, Vaan had no clue how anyone knew where they were going here. The party was entirely reliant on Sara, who, thanks to her Fieldcraft perk, could apparently read rocks, dust, and the differing shades of soot that was supposedly darker the closer you got to the center of the Ashlands.

  "East it is," Gregor said, his tone brooking no argument. As if they had any other option besides blindly trusting the one person with a perk that didn’t rely on guesswork. "Don't want to pull another Elara on this trip." Gregor shot a dark look at the skeletal remains.

  And so, they turned their ringhorns eastward, leaving the unsettling giant bones behind, hoping to find a less ominous path to the signpost.

  It was Vaan’s newfound awareness that allowed him to react with a nascent understanding when a level 9 Ashland porcupine erupted from the jagged rocks ahead. Roughly the size of a boar, its quills glinted like obsidian shards, and its beady red eyes gleamed with hostile intent.

  This time, without hesitation, Vaan moved.

  Lyra, ever vigilant, had already loosened a throwing knife—a silver streak arcing toward the creature—but the porcupine twisted mid-lunge, sending a spray of quills in retaliation. It zipped past Gregor, who sidestepped easily.

  "Still counts as a miss," he grunted, unfazed, shifting his stance.

  Gregor’s spear lunged forward, a blur of controlled force meant to drive the creature back. But Vaan, for the first time, wasn’t reacting. He was anticipating.

  He saw the shift in Gregor’s weight, the subtle draw of Lyra’s arm as she drew her short sword, and the porcupine’s slight recoil before its next aggressive burst.

  And at that moment, Vaan joined in.

  He didn’t rely on a skill—his movement came from something deeper. Instinct. Insight.

  His strike fell in perfect sync with the others, a swift, decisive thrust right at the porcupine’s jaw.

  The creature’s charge faltered, its quills rattling harmlessly to the ground as it crumpled, its glowing eyes dimming in the harsh light of the Ashlands.

  “Quick work, Vaan,” Lyra commented.

  “A thousand more of those,” Gregor added, turning away, “and you might just get the hang of it.”

  ***

  Dusk had nearly settled, and thankfully, the hiss of the volcanoes had faded an hour or two ago. They must have crossed back to the perimeter and away from the core, which also meant a lower chance of running into the stronger native beasts of the Ashland. The terrain had even leveled out a bit, allowing them to remount the ringhorns and ride rather than lead them on foot.

  They spotted a rare patch of color on the edge of Ashlands—faded, struggling, but stubbornly alive. Two enormous slabs of dark stone jutted from the earth and leaned into each other at an angle, forming a crude natural shelter. Between them, ashgrass flourished in the perpetual shade, its pale blades clustering thickly where the sun never reached. Shrubs and undergrowth were seen amidst.

  But the true wonder lay within - the grass grew not just on the sheltered ground, but from the stones themselves. Delicate tendrils emerged from cracks in the rock face, their roots threading through impossible gaps. Patches even clung upside-down to the leaning ceiling, thriving where only condensation sustained them.

  Low tufts of ashgrass pushed through the cracked ground, their pale violet strands swaying gently in the heat shimmer. What should have been barren stone instead breathed with life, offering not just shelter, but proof that even here, the land endured.

  The space offered a rare reprieve—part oasis, part refuge.

  Tara veered toward it without fanfare, and the others followed. The ringhorns, sluggish and irritable after long stretches in the grey waste, quickened their pace. As they entered the clearing, the beasts gave low, contented grunts and immediately began to nibble at the sparse vegetation with something approaching enthusiasm.

  The party dismounted, working stiffness from their limbs.

  Tara stopped at Gregor’s mount, fingers slipping beneath its armored shell as she cast Soothen. A gentle glow pulsed from her hand. The ringhorn huffed softly and lowered its head, clearly pleased, its shoulders loosening with relief. She moved down the line, repeating the spell, and each beast responded with similar ease—quiet grunts and drooping ears signaling their comfort.

  “Not exactly a banquet,” Gregor said, watching one ringhorn chew like it held a grudge against a particularly long blade of ashgrass. “But better than gnawing the saddle again.”

  Vaan knelt and ran his fingers through the ashgrass. Cool and pliant—not like the brittle husks they'd passed for days. The soil beneath felt almost soft, shot through with faint traces of blue shimmer, as though the land still remembered what it was to be green.

  Tara circled the edges of the clearing, inspecting the suspiciously well-preserved patch. “Might be a mana-fed spring under here,” she said. “Or just luck. Either way, we don’t waste it.”

  Lyra plucked a spiny fruit from one of the shrubs and eyed it skeptically.

  “Don’t eat that!” Tara warned.

  “What?! The ringhorns ate that,” Lyra retorted.

  “Ah yes, you will make a fine ringhorn,” Gregor replied drily.

  “Why, wanna ride me, big boy,” Lyra mocked.

  “Not even if I were stranded here with the ashes for company.”

  Lyra tossed the fruit at his head.

  The fruit missed—barely—and rolled into the grass where a ringhorn promptly ate it.

  “Those are pricklefruit,” Tara said. “They are force-fed to prisoners as a form of torture. Safe for the ringhorns as they can digest the thorns, of course”

  “Oh!”

  Tara thankfully unwrapped the food rations quickly. A guild-provisioned substance that didn’t quite qualify as food, though it vaguely resembled bread… if bread can even be made from compressed wood shavings and grounded gravel. It had all the vital nutrients, Tara insisted, and enough energy to sustain them.

  Vaan considered saying that even a drunken Tal could slap together a better sandwich in a hurry but then remembered it was the princess of the Ashwa Kingdom sitting across from him. If it was good enough for her, he supposed, it was good enough for him.

  That didn’t stop him from brooding, of course.

  “Maybe we should have packed the salamander meat,” he finally said, earning a look of mild horror from the girls. Seriously? Lyra was just about the eat the pricklefruit which was supposedly a torture device.

  “You really are hungry,” Tara said, giving him a sympathetic look.

  Support came from an unlikely source.

  “I heard that the adventurers who brave the core regions survive on Ashland meat,” Gregor said, still watching the ringhorns munch the bristlefruit with reluctant longing. “Maybe even the prophetic monks of the Irzhan order eat them. How else would they survive in this forsaken place?”

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  “Aren’t monks vegetarians?” Vaan asked though he wasn't really sure. They couldn't survive in the harsh lands if that was true.

  “Hoothafkarss,” Lyra muttered around a mouthful of the guild’s ration bar.

  “What?”

  “That’s monk-speak for ‘shut up and chew, it isn’t that bad,” Tara said. “Probably.”

  They had encountered four more salamanders on their way, one of which had been level 14. Vaan had reached level 10 now, marking another minor milestone. Every five levels earned him five free points to allocate, and this was his second. His Unwavering Blade skill had improved as well, and it was now at Level 5, the highest of his class skills.

  He glanced ahead and saw Lyra and Gregor bickering again, their usual rhythm of insults and jabs. Now that he understood it for what it was—rivalry, not resentment—it almost felt reassuring.

  Tara walked over and settled beside him with a quiet smile.

  She looked at him, her gaze lingering a moment longer than usual. The faintest trace of rosewater drifted in the air, grounding him. Even after the ordeal, she was beautiful in a way that caught him off guard—her skin glowing softly in the fading dusk light, her presence serene yet arresting. Vaan found himself unexpectedly captivated.

  Perhaps sensing his heightened attention, she glanced away, a delicate flush blooming across her cheeks. His heart fluttered, unbidden.

  “Congratulations,” she said, her voice warm and knowing.

  Only then did he realize—she had sensed his level-up. Of course. Her scrying skill. That explained the intensity of her earlier gaze. Thank the saints he hadn’t done anything silly and made a fool of himself.

  “You look a little lost.”

  Vaan hesitated. She watched him closely, her eyes reflecting curiosity and quiet encouragement. He knew she was aware of his Orderly Blade class, so there was no point being coy. Besides, he could do with some insights. He rattled off his stats, still trying to make sense of them, and Tara listened patiently.

  Vigor, 45. Finesse, 44. Mettle, 32. Acuity, 13. Flair, 8. Muse, 3.

  Tara listened intently, her brow furrowing slightly now and then. “Okay,” she murmured, her attention fully on him. “Each class has its balance. For me, as a cleric, Flair, Muse, and Acuity are key. They affect my mana, my healing… even general skills like Fieldcraft and Scrying.”

  “So... it depends on your skills?” Vaan asked.

  “That, and flair,” she added, smiling at him. “Also, it is always prudent to go with the stat that best aids your growth.”

  Vaan nodded, absorbing her explanation as she spoke about her own class. He found himself not only grasping the mechanics more clearly but also admiring the intelligence in her eyes and the steady warmth in her voice. Garix had once said about Order possibly being linked closely with finesse stat. He wasn’t sure how much weight to give that now.

  "So, in your case, your Finesse is quite close to your Vigor," she observed, "which isn't usually necessary unless your fighting style is heavily dependent on dexterity, agility, and precision—like a rogue or a bowman. For a warrior or swordsman, the standard template, at least in Ashwa’s imperial training, is to have Finesse about 25% lower than Vigor."

  “And mettle?” he asked, his voice low.

  “That’s more for tanks—shield-bearers, defenders. Mettle favors a tank-like approach, able to withstand heavy punishment.”

  She paused, observing him, her gaze lingering for more than a moment. "However," she added, her voice softening, "your 'Orderly Blade' class is unique. It doesn’t fit any archetypes. Your class probably leans more physical, but you still have mana-based abilities, don’t you? Increasing your Flair would accelerate your mana regeneration. I'd recommend rounding it off to 10.”

  “And Muse?” Vaan asked, genuinely curious.

  Her laugh rang like a sweet chime. “Muse is for people like me or Elara,” she said, studying him with amusement. “Though, getting an apprentice wouldn’t hurt for the party. Someone to gather my herbs and experimental poultices. Ever considered a class change, Vaan? Think of the robes!” she teased, waving her shimmering fabric impressively.

  Vaan chuckled, the image of Elijah in robes, stuck in an unwanted class, flashing through his mind. “As tempting as that sounds, I’ll stick with my sword. That makes me think - is changing classes even possible?”

  Tara's expression turned thoughtful again. “Not usually. While a person can evolve a class to one that is similar, true class change is rare. I heard that the Grand Trial this time is supposed to involve artifacts and relics that can influence class affinity and evolution.”

  Vaan nodded, absorbing this, struck by a sudden realization: of course, Tara would know these things. She was a princess of Ashwa, despite how down-to-earth she seemed, and he was just a temporary member here. She had an unsettling presence and a way with him and the others, but he should never forget that.

  Tara continued unaware of his thoughts. “Traumatic events can force a class shift and it has been recorded before, but those affected are…changed. The empire watches them carefully; they're often seen as harbingers of ill fortune.”

  Vaan finally dumped the free attribute points to Vigor and Flair. His status looked decent now.

  Vaan played around a bit. A quick flex of his arms, a roll of his shoulders, a practice swing of his soulbound blade that cut the air with a clean hiss. It felt good—solid, responsive. Familiar.

  He'd already stripped off his armor to let it cool, though what he really wanted was a bath. Tara's ‘Soothen’ had worked its magic, easing his aches and, as a welcome side effect, clearing away the worst of the sweat and grime. But it was a poor substitute for an actual bath.

  Tara in the meantime had repeated the same for the others, no doubt hoping to level up the skill further.

  For the first time, he felt cautiously optimistic about his progress. He still had miles to go, but at least now he could hold his own in this merciless world.

  They were debating whether to camp on this rare patch of not-entirely-scorched earth when the ringhorns startled.

  The ringhorns shrieked in unison—a ragged chorus of alarm that meant only one thing: danger.

  They were immediately on their feet. Adrenaline surged, muscles coiled, and they exploded into action in anticipation of danger. They were interrupted by a noise, a deep, guttural rumble that vibrated through the ground, even over the ringhorns' screeching. They broke from their debate and saw it at the edge of the camp, silhouetted against the blood-red sunset.

  Salamander, Lvl 24.

  The vision of the monstrosity unsettled him even more than the notification.

  This wasn’t just another salamander—it was a colossal level nightmare. Its serpentine body was easily twice the size of anything they'd encountered before, its scales not shimmering but seething with molten light that rippled across its form in grotesque, dancing shadows. Spines thicker than a man's torso jutted along its back, and its eyes were pits of smoldering ember, burning with predatory intelligence. The heat didn't just shimmer from it; it radiated in visible, suffocating waves, making the air itself writhe and distort. Its jaws were wide enough to swallow a ringhorn whole, lined with rows of serrated fangs, dark and jagged as if carved from the earth’s deepest scars.

  This was not going to be easy. This was a fight for their lives even with the four of them!

  They moved as one, a practiced dance of combat that now Vaan was getting acclimatized to. Gregor took the front, his spear a rock-steady line, ready to meet the beast's charge head-on, his shield now ready in his off-hand. Lyra, in a whirlwind, circled to the side, her short blades appearing in her hands like silver lightning. Tara had already begun casting, her hands glowing with a soft light. Vaan stood ready to support Gregor, his sword drawn.

  They were about to attack when they noticed something that made them freeze.

  There was a man on top of the monstrous salamander!

  He was armored like Gregor, but it was terrifyingly different. Where Gregor’s armor shone silver with faint pulsing glows along the seams, this man’s was a vision of nightmarish perfection—a second skin of dark blue metal, seamless and unbroken, flowing over his form with an almost liquid grace.

  Runes covered every inch of it, shifting and writhing as if alive. Vaan had never seen anything like it. The man sat ramrod straight, positioned carefully between the obsidian spines on the beast’s back, exuding an effortless, almost arrogant authority. He seemed unbothered by the inferno beneath him—a predator at ease atop the food chain.

  Armorclad, Level 11.

  That was the reading Vaan’s [Inspect] showed, but the number felt… wrong. Too low. The sheer presence this man radiated was far more domineering and dangerous. And then there was his mount—a salamander, Level 24. A beast that should have been uncontrollable, yet he guided it with casual, terrifying ease.

  As the salamander drew closer, the man raised his right arm. With a casual flick of his wrist, he drove his morning star, a brutal weapon of spiked metal and dark energy that seemed to have been made of the same metal as the armor, directly into the salamander's skull.

  The morning star slammed into the salamander's skull with a sickening crack, the sound echoing like a thunderclap. Its head didn't just explode; it splattered, showering them with gore and sizzling rock. The beast's massive body convulsed, its fiery life extinguished in an instant, crashing to the ground with earth-shattering force. The shockwave sent a cloud of Ashland soot and dust billowed outwards, engulfing Vaan and his companions, making him stumble and his ears ring from the impact.

  The man dismounted from the scorching corpse of the beast with a fluid grace that belied his heavy armor, landing softly on the scorched earth as if he weighed nothing at all. He stood for a moment, surveying the carnage he had wrought with a dismissive tilt of his head, then turned his glowing gaze towards Vaan and his companions.

  Vaan felt a chill crawl up his spine, a primal fear that had nothing to do with levels or stats. There was something about this man that radiated danger, a sense of cold, implacable power that went beyond mere equipment or skill. He wished he hadn’t stripped off his armor.

  It was in the way he moved, the way he held himself, the way his eyes: twin rubies burning through the slits of his helm, assessing their worth with a dismissive finality, like a hawk judging prey. His voice emerged as a deep, reverberating growl, muffled and magnified by the helm, each word ringing with cold authority.

  “I’m taking over this refuge… For rest.”

  Gregor was the first to respond. "As you can see, this place is occupied." The man looked at Gregor, a tilt of his head conveying amusement, though his expression was hidden by the armor. He simply stared in response. "You stand in the shadow of Ashwatha's royal blood, Seventh Princess of Ashwatha." Gregor snapped. "State your business or draw your blade, mercenary."

  “Ah, royalty. That explains the arrogance.” His voice edged with amusement, ringing sharply from behind the helm. “No need to draw your blade—I’d rather break it in your hand.”

  Lyra moved first. A flick of her wrist, almost invisible—one of her throwing knives flashed toward his exposed flank. It should have hit.

  But he turned, impossibly fast for someone in full armor. The morning star came up, iron head humming with force, and swatted the knife aside like an insect. Then he moved.

  His charge was a thunderclap of motion. Gregor barely had time to raise his shield before the knight’s armored shoulder slammed into him. There was a deep, resonant crack, the sound of layered steel warping under brute force. Gregor was hurled backward like a broken doll, straight into Tara.

  Tara cried out as she hit the ground hard, the air torn from her lungs. She rolled, limbs flailing awkwardly, and came to a halt with her eyes wide and unfocused. Her hands shook as she clutched at her ribs, skin pale with shock. Her breaths came short and shallow, wheezing past clenched teeth.

  Gregor groaned, rolling over with blood running down the side of his face. His gauntlets clenched the dirt, his expression a mix of fury and shame.

  Lyra rushed forward next, short sword drawn and chain loosening at her hip. She ducked low and slashed, fast and precise, but the knight pivoted with an economy of movement that made it look rehearsed. He struck her with the haft of his weapon—not enough to kill, but enough to send her sprawling, the wind knocked clean from her lungs.

  Then he turned to Vaan.

  He felt a golden light wrap him up, sharpening and empowering him in a golden hallow.

  Tara had cast Luminous Boon on him. She could have cast it on Gregor but she had chosen him. He couldn’t afford to falter now.

  Vaan didn’t hesitate. He stepped forward, his duskiron blade thrummed eagerly at the challenge from a superior opponent. He took his stance between the fallen and the storm.

  “You’ll go no further,” he said quietly.

  The knight moved.

  Vaan did too.

  Orderly Judgement.

  The first strike glanced off the knight’s side, drawing a flicker of blue soulflame. The second landed firmer, biting into the strange bluish metal of the armor. The knight grunted, not in pain but irritation, and swung his morning star in a brutal arc. Vaan ducked barely in time—the wind of it scraped across his scalp like a passing comet.

  He stepped in with the third blow, driving the duskiron sword toward the knight’s midsection. This time, it hit clean, and the soulflame ignited.

  The blast wasn’t overwhelming, but it was sharp—like tearing a sliver from something sacred. A flash of bluish fire burst across the runes etched into the knight’s armor, flaring before fading.

  The knight staggered—not from pain, but from sheer surprise.

  Vaan stood between his friends and the armored figure, sword raised, his breath steady but his pulse hammering. Behind him, Gregor struggled to his feet with a growl, splinters of his shield still clinging to his forearm. Tara coughed, blood on her lips, but her eyes burned with pain and fury. Lyra was rising too, chain coiled in one hand, blade in the other, her stance wary.

  The man in armor looked up slowly, smoke curling from his joints, soulflame still flickering along the cracks in his armor.

  Then, at last, he spoke again.

  "...Interesting."