I rolled awake at my regular time, just before first light, my body felt like it had been arguing with stone all night and losing on points.

  Not the sharp, wrong-side-of-a-car-crash hurt from those first levels—just the deep, used ache that sat in the joints and behind my bad eye, pulsing in time with the mountain.

  The barracks were quieter than they should have been.

  Most of the bunks on my row were already empty, blankets folded, boots gone, the room holding its breath around the few of us still pretending we might get another minute.

  Merrik solved that.

  “Up, hill-hand.”

  His voice came from the doorway shining with that bit of humor.

  I pushed myself upright and blinked at him through the grit in my eyes.

  He had his full rig on—mail shirt, padded coat, spear and short sword, the grim little bundle of hooks and wedges hanging from his belt that meant stone and bad lines and worse drops.

  Serh stood just behind him, arms folded, cloak already pinned, face in that unreadable half-frown she saved for when something important was about to happen.

  “Morning,” I said, because my mouth hadn’t caught up to the tension in the room yet.

  “Not for you,” Serh said. “Gear. Now.”

  That got through.

  I pulled my boots on and shrugged into my coat, fingers clumsy on the ties.

  The familiar wrongness in my left eye sharpened as I moved, a red halo sneaking in at the edge of my vision before settling back down.

  The system didn’t bother with a message; it had learned I’d check my mail without the bell.

  We stepped out into the corridor.

  The air there had a different weight to it, like the whole hall was leaning in the same direction.

  People moved with purpose, not the slow shuffle of wall-duty mornings; there were more weapons, more bundles of rope and iron.

  “Something happen?” I asked.

  Merrik snorted. “You tell me.”

  Serh cut a look at him, then at me.

  “We’re taking you under.”

  My feet kept moving.

  My stomach tried very hard not to.

  “Under,” I repeated.

  “The old throat below the monastery,” Merrik said. “First descent with you on the line. You’ve earned it.”

  Earned.

  The word landed about as soft as a thrown stone.

  I thought about the last few weeks: the wall walks, the scouts, the boots that let me cheat the slope a little, the way the village had gradually shifted from staring at the outsider to looking past the tool.

  Then I thought about the way my legs had spasmed the last time the levels rolled through and how the vertigo had knocked me sideways even with the chief’s blessing dulling the edge.

  “Seems fast,” I said.

  “Storm’s closer than we like,” Serh said. “And the stone doesn’t wait.”

  Merrik’s hand thumped my shoulder.

  “Don’t worry. We’re not dropping you in without padding.”

  We turned off the main hall into one of the narrow side rooms: low ceiling, table scarred by generations of knife-tips, a slate nailed to the wall with chalk scores and names.

  Someone had cleared the usual clutter away.

  Only a single lantern burned, making the corners of the room thick and shadowed.

  On the table lay my short sword, my harness, a coil of fresh line—and a small, flat slate with a faint, familiar shine humming along its edge.

  I eyed it.

  “Thought we weren’t supposed to leave those lying around.”

  “We’re not,” Serh said. “Sit.”

  I sat.

  Merrik planted his hands on the table, leaning over until his face filled most of my good eye’s world.

  “How many points are you sitting on?” he asked.

  The question hit harder than it should have.

  I swallowed.

  “Stat or skill?”

  “Yes,” he said.

  Serh’s mouth twitched.

  I looked away, counting in my head the way I’d done every night since the last level.

  “Seventeen stat,” I said. “At least. Maybe one or two I miscounted early, but… seventeen free. And the… other ones.”

  Merrik raised a brow.

  “The other ones?”

  “The ones it stuffed in on its own,” I said. “Every level, five into the base. Whether I want them or not.”

  Serh nodded once.

  “Good. That means your bones aren’t as stupid as when you got here. And skills?”

  “Those I was going to get around to,” I said.

  “How many?”

  “Twenty-five.”

  The silence that followed felt heavier than any pack I’d carried up a roof.

  Merrik let out a low whistle.

  “Twenty-five. Sitting.”

  “You told me not to chase toys,” I said.

  He straightened.

  “Skills are no toys, you use what the Hills give you or you die. You’re walking into a throat that has killed people with better footing than you and steadier hands. We’re not asking you to gild your swing—we’re asking you not to die on our rope.”

  Serh slid the faintly glowing slate closer to me with one finger.

  “Open it,” she said. “Spend. Then we talk about skills.”

  My throat felt dry.

  The slate’s light prickled at the edge of my bad eye; the rest of the room narrowed to a tunnel pointed straight at the thing I’d been half-avoiding since the last level ticked past.

  I put my hand on the slate.

  The world hiccupped—one breath of cold static running from my fingertips up my arm and across my skull.

  The familiar grid of numbers and labels snapped into place in my vision, as if someone had painted it on the air.

  STATUS

  Name: Matas

  Class: Honor-bound Mercenary ?

  Level: 7

  Unallocated Stat Points: 17

  Unallocated Skill Points: 25

  Strength: 14

  Dexterity: 14

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  Endurance: 15

  Perception: 19

  Willpower: 13

  The numbers carried weight now that I knew what they meant.

  Every level since that first bell under the monastery had quietly slipped five more points into the bones and sinews and nerves behind those labels, sanding down rough edges, filling in gaps.

  On top of that, my own awkward hands had shoved eight points where they seemed most urgent at Level 5, then five more when the boots nudged me into another level, and five again when the village needed my eye on worse stone.

  Perception stood tallest, no surprise there.

  Endurance had crept up off the back of the pain.

  Willpower lagged.

  The memory of the last Identify run—letters cutting through my skull like someone had threaded wire behind my eyes and yanked—made my fingers twitch.

  “See the problem?” Merrik asked quietly.

  “Perception’s fine,” I said. “Endurance… holds. Will’s soft.”

  “Your head’s soft,” he said. “That’s what you’re telling me. You’re going under stone that hates you with a tool that bites back every time you use it, and you’re walking in with your mind bare.”

  Serh’s voice came from my left, dryer than dust.

  “We haven’t spoken of it but we are bound. Tell me your skills so we know what stones we throw.”

  I took a breath.

  The panel waited, edges humming.

  “Fine,” I said. “I have [Brace], [Weighted Strike], and [Identify].”

  Merrik snapped his eyes to me then looked down at his sword before muttering something just under my range of hearing.

  “These are known, keeping yourself alive is most important so take Brace and Identify as high as you can. We watch only.”

  I fixed my attention on Willpower.

  The number brightened as if noticing the look.

  “Five,” Merrik said. “Start there. We see how it sits.”

  I willed the points over.

  The numbers flipped.

  Willpower: 13 → 18

  Unallocated Stat Points: 12

  Heat bloomed behind my eyes, not the sharp, tearing kind, but a slow, spreading warmth, like someone had wrapped a band around my skull and was tightening it by careful notches.

  The constant grit of stray letters and ghost-logs in my vision eased, edges settling, the noise of the system’s presence dropping a half-step.

  I let out a breath I hadn’t realized I was holding.

  “That,” Merrik said, “is the look of a man who has been walking around with his thoughts underbuilt.”

  “Still hurts,” I said. “Just… cleaner.”

  “Pain’s fine,” Serh said. “Clouded isn’t.”

  “Put three into Endurance,” Merrik went on. “You’re still meat. Meat falls.”

  I shifted two points.

  Endurance: 15 → 17

  Unallocated Stat Points: 10

  The change landed in my bones—breath settling deeper, the old ladder-fall ache in my back easing a fraction, the sense that the floor under me would have to work harder to take me.

  “That leaves nine,” Serh said. “You will not solve the world with nine points. Put four into Will, four into Dexterity, keep one.”

  “Why keep one?” I asked.

  “Because you are not done leveling,” she said. “Because the system lies by omission. Because the next time it throws you a problem, you might wish you had one breath of adjustment left.”

  I considered arguing, then remembered every time I’d thought “I’ll get around to that later” and how that had gone.

  I pushed five more into Will.

  Willpower: 18 → 23

  Unallocated Stat Points: 5

  The band around my skull tightened again, then settled.

  The buzzing at the edges of my vision dropped to a faint, manageable hum, like distant bees instead of an angry hive jammed directly into my socket.

  Four into Dexterity.

  Dexterity: 14 → 18

  Unallocated Stat Points: 1

  My fingers felt lighter on the table.

  The memory of the short sword’s balance, of thrown spikes spinning in the air, slotted in as if the system had reached back and rewired the tracks my body used for “don’t drop that.”

  I left the last point sitting, a single ember in the corner of the panel.

  The slate pulsed once in my hand, acknowledging the change.

  “Good,” Serh said. “Now close that before you become one of those children who stare at their numbers more than the ground.”

  I let the panel drop.

  The numbers dissolved into afterimages and were gone.

  The room felt bigger without them.

  Merrik tapped the slate again with one knuckle.

  “Stats done. Skills.”

  I grimaced.

  “I didn’t even notice these before. Why wasn’t it announced?”

  “A child you are, do you need everything explained to you before you start your head?” Serh said, rolling her eyes.

  Merrik held up two fingers.

  “Brace. Identify. That’s it for today.”

  “Just those?”

  “You want more?” he asked.

  “I want to live,” I said.

  “That’s what those are for.”

  He gestured, and the panel snapped back, this time narrowed to a column of names.

  The few I could read pulsed faintly at Rank 1, a few still greyed out an illegible, promises the system had made and not yet cashed.

  At the top, highlighted as if it had been listening, sat:

  Brace – Rank 1

  Identify – Rank 1

  “Brace first,” Serh said. “Your ribs will thank you before your curiosity does.”

  I focused on the word.

  The letters brightened.

  Upgrade Brace to Rank 2?

  Cost: 5 Skill Points

  “Five,” Merrik said. “Cheap for not dying.”

  I confirmed.

  Brace upgraded. Rank 2.

  Unallocated Skill Points: 20

  Nothing dramatic happened.

  No halo, no burst of new knowledge.

  Just a subtle awareness of where my weight sat and how my joints lined up, like an old lesson finally sinking in the way it was supposed to have the first time.

  “Again,” Serh said.

  Rank 3 cost more.

  Upgrade Brace to Rank 3?

  Cost: 8 Skill Points

  “That’s thirteen,” I said.

  “And?” Merrik asked.

  I pushed the confirmation.

  Brace upgraded. Rank 3.

  Unallocated Skill Points: 12

  This time the shift was sharper—my sense of where my center belonged snapping into place, a ghost of memory layering over my stance: snow-slick rooflines, bad ladders, the feel of being one slip away from empty air and knowing exactly how much weight each board would take.

  “This is just my job,” I muttered.

  “That’s the point,” Serh said. “The system likes what you already are. It simply makes you worse for longer.”

  “Identify,” Merrik said.

  My eye twinged at the word.

  The skill flared when I focused on it.

  Upgrade Identify to Rank 2?

  Cost: 5 Skill Points

  I hesitated.

  The memory of the last time I’d pushed the skill hard—the ringing, the way letters had cut down into thoughts that weren’t ready for them—rose like bile.

  “Rank two makes it cleaner,” Merrik said softly. “Not louder. You’ve already done the stupid, raw version for us. This pays you back.”

  I let out a slow breath and confirmed.

  Identify upgraded. Rank 2.

  Unallocated Skill Points: 7

  The world did not lurch.

  Instead, the overlay I’d always half-fought with slid a fraction to the side, fonts sharpening, lines between items and meanings drawing themselves more cleanly.

  The cost sat there too—an awareness that if I pushed this too hard, too fast, even with the extra Will bolted on, it would bite.

  “Leave the rest,” Serh said, before I could get tempted by any of the other glowing names.

  “Seven points is room to maneuver when we’re already under stone.”

  I closed the panel.

  The lantern seemed dimmer when the glow went.

  Merrik picked up my harness and dropped it into my lap.

  “Strap in,” he said. “Rope drill in the east stair, then brief at the throat. You’ll have time to regret our wisdom on the walk.”

  I slid into the harness, leather creaking, buckles cold against my palms.

  The weight of the line hooks, the familiar roughness of the fibers, the smell of oil and old sweat—those were normal. The quiet in my skull wasn’t.

  For the first time since the system had ripped its way into my life, the background hum of its presence felt… bearable.

  Not friendly.

  Just something I could push against without feeling it would splinter me first.

  We stepped back into the corridor.

  Other teams were already moving the same direction, boots drumming a slow, steady rhythm on stone. Some nodded as we passed; most didn’t. To them, I was still an outsider with a useful problem in his head.

  Fine. Today, that was all I needed to be.

  A faint tick pricked at the edge of my vision as Serh pulled the door shut behind us. I almost ignored it, riding the new quiet in my skull, but the system had trained me out of that kind of laziness.

  Interface option unlocked: Personal Anchor.

  Future stat and skill adjustments are available without an external device.

  The words hung there for a heartbeat, then dimmed to a ghost-mark in the corner of my sight. No slate. No gatekeeper. Just me and a line the system had decided I was finally trustworthy—or useful—enough to cross.

  I didn’t mention it. Not with Merrik walking tighter than usual, jaw set, and Serh’s eyes fixed straight ahead like looking anywhere else might drag up something she’d already spent a lifetime trying to bury.

  I’d heard enough scraps in the barracks to know this throat had taken people from them—mothers who never came back on the rope, a father who’d come back wrong and walked out of Samhal rather than look his daughter in the eye. I was going down into a hole that had already eaten their family and left them to live around the teeth marks.image.jpeg?

  The air cooled as we descended, taking on the damp, mineral tang that marked the spaces closer to the old throat. Somewhere below, the mountain opened its mouth.

  Another line slid into place, thin as a knife-cut.

  Integration candidate detected.

  Path: Omen-Touched (Provisional).

  Environmental conditions: pending.

  The log faded, but the last word—pending—stayed with me, following every step I took down toward the dark.