Chapter 37: The Maintenance Phase

  The engine of The Paperweight didn't roar; it coughed, cleared its throat, and then settled into a rhythmic, tectonic thumping that vibrated through the soles of my boots.

  "Stable," I muttered, spinning the heavy iron wheel to point our ugly, magnificent brick of a boat toward the open sea.

  I looked over at Vrex. The gargoyle was slumped against the stern railing, looking less like an unstoppable juggernaut and more like a piece of coral that had been left in the sun too long. His usually polished, granite skin looked dull and porous. Every time the boat hit a wave, he flinched, not out of fear, but out of a weird, structural discomfort.

  "You look terrible," I noted, keeping my voice low. "Like someone took a cheese grater to your soul."

  "The [Pumice Form]..." Vrex wheezed, his voice sounding airy and scratching, lacking its usual bass. "It creates... cavities. I feel light. Hollow. It is a disgusting sensation. I lack gravitas."

  He reached into his belt pouch with a trembling hand, pulled out a handful of Faint Shards, and crunched them like aspirin. He didn't stop there. He reached into his Locus and pulled out a chunk of the Kiln-Heart Slag we’d bought. He bit into the super-dense rock with a grimace, chewing slowly to remineralize his exterior.

  "Eat your rocks, big guy," I said. "We've got a long ride."

  My own body wasn't doing much better. The adrenaline of the fight had worn off, leaving behind the screaming reality of three broken ribs. Every breath was a negotiation with pain. I wasn't laughing about it. I wasn't making a quip about "free acupuncture." It hurt, and it scared me how easily it had happened.

  I reached into my Locus and pulled out one of the Standard Healing Draughts we’d extorted from Talo.

  The vial was warm, filled with a thick, crimson liquid that glowed with the heavy, saturated light of a Tier 3 world. I popped the cork. It smelled like copper and cherries.

  "Bottoms up," I whispered, and downed it.

  It tasted vile—like drinking spicy cough syrup mixed with raw steak—but the effect was instant. A wave of heat rolled through my chest. I felt a weird, wet click inside my ribcage as the bones knit themselves back together. The agony faded to a dull, manageable throb.

  I let out a long, shuddering breath, wiping the red residue from my lip. "Okay. That’s the good stuff."

  Vrex swallowed his mouthful of slag, his eyes regaining a bit of their golden luster. He watched me toss the empty vial into the ocean.

  "You rely too much on the rebound, Kaelen," he rumbled. The gravel was coming back into his voice.

  I gripped the wheel tighter. Usually, I’d have a comeback ready. I’d tell him that bouncing back was my specialty. But the image of the Hull-Breaker’s claw snapping my ribs played in my mind on a loop. If I had been half a second slower...

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  "I know," I said, my voice flat. "I took a hit. I fixed it. But next time, the hit might be fatal."

  "That is gambling," Vrex corrected, pulling himself up to sit straighter. "You survived the Hull-Breaker because your Void-Knife is a Tyrant. It bullied the armor. You survived the ocean because your soul brute-forced an Edict of survival. You are winning because your equipment and your potential are high-grade."

  He pointed a dusty finger at me.

  "But your technique? It is barely Rank 1. You fling power like a child throwing mud. You treat Kinetic Grasp like a blunt instrument when it should be an extension of your nervous system."

  I looked at my hands. The knuckles were healed, but they were shaking slightly. Not from fear, but from frustration.

  "I was sloppy," I admitted, the words tasting bitter. "I killed the Watcher, but I panicked to do it. I wasted energy. I wasted movement. I'm playing checkers while they're playing chess, and I'm only winning because I keep flipping the board."

  "The Astrolabe records experience," Vrex continued, his tone shifting into that of a patient, stony lecturer. "But it cannot record discipline. That, you must forge yourself. If you continue to rely on 'clever tricks' and 'panic buttons,' you will eventually meet a wall that is smarter than you and harder than me."

  "Rawness can be cooked," I murmured, repeating something he’d said before. "Sloppiness is just rot."

  I unclipped the Ever-Spring Flask from my belt. I took a long, slow drink of the cool, purified water. It centered me. It was a Regnant item—stable, reliable, consistent. Everything I wasn't.

  "New routine," I said, capping the flask. "Every morning. Before we trade, before we hunt. Drills."

  "Drills?" Vrex asked, raising a stone eyebrow.

  "Precision," I said, looking out at the horizon. "I need to be able to use Kinetic Grasp to tie a knot in a rope from ten paces away. I need to use Static Spike to disrupt a flame without blowing it out. I'm done flailing, Vrex. I want to be surgical."

  "Good," Vrex grunted, a hint of satisfaction in his rumble. "I will provide... structural oversight."

  "You mean you're going to nap while I struggle."

  "I mean I am recovering my density," he muttered, closing his eyes. "Do not disturb the sediment. But... yes. I will watch."

  I steered The Paperweight toward the horizon, where the white sky of Ostracon was tearing open to reveal the indigo bleed of the Wayline.

  "What about the money?" I asked, my mind shifting to logistics. "We have a lot of Lucents. And a hold full of Sun-Glass. Once we liquidate in the Gyre, we'll have a serious budget."

  "We invest," Vrex said without opening his eyes.

  "Weapons?"

  "No," Vrex said firmly. "You have the knife. I have the hammer. Weapons end fights, but armor lets you start them without dying immediately. You need protection, Kaelen. Real protection. Not just a coat that looks cool in the wind."

  I looked down at my ruined synth-leather duster. It was shredded, stained with oil and blood, and stiff with salt. It had served me well, but it was Tier 1 trash. It offered zero resistance to magic, zero resistance to blades, and zero environmental shielding.

  "Survival gear," I agreed, taking another sip from the flask. "Environmental shielding. Filters. Maybe something that stops me from getting stabbed by crab-people. I need to stop being a glass cannon."

  "Prudent," Vrex rumbled. "Boring. But prudent."

  We hit the perimeter of the Wayline. The air pressure dropped. The roar of the ocean faded, replaced by the high-pitched, singing hum of the cosmic current.

  The boat shuddered, then stabilized, its heavy iron hull groaning as it accepted the new laws of reality. The water beneath us dissolved into the stream of pure, liquid physics.

  I stood up, the Ever-Spring Flask heavy at my hip, the Void-Knife cold in its sheath. I was battered, bruised, and tired. But the nonchalance was gone. The "too cool for school" attitude had drowned in that tunnel.

  "Next stop, the Gilded Gyre," I said to the silence, my hand resting on the wheel with a new, firm grip. "Let's go see a man about some armor."