He danced with pain, and cheated death.
The Lord fell, the skies at rest,
A child of space stood on its chest.
—Some bard in Swevion, after his fifth ale
A smile tugged at Hope’s lips. Quite the haul this time.
Level 88?93
?? Close-Quarter Combat (Level 9?10 + 2)
Instinctive adaptations for tight engagements.
? 60% reduction in stamina drain during close quarter combat.
? +1300 Physis permanently
Active Skill Unlocked:
- Vector Fold
Feats Achieved:
- Close-Quarter Initiate
- Lord Reaper
??Vector Fold (G) - [Discovered]
Space bends, the storm takes flight, what was your end becomes your might.
Discovered State – Passive Effects:
? 50% reduction in the mental strain caused by this skill.
? +500 Physis permanently.
? +100 Magia permanently.
??Close-Quarter Initiate (G)
You have reached Level 10 in Close-Quarter Combat.
? +1 Close-Quarter Combat.
?? Lord Reaper (G)
You brought down a Lord-ranked threat without assistance.
? +500 Physis permanently.
? +100 Magia permanently.
His stats—particularly his Physis—had grown significantly. Just like with Magia, Physis-based skills rewarded heavy boosts once they broke past level 10.
Physis:9327 (+2266)[+300]
Magia: 3160 (+872)[+455]
And five Active Skills already…
Selera had said Tier 1 capped at five or somethin’. Maybe he ought to ask her more, now that he’d slammed into that limit way sooner than expected.
He stared at his damaged gear—torn coat, ripped pants, even a hole in his boot. But like all System-recognized gear, it was already repairing itself, stitches weaving and fabric mending. Handy enough.
He didn’t dwell on it. Instead, he let his body sink back to the ground, eyes sliding shut as he emptied his mind for a much-needed rest.
***
His eyes only flickered once, when—
“Should’ve gone t’your room instead of nappin’ on the planks, kiddo,” Gob chuckled, grinning wide with his sharp teeth.
Hope shook his head as he pushed himself up. His body felt surprisingly light, aches fading away.
“Maybe too lazy. Or just too tired, Senior,” he said with a half-grin.
Gob squinted, studying him a beat longer, wondering if the boy even understood what he’d just done—and what it meant. But orders were orders, and Syra had been clear.
“Well, lad, I reckon ye won yerself a few points with the Captain. Not bad at all. So, ehm—ye already got Alchemy and Enchantin’ at 10, so feel free t’do whatever else between Selera’s lessons and Veleth’s feed.”
Hope scratched his head, hesitating before letting it slip. “Would it be possible for me to… practice Cooking and Crafting?”
“Huh? Ye serious, lad?”
“Yeah. Just… well, honestly, I wanna stack some extra stats.” He grinned, rubbing the back of his head.
“Extra—bah! Rask ain’t exactly the friendliest sod, and Tyron’s… Ye sure? I’ll have t’speak with the Captain first. Truth be told, a few more Physis points won’t make much difference now, kiddo.”
Hope shrugged. “If it can’t be done, it can’t. It’s fine.”
Gob let out a gravelly sigh. “Aye… I’ll see what I can do.”
Hope bowed, respectful. “Thanks, Senior.”
“Yeah, yeah. Don’t get mushy on me. Now—anything else rattlin’ in that head o’ yers?”
“Well, I was gonna ask Selera but… what happens now that I got five Active Skills? Can’t I get anymore or somethin’?”
“Eh—wait. You got five already? All Discovered!?” Gob’s eyes nearly popped out.
“Yep.”
For the void’s sake, lad…
Gob sucked in a breath, rubbing his temple.
“You can keep learnin’ Skills, aye. But you only got five ‘slots’ at Tier 1. That’s what they mean by Active. When a Skill’s Active, the System lends a hand—takes off some of the strain, keeps yer mind and body from breakin’ apart, that sorta thing.”
“Oh, so even Learned Skills ease the strain?”
“Course they do! How else d’ye think you can pump out enough Air Magika to fly? Or warp yer body like it’s nothin’? System’s always helpin’ with Actives—otherwise folk wouldn’t bother Learning ’em at all. Discovered ones, though? They go further, cuttin’ the cost clean in half. You don’t know how lucky ye are, lad. Plenty o’ folks would weep in their boots just to have one slot Discovered, an’ you’ve got a full bloody set.”
Hope scratched his chin. “Interesting… so what happens if I Discover another Skill?”
“Then ye’ll get a prompt. It’ll show as Unactive. Won’t give ye the stat bumps either. But don’t panic—you can swap any time ye like, long as the System don’t think you’re mid-brawl. Just wish for it, and the System’ll do its trick.”
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Sounds strange, but guess I’ll get the hang of it when it happens.
Hope nodded, satisfied with the answer—though a bit down he couldn’t just keep Discovering more Skills and stacking stats forever.
Also—
“Is there a way to extend the cap? The, uh… slots?” Hope asked.
“Yep. Each Tier up adds one more. Some classes add on top too. Outside o’ that? Dunno… maybe some weird treasures out there. Artefacts, or such.”
“Artefact… I’ve been hearing that word for a bit. What does it mean?”
“C’mon, kiddo. Save that one for Selera—I got things to do. Anything else that ain’t a lecture?”
Hope sighed. Guess I’d have to wait for answers in rhymes.
“No, that’s all. Thanks, Senior.”
“Right then. I’ll ask the Captain about yer petition. No promises though,” the goblin said, and in the next blink—vanished.
Hope’s eyes followed the bend in space, tracing the link to the token in Gob’s hand. It looked awfully similar to the one he had… or well, the quarter he had.
He pulled it from his pocket, feeling its faint tug toward Veleth.
So that’s how the goblin vanishes, huh.
He smiled at the discovery, then tucked it safely back into his pocket.
Next, he reached for his watch, which had somehow survived the fight. ‘1:15’. Still some time before Veleth.
What to do?
A sudden thought flickered through his mind. That Longstride Skill was still at 9. Should he just… run for a bit?
Would it be weird? Well, weird or not… let’s just fuckin’ do it.
He opened the door of the Storage and gazed down the long, wooden corridors, lined with odd trinkets and stranger tools.
And with that… he started.
A mix of running and warping, building speed, cutting the curves, bending space as he twisted through the air, flipping and gliding with the wind and his lines.
It was damn fun!
Just like… free, and—
Suddenly his step ground to a halt. He froze on the spot.
Before him stood a dark-skinned man, eyes sharp as blades, muscles etched across every inch of him. Barefoot, chest bare, an eerie necklace of bones hanging at his throat.
As their eyes met, Hope felt like death itself was staring back at him. He remembered the man, faintly—standing behind the Captain at their first meeting. But beyond that, he knew nothing.
Hope snapped out of it, bowing respectfully. “Apologies, Senior.”
The man stood still a moment longer, then calmly strode past.
Hope exhaled, the cold, heavy weight finally lifting from his chest.
…Perhaps he should just stick to running inside the Storage.
***
Hope gathered the empty containers, making sure everything was clean and set in order.
He paused, staring at the towering Spacetime Numen with a faint smile. For a moment longer he studied the glowing lines streaming from it, each one like veins of light threading into a sea of infinity.
“Thank you for your guidance, Senior,” he said, bowing respectfully the way Selera had taught him. Then he stepped out, sealing the door behind him.
“Well, lad, we meet again.”
Hope flinched as Gob appeared in front of him, grin wide and mischievous.
“Got some news for ya. Good or bad, not sure yet—but ye asked for it.”
Hope’s eyes widened. Could it be…?
The goblin snapped his fingers, and the containers in Hope’s hands vanished into thin air. “Come on. Follow me.”
They wound their way down the ship’s corridors, the air thick with the scent of pitch and steel.
The clang of hammer on metal reached them before the room did, a deep, ringing rhythm that reverberated through the walls like a heartbeat.
Gob pushed open a heavy door, and a wave of heat rolled out.
The smithery was alive—embers crackling in the forge, sparks leaping in bursts, tools scattered across workbenches. And—
The far door creaked open.
Hope froze as the massive figure entered, towering nearly two and a half meters tall. Grey fur matted the old smith’s arms and legs, his broad frame covered in scars. A broken horn jutted jagged from his brow, alongside half of another.
His lazy gait carried the weight of exhaustion, every step deliberate, as though the floor itself should be grateful he didn’t crush it.
Tyron, the smith of the Phantom Eye.
His eyes—sharp, weary, yet alive with a quiet fire—locked on him for an instant.
Hope stiffened, a bead of sweat breaking at his brow under that gaze.
Without a word, Tyron strode across the room, the floorboards groaning beneath each step. A massive set of armor hung from one arm, dented and scorched. With the other hand, he swept a clutter of tools off the anvil in a single motion—tongs, a chisel, a broken hammer clattering to the floor—and dropped the armor onto the steel surface with a clang that rang through the smithery.
Hope flinched at the sound. Tyron didn’t even glance at him.
The smith leaned forward, pawlike hands steady as he examined a split seam along the cuirass. His thumb ran over the crack, feeling its depth, then he grunted low in his throat.
He reached into the forge, plucked a glowing bar of iron with a pair of blackened tongs, and began heating the broken section, sparks flying as he pressed the seam into the flames. The air filled with the sharp tang of scorched metal and smoke.
Gob chuckled at Hope’s frozen stance. “Well lad, I’ll leave you in good hands. After this, go see Rask yerself—he’ll tell ya what’s next.” He started for the door, throwing a grin over his shoulder. “And remember, kiddo… you asked for it.”
With that, the goblin slipped out, the heavy door closing behind him with a dull thud.
Hope took a deep breath, the hot air of the forge washing over him as he mustered the courage to take a step forward.
“Ahem… Senior, thank you for your time, I—”
He stopped. Tyron did not so much as flick an ear. The towering smith’s focus was elsewhere, his massive hands already at work.
With practiced ease, he lifted the armor he had dropped and set it onto the anvil. Sparks flared as his hammer fell—measured, deliberate strikes, each one echoing like thunder in the cramped smithery.
He worked with no wasted motion: heating, hammering, quenching, then back into the fire. His breath came slow and steady, timed with every swing.
Hope lingered at the edge, unsure whether to speak again. In the end, he gave up and sank down onto a bench, silent, and simply watched.
The hours stretched, filled with the roar of the forge, the hiss of steam, and the endless ringing of metal against metal.
At last, the storm of work quieted. Tyron set his hammer down, wiped his brow with a forearm dusted in soot, and turned. His sharp eyes fixed on Hope once more.
Without a word, he brought out an anvil from his Inventory—one smaller than the one he used, yet still massive by any standard—and let it drop in front of Hope.
The ground shook, forcing him a step back. Next to it, Tyron set down a thick leather-bound book and, with a lazy gesture, pointed toward a massive, dust-covered metal crate resting in the corner of the room.
“Take all this back to your Storage,” the old man said at last, his deep voice carrying like gravel dragged across steel. “Don’t come back until you’ve crafted yourself proper smithing wear.”
He said nothing else. His gaze drifted away, already back to his fire.
Hope swallowed hard. His eyes flicked from the anvil to the huge box.
…Was he supposed to carry all this back on his own?
He exhaled in defeat and stepped forward.
Everything was far heavier than he expected—the anvil alone felt like it was carved from the bones of a mountain—but he shifted gravity, easing the burden, shifting weight where his body alone would have failed.
Bit by bit, he moved each piece out of the smithery.
He paused at the door, bowing low. “Thank you, Senior.”
No answer came, only the hiss of metal returning to flame.
Outside, Hope stared at the mound of tools and iron waiting for him. One by one, he hauled them across the ship in a grueling trek back to D6. The anvil nearly broke him; again and again he had to stop, arms trembling, veins bulging, sweat pouring until his hair plastered to his face and neck.
Nearly an hour later, he collapsed inside the Storage, every muscle aflame.
The anvil rested at last in its place, the huge crate and the book beside it. Hope slumped against the wall, chest heaving, sweat-soaked cloth sticking to his skin.
He closed his eyes, dead tired—yet a faint grin tugged at his lips. The task was done.
But between ragged breaths, a thought struck him.
Rask was next.
…shit.
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