I headed out to work a little earlier today. I wasn't sure how long it would take for the two of us to gather or how quickly we'd reach the fields, so now I lay carefree on the riverbank, doing nothing while waiting for the others to arrive. I could've started working on my own, sure—but let's be honest, no one would care. I was perfectly comfortable, too; I'd worried about my sister and brought along a raffia mat, which I rolled out on the dry sand. The river still held traces of night's coolness, and given what heat awaited us, it actually felt nice.
So, settled in with ease, I spent the time drawing imaginary pictures in the sky—swirling shapes made of energy, all conjured from my own mind. Each day I get better at it. Even the birds drifting high above don't distract me now—in fact, I've learned to use them to make my visions more vivid. It has nothing to do with Ascension, but it calms me. Focuses me for the work to come, for tuning in to my own body.
Then came the familiar shriek overhead—Skirto had arrived. Time to get moving before he spotted us.
Reluctantly, I began stroking Leila's pale hair. She'd curled up beside me and dozed off, savoring the last sweet sleep of morning. Time to wake up, little flower.
Then something strange hit me. I stared in shock at my own hands—no marks from the bucket rope. For two months I've imagined myself soaking up energy at every step of the garden stairs, and day by day the buckets seemed lighter. But I'd brushed off the idea of a breakthrough, blaming it all on growing up.
Now, after watering the three rows I'd set as my milestone—meat-root almost ready to harvest—I stopped, out of habit, to stretch my fingers. Normally the rough clay handles cut white welts into my palms. Today? Nothing. No pain. No tiredness in my shoulders. And just yesterday, everything had felt the same—numb fingers, aching joints.
A breakthrough… I thought, disbelieving. And smiled like an idiot.
And that's when the kick came—flattening me, burying that smile in the sand.
"Why are you lounging, trash?" Skirto's screech drilled into my ears. He was loving this—clearly been waiting for the moment, and I'd served it up perfectly. No wonder I always timed my breaks to avoid his eyes. "Why are you standing around, you big oaf, while everyone else works?"
"Sorry, Skirto," I mumbled, spitting out sand without lifting my head. "My hands cramped."
"What are you, a weakling? You're like a woman!" Skirto started kicking me toward the drop. I didn't resist—even a little. If my guess was right, I might be just as strong as this rat now. But I couldn't let him realize that.
"Get moving! Go on, get to work!"
"Don't hit him!" came a sudden little voice, and Leila darted between us, splashing water from our field-pitcher onto Skirto.
"Oh ho, the snot-nose shows up!" Skirto seemed surprised—and maybe pleased. "You're not needed here. Stay out of men's business."
"You're hurting him!" Leila yelled again, not flinching even as Skirto raised his hand. I had to pull her close before he struck her. If he did—I wouldn't be able to hold back.
"I told you, stay out of it, snot-nose. Told you. And you still barge into a man's business?" Skirto grinned his filthy rat-smile and lowered his hand. "Neither of you work. Your useless brother sits around. And you—you raise your voice? Against me? Trash, why so quiet today? I don't recognize you. Hiding behind a skirt now? Or finally learned to bite your foul tongue? What a shame."
"Alright, alright," I finally wiped the smirk off my face and raised my head without hesitation—no more glancing at him through lowered eyes. "We'll wash up, refill our pitcher, and get back to work."
"I didn't give you permission to leave!" Skirto flared, puffing out his narrow shoulders and tilting his nose skyward. "Look at this guy, people!" He gestured dramatically to the kids and teens paused over their garden rows. "I gave him a simple warning for slacking off—and he decides to take a river stroll! Of course, it's cool down there!"
"Fine," I spread my arms, matching him. "I'll piss right here on the garden row."
"Oh you little bastard," Skirto bared his crooked yellow teeth, looking more ratlike than ever. "Think you're clever, huh? Go ahead—don't come back. Hope you enjoy drinking river water tonight."
"Clever? Nah," I shook my head mockingly. It's rare this little weasel slips up so badly—and he really shouldn't have raised a hand against my sister. "I'm the strongest one here. If I leave, there'll be nine rows left dry. And they'll be watered… by—" I traced a finger across our spectators until I landed on the right one. "By the next oldest, Tukto!"
"Skirto, just saying—fuck off!" Tukto shot back immediately. "My arms are falling off already. Nine rows? Hell no. I wouldn't even take one more. And you, Legrad—fuck off with your pointing finger. Don't stick it in my face."
"No takers? What's a boss rat to do?" I waved my hands. "But wait—maybe I'm not the strongest after all. Maybe it's you—four stars!"
"Bastard!" Skirto hissed and stepped toward me.
"You're just going to water them yourself," I said, backing off with Leila. I wouldn't push it further. He was already at the edge—and I needed to know when to stop.
"Piss. Come back. Water," Skirto spat, kicking up sand so it sprayed over us before turning his back.
Grinning like a fool, I pulled my squeaking, tear-rubbing sister down toward the drop. Next time, Skirto will take it out on me—maybe give me a bucket with a leak or shove me into the dirt. But it was worth it.
For two months I've acted like a skittish mouse or a quartik—swallowing every humiliation. Let this be my reward for reaching my first star.
"Leila, stop sulking," I splashed water at her playfully.
"You said I needed to go to the toilet," she jabbed a finger at me and turned away again.
"Don't twist my words," I scooped her up in my arms and hugged her. "I said you needed to wash up."
"Not much better," she pretended to squirm, then melted into me—pressing herself closer like glue.
"My dear, you're nearly six now. So you'll be working with me more often. I argue with Virgl's gang a lot."
"Did you used to argue from the start?" Leila interrupted.
"Ahem, alright," I decided to be honest with the little rascal. "They beat me up often. Don't interfere. Me and Mom—we're scared it'll get worse. You need to endure, and never step in. Be afraid of the older ones. They won't hesitate to hit you. Got it?"
"You're mean," Leila said, still hugging me.
"Did you understand me?" I asked, smoothing the crown of her head. Strands had escaped the cord tying her braid, the way they always do when I'm the one braiding her fluffy hair.
"I understood," she said softly.
"Then go grab your hoe and don't forget the water jar," I tapped her gently on the backside, waited for her to stick her tongue out at me in reply, and picked up my buckets. Time to test my theory—and make Skirto eat his words with a burst of hard work.
Over the next two hours of nonstop hauling, the truth became clear: I'd stepped up to the next level of tempering. I felt no burden in the buckets, barely any fatigue. No fresh rope burns on my palms. After inspecting my reflection in the river, I noted no visible increase in muscle—which meant my tempering was proceeding perfectly. To keep suspicion low, I scooped water with one hand and dabbed faux sweat onto my old jute shirt. Let Skirto kick me all he wants. Two months ago, I was clinging to hope. Today, I know: the day will come when I take revenge on that whole crew. Maybe even the killer.
In just two months, I achieved what Virgl's lapdog took three years to reach. Maybe less—even a month ago, my mental image of glowing dust had started fusing into threads, all on its own. I couldn't stop it—didn't want to. That version of energy appeared so easily in my mind. Maybe that's why the guide never gave a precise visualization. Once a practitioner starts absorbing energy, their path finds them.
Looks like mine has.
Hunched in my secret hideout, I sat tossing pebbles into the water—quiet punctuation marks to a stream of grim thoughts. For days, I'd basked in the glow of my breakthrough, high on the hope of future vengeance. I'd dreamed, plotted, whispered promises to myself. Then I looked at my hands. The skin on my palms hadn't thickened or turned to scales. Even the old calluses remained unchanged.
But after a few trials with the same buckets, I noticed something unusual. The damage resistance was only in my hands. A knife barely scratched the palm, needing force to leave even a mark. But when I tried hauling the buckets using my forearms, clasping my hands together, deep marks formed instantly. That realization stole the breath from my lungs.
Orikol had bragged about techniques to harden the body—methods to withstand sword strikes or beast bites. But those were Spirit Warrior skills. Techniques that took years. And I had achieved a similar result in just two months of meridian training. In four years, what could this become?
I started imagining methods to temper my entire body, but then a chilling thought struck. What was I doing? How was this different from Virgl's muscle-building obsession, from the blind bloat of brute strength? Had I already stumbled into the second barrier? The guide said nothing about this problem. But why would a manual for outcasts bother with rare cases?
Maybe there are thousands who've failed—lifting the weight, but failing the exam because they trained muscles, not meridians. And me? I might become the first to fail by tempering my skin instead.
I tossed another pebble. "Idiot. Trash."
Then I froze, arm raised mid-throw. Wait—those who hit the second barrier focus on muscle, and still gain strength. It's hard not to become stronger when your body bulges with power. But if I've tempered my skin, and this is also a barrier—what gave me my strength?
And how does Mom carry her six-star weight? If meridians enhance what's already present—bones, muscles, reflexes—if they make you faster, stronger, tougher, as the guide claims—why not skin? Mine still feels unchanged.
If I'm right, I can temper my whole body. I'm not trapped by the second barrier at all.
Still, there's something I need to confirm with Mom. I'd asked her before about hauling heavy loads, but didn't think to dig deeper. I couldn't wait for evening. Hopefully my time with the hides will fly by.
"Welcome back!" I helped Mom unstrap her pack as always—but this time I tried lifting it slightly. The massive satchel, crammed with flatbread and stones, shifted under my hand. I grinned.
"Mom?" Sitting with my back to the hide curtain, I couldn't hold back. "How many exams did you take?"
"From star four onward, I tested for each one. In Arroyo, those who passed got a full meal—and meat as a prize. At least for the first few stars. After that… well, I sat the exam twice a year."
"Twice?" I blinked.
"Arroyo's a big settlement. Main one in the Black Wastes. I told you a Warrior lives there year-round. He's the one who travels to pits like this," she added bitterly, as always when she remembers where we ended up.
"Did you ever pass on the first try?"
"No… honestly? Never. Best I did was passing the sixth star on my second go. That was a good time."
"Do you get calluses?" I interrupted.
"Eh," Mom coughed. "Weird question. No, I'm at eight stars. I've forgotten what calluses even feel like."
"Aha!" I started bouncing on the bench. "When did they disappear?"
"I don't remember," she said thoughtfully, stepping out from behind the hide and twisting her damp hair into a bun. "Probably after the fifth-star exam, when Crivo Ol took me on as an apprentice. I struggled with hides for another two years."
"So that means…" I muttered, trying to sort this revelation—but Mom cut in.
"What's this all about, love? What's wrong?" She grabbed my hands and inspected them closely.
"Nothing," I hesitated—but under her anxious gray eyes, I cracked. After making sure Leila was distracted behind the curtain, tidying up the wash area, I picked up the knife from the table and prodded my own skin.
"Huh!" Mom murmured. "I've seen something like this before—one of the hunters had crust-like hands. They said he'd eaten some alchemical root. Made life miserable. But yours—" She ran her fingers across my palm, "—normal skin. Soft. Still young. Promise me you didn't eat anything weird?"
"What are you whispering about?" Leila popped out, her curious green eyes flashing.
"I'm asking Legrad why he stopped reading," Mom replied firmly, then spun toward me, jabbing a finger into my chest. "Well? Why haven't I seen that bookmark move in a month?"
"Mooom!" I groaned, blindsided by the sudden and very unwelcome shift in topic. "I work all day! Can't I rest in the evening?"
"Of course you can," she gestured to my bed layered in hides. "Lie down, relax—and then show up in Arroyo talking like some savage fresh out of the Wastes!"
I rolled my eyes—by now, that was tradition.
"Don't play the part of heaven's martyr. Or I'll start telling you how my youth felt. You've only got three books left!"
"Then you'll barter for more from the trader. We've been through this," I muttered. "But you're right. I'll read every day. I promise."
"I don't recognize you," Mom raised an eyebrow. Even Leila, now laying out our modest supper into thick red bowls, stared at me in surprise—expecting my usual whining.
"I'm not sure we'll ever make it back to Arroyo," I turned my palm in front of me. "But I do want to avoid sounding like a zero-ringer out there."
"You don't believe your mother can earn caravan money!" Mom started to protest—then suddenly paused. "Wait… that sentence you used—strange phrasing."
"Leila, sweetheart," she turned. "Run to the shed, grab three pieces of sweetroot. You were a star today."
"Woo-hoo! Thank you!" My little sister darted off, kicking her mat aside as she vanished through the door.
"You're hinting to your mom that you didn't eat anything strange," Mom whispered, "and your Ascension progress—just two months in—isn't just odd skin?"
Her eyes shimmered with tears.
I walked over and hugged her tight—lifting her clean off the ground with ease.
"Rimilo, are you seeing this?" she laughed, wiping tears from her cheeks, eyes locked on mine.