The coppery taste of blood was still a phantom on my tongue. Not from the fight—the bitten cheek had already knitted itself back together, a minor benefit of an enhanced body—but from the memory of it. The crunch of bone, the pained screams, the cold efficiency with which I had dismantled those men. It hadn't been a battle; it had been a dissection. And as the adrenaline faded, leaving me alone in the silent, stone-walled confines of my room at the Grinning Gryphon, a cold, clinical aftertaste settled in my mouth. Not guilt, not remorse. Caution.
The thugs were small-time, their auras weak and muddled. But even small-time thugs had friends. They had bosses. A group of seven being taken apart by a single, masked figure in a back alley would be a story told in whispers in the wrong kinds of taverns. It would attract attention. The kind of attention I couldn't afford, not with my past a shadow at my heels and my future a precarious ladder I was only beginning to climb.
I barred the heavy wooden door, the iron bolt sliding home with a final, satisfying thud. For a long moment, I just stood there, my forehead pressed against the cool, rough grain of the wood. The sounds of the city were a muffled tapestry of life from which I had just deliberately unpicked myself. Cart wheels on cobblestones, the distant cry of a street vendor, the hum of a passing airship—all of it was suddenly a potential threat, a web of eyes that might be seeking the gold mask.
They will be looking, the voice in my head, the one that had kept me alive in the forest, whispered. Maybe not today. Maybe not with any great skill. But they will look. Revenge is a currency they understand.
My eyes scanned the room, my sanctuary and my prison. It was sparse: a narrow bed with a thin mattress, a small, scarred table, a single wooden chair, and the mana-lamp that cast a soft, unwavering glow. My world had been reduced to this for two and a half months. Today, it would be my entire world.
Decision solidified within me, cold and hard as a river stone. I would not go out today. The public gym's clanging iron and grunting patrons, the sun-drenched streets of Xyrus—they were luxuries I could not risk. My schedule, my religion, would have to adapt. The hunger for progress gnawed at me, protesting the loss of a day's physical training, but a deeper, more primal instinct—survival—overruled it.
There was another way. A harder way.
I crossed to the room's single, small window and unlatched the shutters, pushing them open. The high-altitude morning sun, clear and fiercely bright, flooded the small space. Dust motes, disturbed by the sudden influx of light, danced in the golden beam like tiny, excited spirits. I positioned my thin mattress directly in the patch of sunlight, a poor substitute for the city's vibrant energy but a viable source of natural energy I could use.
The spoils of last night's encounter were laid out on the table. The pile of coin—my own meager savings now vastly supplemented by six gold, seventy-four silver, and twenty-nine copper—gleamed invitingly. Next to it sat the two serviceable daggers and, most importantly, the simple silver band with its dull grey gem. The storage ring.
I picked it up, sliding it onto my middle finger. It was still a little loose. I focused, pushing a tiny, focused thread of mana into the band. The gemstone glowed with a faint, internal light, like a dormant ember stirred to life. In my mind's eye, the small, grey, cubic space—fifteen feet to a side—materialized. It was empty, sterile, and waiting.
With a thought, I directed the pile of coins into the ring. They vanished from the table, appearing in the mental construct, stacked neatly in a corner. A wave of profound relief washed over me. My wealth was no longer a physical thing to be stolen. It was a part of me, hidden away, secure. The daggers followed. I was now, for all intents and purposes, a man of modest means carrying nothing but the clothes on his back and a pair of practice swords. The perfect disguise.
But the day was not for disguise. It was for focus.
I sat cross-legged on the sun-warmed mattress, the light soaking into my black tunic. I closed my eyes, dismissing the world. The image of Master Kael's flowing evasion, the harsh thwack of his practice sword on my wrist, the crunch of the thug's elbow—it all faded away, replaced by the internal landscape of my core.
The solid red sphere pulsed within my center, a second, more vibrant heart. It was a forge of power, fierce and steady, luminous and alive with potential. I could feel it, a crystalline precipice looming just beyond my grasp. The true Red Light Stage. I had falsely claimed it to gain entry to the city, a necessary lie. Now, it was a truth I was desperate to own.
I began to breathe, deep and measured, syncing my inhalations with the pulse of the core. With each breath, I drew in the ambient mana of Xyrus. Here, in this city floating among the clouds, it was so much richer and sweeter than the thin, wild energy of the forest. It was a thick, honeyed light, pouring in through the window, seeping up from the very stones of the tower itself. I fed it into my core, a continuous, flowing stream of energy.
The process was one of intense compression and refinement. I willed the incoming mana to condense, to burn away its impurities, to become a part of the brilliant red sphere. I pushed against its boundaries, not with brute force, but with an unwavering intent, demanding it become denser, brighter, more.
Time lost all meaning. There was no dawn, no noon, no afternoon. There was only the light and the hunger. My body grew stiff, my muscles protesting the long stillness, but the discomfort was a distant echo, a complaint from a shore far away from the ocean of my focus. The sunbeam traversed the room, moving from my lap to my chest, then finally painting the far wall in shades of orange and gold as evening approached.
I was a conduit, a vessel being filled to the brim. The core throbbed, its light becoming so intense I could almost see it through my closed eyelids. I felt a shuddering tension within it, a pressure building towards a breaking point. I pushed harder, drawing in mana in a near-visible vortex, the air in the room stirring faintly.
A breakthrough I though
But it didn't. The pressure peaked, held for a breathtaking moment, and then receded, like a wave pulling back from the shore. The core remained a solid, brilliant red, but the final transformation, the shedding of its last vestigial instability, remained elusive. A mere shard of understanding away, yet it might as well have been a mountain range.
I opened my eyes, a sharp curse dying behind my lips. The room was dark, the last embers of sunset fading from the sky. The air felt charged, thin, as if I had consumed all the energy within it. My body was trembling with exhaustion and frustration. So close. Always so close.
The hunger roared back to life, unsatisfied, furious. I had missed the gym. I had missed the city. I had done nothing but cultivate for nearly twelve hours, and it still wasn't enough.
I stood up, my joints cracking loudly in the silence. The frustration was a fire in my gut, but I banked it, forging it into purpose. The night was here. And the night held its own opportunities.
I moved through the dim room with a quiet efficiency. I changed into a fresh, dark grey tunic and trousers, my movements brisk. I secured the practice katanas across my back—they were worthless in a real fight but excellent for maintaining my disguise as a mere fencing student. The gold mask was already on my face, my permanent features. Finally, I focused on the ring. I visualized the two daggers and a small pouch containing five gold coins. They materialized in my hands with a faint whisper of displaced air. I secreted the daggers in my boots and the pouch inside my tunic. The rest of my wealth remained safe in the ring's extradimensional space.
I was ready.
Cracking the door open, I peered into the hallway. It was empty, silent but for the faint murmur of conversation from the common room below. I slipped out, a shadow moving against the deeper shadows, and descended the back stairs, avoiding the main entrance. The cool night air hit me as I exited into a service alley behind the inn. The sky was a deep, velvety purple, the first stars pricking through the atmosphere, and the larger moons were already beginning their ascent.
The city at night was a different beast. The soaring towers became jagged black teeth against the starry sky, their windows lit by thousands of pinpricks of mana-light. The wide, sun-drenched avenues were now canals of shadow, illuminated at intervals by floating, enchanted orbs that cast pools of blue-white light. The crowds were different too; fewer students and respectable citizens, more people who moved with purpose and a wariness in their eyes. This was the time for those who preferred their business unseen.
I knew of the Adventurer's Market. Every city had one. A place where guild members and independents could buy, sell, and trade away from the prying eyes and taxes of the official commerce districts. It wasn't marked on any public map. You found it by asking the right questions in the wrong taverns, or by having a nose for the kind of magic that didn't like sunlight.
I moved with a purpose, my senses extended, reading the flow of the crowds. I followed the subtle current of stronger auras, the glimpses of weapon hilts, the scent of alchemical reagents and mana beast leather. It led me away from the gleaming spires, down into the lower levels of the floating disc, where the buildings were older, their stonework stained with soot and age, and the streets narrowed into a labyrinthine web.
After twenty minutes of navigating, the air changed. It grew thick with the smell of sizzling mystery meat, strong ale, ozone from active enchantments, and the distinct, coppery tang of fresh blood. The sound was a low, pervasive rumble of haggling voices, the clang of a blacksmith's hammer, and the occasional roar of laughter from a packed tavern.
I had found it.
The Adventurer's Market was not a single building but a sprawling, chaotic district that erupted into life after dark. Makeshift stalls lined the streets, their owners hawking everything from glowing herbs to cursed daggers. Larger, more permanent shops were built into the ground floors of the ancient towers, their signs painted with symbols of swords, potions, and monstrous beasts. Adventurers of all shapes, sizes, and races moved through the throng—hulking brutes in full plate, lithe figures in enchanted leather, mages with staves that crackled with contained power. It was a symphony of danger and commerce.
My first stop was pragmatic. I needed to liquidate the loot. I found a nondescript stall with a sign of a balanced scale, run by a bored-looking dwarf with a magnificent braided beard who barely glanced at me or the masked face. I laid out the two cheap daggers and the various pieces of leather armor and trinkets I'd taken from the thugs' leader's storage ring.
The dwarf picked through the lot with thick, stubby fingers, grunting. "Junk. Poorly tempered steel. Sub-standard hide. Five gold for the lot."
It was a lowball offer. The armor alone was worth three. But haggling would draw attention, and I needed anonymity more than I needed extra silver. "Done," I said, my voice flat.
He raised a bushy eyebrow, surprised at the lack of negotiation, but quickly scooped the items under his counter and slapped five gold coins onto the scarred wood. I took them and melted back into the crowd, the coins finding their way into the ring a moment later. My total capital was now significant. It was time to spend it.
I began to weave through the market, my eyes scanning the shops. I needed specific things, and I needed quality. The memory of the iron pipe in my hand was a stark reminder of my vulnerability. I needed real weapons. I needed protection.
I passed several armorers, dismissing them after a glance. Too flashy, too heavy, too obviously designed for show over substance. Then I saw it: a shop squeezed between a potion den and a tavern. Its sign was a simple, elegantly painted shield with a single crack running through it. The name below was simply: The Unbroken Guard. It looked serious.
I pushed open the heavy oak door, a bell chiming softly overhead. The interior was a stark contrast to the market's chaos. It was quiet, smelled of oiled leather, polished metal, and beeswax. Racks of armor and weapons stood in neat rows, each piece displayed with a craftsman's pride. An older human man with a close-cropped grey beard and the build of a retired soldier looked up from behind a glass counter where he was inspecting a beautifully crafted vambrace.
"Can I help you?" he asked, his voice calm, his eyes taking me in without a flicker of surprise at the mask. This was a man who had seen stranger things.
"I need armor," I said, my voice echoing slightly in the quiet space. "Full body. Lightweight. Must have physical damage reduction. My budget is seven gold."
His eyebrows rose slightly. It was a respectable sum for a single customer, especially one who looked like me. He emerged from behind the counter, his movements economical. "Full body, light, and protective at that price is a tall order. But I have something that might suit. Follow me."
He led me to a stand where a suit of armor was displayed. It was a striking piece. The base material was a matte white, flexible-looking ceramic composite, reinforced at the joints and vital areas with bands of a faintly golden, brushed metal. It was sleek, designed for mobility rather than immobility.
"This is a White-Steel Weave cuirass with gilded iron reinforcement," he said, running a hand over the surface with a practiced touch. "The white material is light, better than leather for dispersing blunt force. The gilded iron bands are spell-forged to redirect and absorb kinetic energy. It won't stop a direct hit from an A-rank's greatsword, but it will turn a glancing blow, dampen a club strike, and might just stop a dagger thrust. It comes with greaves, vambraces, and gorget. The whole set."
My heart beat a little faster. It was exactly what I needed. "And the price?"
"For the full set? Seven gold, five silver," he said.
I didn't flinch. "Seven gold. Flat."
He looked at me, then at the armor, then back at me. He nodded once. "For a discerning customer. Seven gold."
A win, but a costly one. Seven gold. A fortune. Gone in an instant for a shell of ceramic and metal. The thought was a bitter pill, but I swallowed it. Survival had no price tag.
"I also need swords," I said, the words feeling heavy. "Two. Single-edged, curved. A very specific balance. Three gold budget."
Now he looked genuinely intrigued. "Two Katanas? That's an unusual request for someone of your frame."
He disappeared into a back room and returned a moment later carrying two long, narrow cases. He laid them on a nearby table and opened the latches. Inside, nestled on beds of deep blue velvet, were two of the most beautiful blades I had ever seen.
They were katanas, perfect in their form. The blades were a shimmering, smoky grey, the result of expert folding. But what made them extraordinary were the vertex designs etched into the steel. Along the length of each blade, a pattern swirled like a captured emerald and topaz storm—shifting, mesmerizing patterns of green and yellow that seemed to hold light within them.
"These," the shopkeeper said with palpable pride, "are not just steel. The core is bone from a B-rank Emerald-Tailed Howler, known for its resilience and affinity with wind magic. It's jacketed in black iron, folded two dozen times. The vertex patterns aren't just etching; they're a result of the mana-conductive properties of the materials fusing. They'll channel elemental augmentation beautifully. The balance…" He picked one up and offered it to me hilt-first. "See for yourself."
I took it. It was… perfect. The weight was distributed so precisely it felt like an extension of my own arm. The grip was wrapped in dark, rough silk that felt secure in my hand. It was a killer's tool, and an artist's.
"Three gold," I said, my voice barely a whisper, already mourning the loss of the money.
"For the pair? You drive a hard bargain, masked man," he sighed, but he was smiling. He knew their worth was just about that. "Very well. Three gold. A total of ten gold for everything."
I paid him, the coins passing from my ring to his hand. He carefully packed the armor into a large, sturdy leather pack and the swords into a long, cylindrical case. As I hefted the pack and case, the weight was not just physical. It was the weight of ten gold coins, a king's ransom, spent in minutes. Inwardly, I seethed. The injustice of it, the sheer cost of merely equipping myself to not die, was a fire in my chest. But outwardly, I merely nodded my thanks and left the shop.
My next stops were quicker, the transactions simpler. I found a herb shop that smelled of loam and life and spent silver on six basic but potent reagents: ginseng root for vitality, blood moss for coagulation, ghost lichen for mana sensitivity, golden thread for nerve mending, spirit sage for focus, and ironwood bark for skin toughening.
Then, to a dubious-looking stall run by a hunchbacked creature of indeterminate race, I purchased twelve liters of F-rank mana beast blood. It came in heavy, waxy pouches, sloshing darkly, the energy within it weak but palpable. Forty silver.
A general store provided sixty rough, unpolished F-rank mana stones for another twenty-five silver, and a large, cast-iron pot, big enough for me to sit in, for twenty copper.
My final purchase was from a tinker's cart: a small, enchanted stove, a flat disc of inscribed metal with a simple rune to activate a contained, adjustable heating field. It cost me another two silver.
My funds were nearly obliterated, but my ring was full. It was time for the final step.
I left the market, the weight of my purchases a comforting burden. I took a circuitous route back to the Grinning Gryphon, my senses on a razor's edge, but I was just another shadow among shadows. I slipped back into my room through the back alley entrance, barring the door once more.
There would be no sleep tonight.
I cleared a space in the center of the room. I placed the mana-heater stove on the floor and set the massive iron pot on top of it. One by one, I brought the ingredients from the ring. I poured the twelve liters of thick, coppery-smelling mana beast blood into the pot. It filled it a third of the way. I added the herbs, each one filling the room with its unique scent—earthy, sweet, pungent. I added the twenty mana stones, which settled at the bottom with a series of soft clicks.
Then came the hard part. Water. I had not trained my affinity for it. I raised my hands, focusing on the moisture in the air, pulling it together, condensing it. It was a painstaking, mana-intensive process. Beads of sweat formed on my brow under the mask as I coaxed water vapor from nothingness, a slow, shimmering stream pouring from my trembling fingertips into the pot. It took nearly an hour of concentrated effort to fill the pot the rest of the way, my core straining from the unfamiliar expenditure. I was exhausted, but I was not done.
I activated the heating rune on the stove. A low hum filled the room, and the bottom of the pot began to glow a faint orange. Slowly, the mixture within began to heat up. The smell was… indescribable. Metallic blood, bitter herbs, the ozone crackle of mana stones releasing their energy, all merging into a strange, pungent, and oddly enticing aroma. The liquid began to simmer, then bubble, turning a deep, murky purple, swirling with currents of green and blue energy.
This was it. The Crucible. A brutal, ancient method of physical and mystical enhancement. It would be agony. It would push my body to the absolute limit, forcing it to absorb the raw, unrefined power within the pot.
I stripped off my clothes, standing naked and pale in the dim light. The gold mask was the only thing I kept on.
The liquid was boiling now, hot enough to cook flesh. I put a foot on the rim of the pot, the heat radiating fiercely.
This is madness, a part of me whispered.
This is power, the hungrier part responded.
I took a deep breath, held it, and stepped into the pot.
The pain was instantaneous and all-consuming. It was like being plunged into a volcano. My skin screamed. My muscles seized. I sank into the searing, viscous liquid, the concoction closing over my head.
I did not scream. I embraced it. I let the fire in, both physical and magical. I felt my skin blister and heal in the same instant, fed by the frantic energy of the blood and herbs. I felt my muscles tear and re-knit themselves stronger, denser. The mana from the stones flooded into me, a chaotic, violent torrent that my core struggled to absorb and tame.
I sat in the boiling crucible, my body convulsing, my mind a white-hot pinpoint of agony and unwavering will. The world vanished. There was only the pain, the heat, and the relentless, driving need to become stronger I soon guided the mana in my surroundings into my core and let the ingredients permeate my skin,then my flesh, my organs and finaly my core.
I soon released a blackish gray substance from my body which the pot also boiled,six hours I needed to stay awake and take on this ravenous pain for six entire hours of endurance to start my body cultivation.
[END OF CHAPTER]
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