Chapter 7: The Fist and the Flower
The dust did not stir.
Kael moved through the cavern, a breath of intent given form. The colossal Skillforge Shard pulsed its slow, blue rhythm, and this time, he did not fight its light. He let it wash over him, through him, bending and blending with the refraction of his Glimmer Veil. He was not a man hiding from the light; he was a part of the light itself.
He reached Lyra's side without a sound, letting the veil drop. The effort left him panting, his Mimic Energy drained to a sliver, but the triumph was a clean, sharp fire in his chest.
Lyra didn't praise him. She simply nodded, a single, curt dip of her chin that felt more rewarding than any cheer from the academy crowds. "Adequate. Your Insight is the key. Remember this feeling. Control is not the absence of power; it is its perfect application. Now, replenish."
He didn't need to be told twice. Sitting cross-legged before the massive Shard, he felt the ambient energy in the cavern soak into him, a gentle tide refilling the well of his ME. It was faster here, just as she'd said. The process was soothing, meditative. For the first time since his awakening, the constant, low-level hum of his system felt harmonious, not frantic.
"Your next challenge is more complex," Lyra stated, once his reserves were restored. She gestured, and a section of the cavern floor shimmered, revealing a training dummy made of interwoven, petrified roots. "You possess two offensive skills: Fireball and Flame Burst. Dren uses them as a sledgehammer. You will learn to use them as a scalpel."
She pointed at a specific, knotted joint on the dummy's "shoulder." "Strike there. With Fireball. I do not want an explosion. I want a pinpoint lance of heat that severs the joint without scorching the surrounding area."
Kael frowned. "But Fireball is an area-of-effect skill. It's in the name."
"Names are cages," Lyra replied, her tone dismissive. "Your system is Mythic. It does not merely copy; it understands. Use your Insight to rewrite the skill's expression. Compress the energy. Focus the intent. Do not throw a fireball; project a needle of incineration."
He raised his hand, calling upon the Fireball skill. The familiar heat bloomed in his palm, a roiling sphere of orange and red. He focused, pushing against its nature, willing it to condense. The sphere wavered, fighting him. It was like trying to force a river through a pinhole. The energy bucked, and with a sharp crack, it destabilized, bursting prematurely and singeing his fingertips.
"Your Control stat is lacking," Lyra observed, unmoved. "You rely too much on Insight for comprehension, but your body and energy channels cannot yet execute the finesse you conceive. This is your bottleneck. Again."
For the next hour, the cavern echoed with the sounds of his failures—fizzles, pops, and the occasional uncontrolled whoosh of flame. His hands were soon covered in minor burns, his Resilience stat the only thing saving him from serious injury. He was drenched in sweat, his frustration mounting. He could grasp the theory with his mind, but his power refused to obey.
"Enough," Lyra finally said. "You are thinking like a Wielder. You are trying to force the fire to obey. You must ask it. Fire is not a slave; it is a partner. It wishes to consume. Guide its hunger to the target you choose."
It was another fundamental shift. He closed his eyes, ignoring the stinging pain in his hands. He didn't visualize a compressed ball of fire. He visualized the specific joint on the dummy. He imagined a single, ravenous point of heat, so focused it would ignore everything but the fuel he offered it. He didn't command the skill; he invited it to feast on that one, precise location.
He opened his eyes, raised his hand, and a thin, brilliant white line of plasma shot forth. It wasn't a ball. It was a lance. It struck the joint with a sharp hiss, punching a clean, smoldering hole through the petrified wood. There was no explosion. No collateral damage. Just perfect, surgical destruction.
A wave of dizziness washed over him. The effort had drained his ME completely and taken a chunk of his stamina with it. But he'd done it.
Lyra was silent for a long time. "Mythic," she murmured, almost to herself. "It truly is a different class of being." She tossed him a small, green-hued potion. "A minor healing draught. For your hands. We are done for tonight. Your task is to practice this level of control with all your skills, in the silence of your mind, using the Nullstone. Do not attempt it physically outside this cavern until I say so."
As he gulped down the bitter draught, feeling the cool relief spread through his burns, she fixed him with her glowing gaze. "And the girl? Have you decided?"
The question soured his triumph. The image of Mira's worried face flashed in his mind. "I can't tell her," he said, the decision solidifying as he spoke the words. "Not yet. Telling her puts her in more danger from your faction, and if she knows, the Inquisitors could tear the truth from her. Ignorance is her only shield."
Lyra studied him, and for a fleeting second, he thought he saw something akin to approval in her alien eyes. "A pragmatic, if sentimental, choice. Very well. Her ignorance will be her protection. For now."
---
The next few days were a study in brutal duality. By day, Kael was the clumsiest, most incompetent Wielder in Bronze Haven. He "accidentally" summoned socks in the middle of theoretical discussions, tripped over his own feet during drills, and took his deliberate losses in the courtyard with a convincing display of sullen resignation. The memory of his victory over Dren was rapidly being overwritten by this renewed, consistent display of uselessness.
Dren's bullying intensified, now fueled by a personal vendetta, but it was almost easier to bear. Every shove, every mocking laugh, was just fuel for the fire he would unleash in the cavern below. He stored the humiliation like a battery, to be discharged into perfect, controlled lances of energy later.
By night, he was a ghost, slipping into the depths with his Nullstone. Under Lyra's merciless tutelage, he honed his control. He learned to make his Glimmer Veil so seamless that he could stand inches from the pulsing Shard and not disturb the dust motes dancing in its light. He practiced shaping his Fireball into a shield, a whip, a precise cutting tool. He even began working on Flame Burst, learning to contain its explosive force into a concussive thump rather than a raging inferno.
His stats began to creep up organically from the intense, focused training. His Control broke into double digits, and his Insight climbed steadily as he deepened his understanding of the very fabric of his skills.
It was during a particularly grueling session, as he practiced maintaining two shaped skills at once—a veil over one hand, a condensed fire-dagger in the other—that Lyra posed a new question.
"Your original system," she said, watching the sweat drip from his chin. "Sock Summoning. Have you practiced it since the transformation?"
Kael nearly lost his hold on both skills. "What? No. Why would I? It's useless."
"Is it?" she asked, her head tilted. "Your Mythic core now powers it. Have you considered that its 'uselessness' was a factor of your previous, Common-level energy capacity? A system is a framework. The power that flows through it defines its potential."
The idea was so absurd he almost laughed. But Lyra never said anything without a purpose. Later, alone in his room after curfew, the Nullstone on his desk dampening the energy signature, he decided to test her theory.
He focused, not on the cheap, cotton socks he was used to, but on intent. He imagined a sock not as footwear, but as a tool. Dense. Strong. He poured a significant chunk of his Mimic Energy into the summoning, not the paltry 5 ME it usually cost.
There was a soft thump. Lying on his cot was a single sock. But it was unlike any he had ever seen. It was knitted from a material that seemed to be woven from spun lead and shadows. It was heavy, incredibly dense, and the wool was coarse and sharp, like wire.
He picked it up. It must have weighed ten pounds. His eyes widened. A ten-pound, wire-tough projectile. This wasn't a joke anymore. This was a weapon.
A slow grin spread across his face. Lyra was right. The Sock Summoner was gone. In his place was a Mimic who could turn even the most mocked aspect of his past into a lethal advantage. He had been so focused on the shiny, new skills he'd copied that he had ignored the foundation he already had.
He looked at the monstrous sock in his hand, then at the Nullstone. He had fire, stealth, and now, a bludgeon that nobody would see coming. The pieces of his arsenal were falling into place. The fist was learning its power, and the flower, though still hidden, was beginning to bloom in the dark.