Chapter 8: The Unseen Blade
The leaden sock felt like a promise in Kael's hand—a promise of turning mockery into menace. For the next two nights, while continuing his grueling control exercises with Lyra, he secretly experimented. He discovered that the density and nature of the summoned sock were directly tied to the amount of Mimic Energy he invested and the specificity of his intent.
A trickle of ME produced the familiar, flimsy cotton. A moderate flow could create wool of surprising toughness, suitable for ropes or slings. But channeling a substantial 20 ME—the cost of a full Skill Copy—while visualizing concepts like "density," "impact," or "edge," yielded something else entirely. He produced socks with the heft of blacksmith's hammers, socks with edges sharp enough to score the stone floor of his room, and once, a sock that seemed to be woven from frozen shadow, so cold it made his fingers ache.
He was no longer a Sock Summoner. He was a low-grade matter creator, and his medium was hosiery. The absurdity was not lost on him, but the tactical possibilities were staggering.
Lyra, of course, noticed his divided focus. "Your control is improving, but your mind is elsewhere," she stated during a session where he was trying to shape a Flame Burst into a sustained, forward-moving wall of fire.
"It's nothing," Kael grunted, sweat beading on his forehead as the fire wavered.
"It is a distraction. In a real fight, distraction is death. Whatever you are concocting with your original system, integrate it. Now. Show me."
There was no point in hiding it. He let the firewall dissipate, the heat washing back over him. He took a deep breath, focused, and channeled 15 ME into a new, specific intent: Weight. Constriction. Reach.
A length of thick, grey, rope-like material appeared in his hand. It was clearly sock-knit, but it was as thick as his thumb and unnaturally heavy for its size.
Lyra raised an eyebrow. "A garrote?"
"Or a climbing line. Or a whip," Kael said, a flicker of pride in his voice.
"Test its tensile strength. On the dummy."
He approached the petrified root dummy, looped the "sock-rope" around its neck, and pulled. The material bit deep into the wood, holding fast without fraying. It was far stronger than any ordinary fiber.
"Acceptable," Lyra conceded, the highest praise she ever gave. "A versatile tool. But you revealed its creation. In a real engagement, the moment you summon something, you have announced a change in the battlefield. You must learn to pre-summon. To have your tools ready before the fight begins, or to create them unseen."
This opened a new avenue of training. Kael began practicing summoning items into his sleeves, his pockets, or directly into his hands while they were behind his back or obscured by his body. He worked on speed, reducing the summoning time from a conscious second to a near-instantaneous flicker of thought. He was building an entire hidden arsenal, all classified under the school records as "Sock Summoning (Common)."
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The duality of his life was becoming a refined act. By day, he was the picture of defeated incompetence. By night, he was a phantom in the cavern, his skills sharpening to a razor's edge. His stats had grown steadily from the intense, focused work.
Kael Varn
Level: 8 (FP: 1120/1500)
System: Skill Mimic System (Mythic - Novice Tier)
Power: 5, Control: 12, Resilience: 11, Insight: 16
Mimic Energy (ME): 80/80
Copied Skills (Permanent): Fireball, Flame Burst, Glimmer Veil.
Empty Slots: 2
The increased Control and Insight made a world of difference. His shaped Fireball lances were now consistent, and his Glimmer Veil could be held for minutes at a time with minimal energy drain.
It was a week after his first secret training session that the next Sparring Trials were announced. A cold dread settled in Kael's stomach. This was the real test. He had to perform poorly enough to allay suspicion, but not so poorly as to get himself critically injured or expelled for absolute uselessness. It was a delicate, dangerous balance.
The day of the Trials, the atmosphere in the rundown arena was electric with schadenfreude. Everyone was waiting to see the "fluke" get what he deserved. Dren was practically vibrating with anticipation, cracking his knuckles and shooting Kael looks of pure malice.
Instructor Veyra's gaze was heavy on him as the matches began. Kael's first opponent was a lanky boy with a Common-tier Gust System, capable of creating strong pushes of wind.
As the match started, the boy, named Fen, immediately thrust his hands forward. "Gust Blast!"
Kael had already assessed the skill. It was straightforward, unrefined. He could have easily sidestepped it or used a shaped Fireball to disrupt the air pressure. Instead, he leaned into the blast, letting it throw him off-balance. He stumbled backward, making a show of windmilling his arms before landing hard on his backside. A wave of laughter erupted.
"Pathetic, Varn!" Dren roared from the sidelines. "Can't even stand up to a breeze!"
Kael got to his feet, dusting himself off with a convincing expression of frustration. He summoned a single, ordinary sock and threw it feebly at Fen. It fluttered harmlessly in the residual wind. Fen, emboldened, launched another Gust Blast. This time, Kael was ready. He let it push him, but as he "stumbled," his hand brushed the ground, and he used the momentum to roll back to his feet in a move that was slightly more competent than he intended. It was a flicker of the coordination he was learning downstairs.
Veyra's eyes narrowed.
Fen charged, thinking to shove him out of the ring physically. This was the moment. As Fen lunged, Kael pivoted, the movement subtle and efficient. He didn't use Glimmer Veil, but he used the footwork Lyra had drilled into him for maintaining balance while veiled. He hooked his foot behind Fen's ankle and gave a slight push.
Fen yelped, tripping over his own feet and sprawling onto the mat. It looked for all the world like he'd just tripped. A clumsy, accidental victory.
The laughter died, replaced by confused murmurs. Kael stood over Fen, doing his best to look as surprised as everyone else.
Instructor Veyra was silent for a long moment before speaking. "Kael Varn. Victorious by ring-out." Her tone was flat, analytical. She didn't believe it was an accident.
Dren's face was a thundercloud. His plan for public vengeance was unraveling.
Kael's next match was against a girl with a Rare-tier Stone Skin system. Her skin took on a granite-like quality, making her slow but incredibly durable. This was a perfect opponent for his act. He "fought" valiantly, pelting her with a series of socks—all ordinary, all useless—while dodging her slow, powerful swings. He made sure to take a few glancing blows, grunting in pain, selling the struggle. Eventually, he let her corner him and, with a well-telegraphed shove, she pushed him out of the ring.
He had lost. Convincingly. The crowd seemed satisfied. The natural order was restored.
But Dren was not satisfied. As Kael walked away from the arena, rubbing his supposedly sore shoulder, Dren stepped into his path, blocking his way to the exit tunnel.
"Not so fast, Varn," Dren sneered, his voice low. "You think you're clever? Tripping Fen? You got lucky against me, and you've been hiding ever since. But you can't hide from this."
He didn't give a formal challenge. He just attacked. His fist, wreathed in fire, shot out in a cheap shot aimed at Kael's gut.
Time seemed to slow. Kael's heightened Insight and reflexes, honed in the cavern, kicked in. He saw the telegraphed move, the sloppy form. A dozen options flashed through his mind. A shaped Fireball to the wrist. A condensed Flame Burst to the chest. A leaden sock to the temple.
But he couldn't. Using any of those was a death sentence.
So, he took the hit.
He twisted at the last second, letting the fiery fist slam into his side instead of his stomach. It still hurt—a bruising, burning impact that drove the air from his lungs. He cried out, stumbling back against the tunnel wall, clutching his ribs. The smell of burnt cloth and singed skin filled his nostrils.
"See?" Dren spat, standing over him. "Nothing but a useless piece of trash. A fluke. Remember your place."
He turned and swaggered away, his lackeys following, leaving Kael slumped against the wall, gasping. The pain was real. The humiliation was real. But beneath it, something else was burning: a cold, focused fury. He had taken the hit. He had played his part. But he memorized the exact angle of Dren's swing, the distribution of his weight, the arrogant sneer. He stored it all away.
Later, in the cavern, the bruise on his side a purple and black blossom of pain, he stood before the dummy. He didn't use fire or stealth. He simply summoned the heavy, leaden sock into his hand. He replayed Dren's attack in his mind, the sloppy, overconfident lunge.
Then, with a surge of his enhanced Strength and the precise body mechanics Lyra had taught him, he swung the sock. It wasn't a wild blow. It was a short, devastatingly fast arc that impacted the dummy's "head" with a sound like a rock splitting.
A large chunk of the petrified wood shattered and flew across the cavern.
He stood there, breathing heavily, the weight of the sock a comforting anchor. He hadn't needed a copied skill. He hadn't needed to reveal his power. He had used the world's mockery as a weapon and the memory of his humiliation as a guide.
Lyra, who had been observing silently from the shadows, stepped into the Shard's light.
"The unseen blade is the deadliest," she said, her voice echoing softly in the vast space. "You have learned to hide your fire and your form. Now you have learned to hide your intent. They see a Sock Summoner. Let them. The moment they truly understand what you are, it will be too late for them."
Kael looked from the shattered dummy to the sock in his hand, then to the pulsating heart of the Skillforge Shard. The underdog was a lie. The weakling was a costume. He was something else entirely, a weapon being forged in the dark, and his edge was finally starting to show.