The sun did not rise in Oakhaven. It simply leaked through the grey clouds like a broken yolk, washing over the slate roofs, the sinking boardwalks, and the knee-deep mud that served as the town's primary architectural feature.
In the master bedroom of the only house with a functioning chimney, Vane woke up.
He did not open his eyes immediately. He lay still, cataloging the sensations of the morning. There was the smell of stale wine, the damp wool scent of the blanket, and the rhythmic, chainsaw snoring of the woman beside him.
Her name was Tess. Or maybe Bess. She was a mercenary mage passing through on her way to the capital. Vane had bought her three rounds of ale last night, listened to her complain about the price of Mana Crystals, and invited her back to his place.
Now, he waited for the payout.
It arrived as a phantom itch behind his ears, followed by the sensation of a cold, wet hook dragging across the surface of his brain.
[Authority Activated: Usurper]
The world fractured.
For three seconds, Vane was not in a warm bed. He was six years old, huddled in a ditch as freezing rain turned the dirt to slurry. His teeth were chattering so hard they threatened to crack. The cold was a physical weight, pressing the life out of his lungs. He reached deep inside, screaming silently for warmth, forcing his dormant mana to boil his own blood just to stay alive one more hour.
Vane gasped, his eyes snapping open.
The vision vanished. The phantom chill lingered in his bones for a heartbeat before fading.
[Skill Copied: Thermal Equilibrium (Grade F)]
Vane let out a shaky breath. He looked at the sleeping woman with a mix of gratitude and pity.
'Rough childhood, Tess,' he thought.
He slid his arm out from under her neck and stood up. The stone floor should have been freezing, but his skin rippled imperceptibly. The new skill was already at work, a basic layer of mana adjusting his surface temperature to match the room.
It was a Grade F skill. Rudimentary. It would not stop a fireball, and it certainly would not kill anyone, but it meant he would not shiver while negotiating business.
He walked to the mirror in the corner, wiping a layer of soot from the glass. A sharp face stared back, heavy-lidded and predatory.
He flicked a finger. The air beside his ear shimmered.
[Status: Vane]
Rank: 3 (Elite)
Danger: Low (Relative to Self)
[Arsenal]
Active Authority: Usurper (EX)
Skill Library: 43 (Grades F - C)
Forty-three.
He smirked. Most mages at Rank 3 struggled to maintain a library of five skills because their mana pathways calcified. They spent years meditating to learn how to throw a rock with their mind. Vane did not have more mana than them, but thanks to his Authority, he had the muscle memory of forty-three different lives.
He dressed quickly. He pulled on black leathers reinforced with mana-weave and strapped his daggers to his thighs. He dropped a heavy pouch of gold on the nightstand. It was more than Tess or Bess would make in a month of guarding caravans. Vane was a criminal, not a cheat.
He stepped out into the hallway. Miller, his head guard, was peeling an apple by the door.
"Morning, Boss," Miller grunted.
"You are slouching, Miller," Vane said, adjusting his cuffs. "If you slouch any lower you will evolve backward into a crab."
"Sorry, Boss."
Vane walked past him and stepped out onto the balcony. Oakhaven lay below him like a dirty stain on the landscape. It was a town of rotting wood and mud, but it was his.
He descended the stairs, activating [Lightfoot (Grade F)].
It was a utility skill. It did not make him faster, but it coated his boots in a thin layer of friction-reducing mana, letting him skate over the mud while everyone else slogged through it.
He walked through the market. He stopped at Geryon's cart.
"Boss!" Geryon stammered. "I got the collection. Only short three coppers, but I put my own in to cover it."
"Keep it," Vane said, taking an apple. "Buy better meat."
He took a bite. Mealy, but sweet.
He was about to turn back when the eastern gate splintered inward. Three men walked in, wearing mismatched iron plate and carrying rusted weapons.
The Black-Tooth Gang.
The leader, Korg, stepped forward. He swung a warhammer that looked like a block of concrete on a stick.
"Vane!" Korg bellowed. "Pay the toll or bleed!"
Vane sighed. He chewed his apple and tapped his temple.
[Target Analysis]
Name: Korg
Rank: 2 (Adept)
Danger: Low
Skills: [Berserk (Grade E)], [Bash (Grade E)]
Rank 2.
Vane almost pitied him. Korg was an Adept. In any other town, he would be a threat. But Vane was Rank 3. The gap between them was not just a number. It was a wall.
"Korg," Vane called out. "You are interrupting my breakfast."
Korg roared. His skin flushed red as he triggered [Berserk (Grade E)].
It was a combat skill. It flooded the muscles with raw mana to increase contractile strength. It offered no control, no technique, just brute force.
Korg charged. He raised the hammer.
Vane did not move. He waited.
Then, he reached into the Library.
[Skill Activated: Grease (Grade F)]
Vane snapped his fingers. He poured a small amount of his Rank 3 mana into the spell, forming a slick, invisible layer of oil directly under Korg's planting foot.
Physics was a cruel mistress. Korg's momentum, fully committed to the swing, betrayed him. His foot shot out sideways. The hammer swung wild, dragging his massive bulk into a clumsy, flailing spin.
As Korg stumbled past him, Vane moved.
[Skill Activated: Dash (Grade E)]
Vane did not teleport. He simply fired a burst of mana from his calves, propelling him forward in a linear sprint faster than the eye could easily track.
He appeared behind the stumbling giant.
[Skill Activated: Mana Grip (Grade E)]
Vane's hand glowed with faint white light. He coated his fingers in a hardening layer and clamped onto the back of Korg's neck.
He shoved downward.
The sound of Korg's face hitting the cobblestones was wet and final.
Vane pinned him down and looked at the other two bandits. They hesitated. They looked at their leader, then at the man holding him down with one hand.
"Fire," Vane whispered.
[Skill Activated: Flame Dart (Grade E)]
Three small bolts of fire, no bigger than coins, shot from his fingertips.
They struck the bandits' hands. The men yelped, dropping their weapons as the fire singed their knuckles.
"Leave the hammer," Vane said. "Take the idiot."
The bandits scrambled, dragging Korg away.
Vane dusted off his sleeves. He looked at the townsfolk staring at him with awe.
To them, he was a monster. He had the strength of an ogre, the speed of a thief, and the fire of a mage.
Vane smiled. He felt the hum of his Rank 3 mana. It was dense, potent, and controlled. He had forty-three skills ranging from F to C. He was the most versatile man in the borderlands.
He was the King of Puddles.
And he had no idea how deep the ocean actually was.