“Yeesh. You were more fun when you didn’t have air. Fine.”

 

With a thump, Peter landed on the floor of his bedroom, staring up at the ceiling, his arms barely keeping him from slumping to the floor.

 

He gave up and laid down. His head was spinning. He could feel himself panting, despite having had no exertion at all.

 

He felt a paw prodding his side. “You okay? Gonna be sick?”

 

“F-fine… just give me a—” His mind was racing. He was panicking, dizzy. 

 

Grip on the material world. The material world that could just be torn away from you at any given time by freaky fucking space aliens and UGH just get a grip! Shit’s weird now! Deal with it!

 

“Yeah… I’m—” He shook his head. He couldn’t. He continued to pant, trying to anchor his thoughts and fight off nausea. “No. I’m not alright. Holy fuck. Please don’t ever do that to me again.”

 

She kept her paw on his side for a moment. He noticed that as he continued to breathe, to adjust to the fact he hadn’t just died randomly, like he felt like he had. It was a process, but eventually, his heartbeat began to regulate itself, and his breathing became less rapid. 

 

“I guess shit like that’s normal for you…”

 

She patted him once, then walked away. “It’s gonna need to get normal to you, too. This world’s just gonna get more erratic the longer our celestial friend is up there. I wanted you to understand the scope of things, just a little bit.”

 

“I still don’t understand…” Peter sat up, found a long crack in the wall and anchored himself to it, tracing the lines as he readjusted to reality. “The dragon is making the world go crazy. This world’s going to shit, and you’re here to take notes on it?”

 

“That’s pretty accurate.”

 

Peter gulped. “Well, great. I mean, I hardly took you for an Avenger, but realising you literally don’t care is a real weight off my mind. Truly.” He cut her off before she could reply, sitting himself up and staring down at her. “So, what, this Patriarch of yours sends you to write him reports about fucked up planets and find him souls to gorge himself on? What’s the deal with that?”

 

“The souls aren’t really for him. They’re the invisible thread that maintains our connection to the grimoire and its wellspring of power. The contract gives us access to the grimoire. The Patriarch simply maintains it, that and the values of our race.”

 

“Your ‘values’?” Peter scoffed at that. “And just what are those, ‘ultimate power at any cost’?”

 

“Learn everything. Turn every stone. Find the secrets that answer the question of life, prosperity, and happiness for all.”

 

Peter almost did a double-take. “You’re serious?”

 

“As serious as I can be. It’s been our creed for as long as anyone remembers.”

 

“You’d have an easier time convincing me you eat planets, honestly.”

 

“I mean, it’s not unheard of, but I’ve never done it. Too much chewing involved.”

 

Peter rubbed his temples. He stared at her desperately. “I can never tell if you’re serious.”

 

“This’d be less fun for me if you could.” She snickered at his expression, jumping up onto a stool and sitting on it. “What I do shouldn’t interfere with you, so try not to worry about it. You seem to have plenty on your plate as it is. Just figure out how to get yourself stable, and find what you want to do from there. You’ve got more options than you realise.”

 

“You mean you don’t have a plan in mind for me?”

 

“I have at least three in mind, actually. You’ll find them.”

 

That said, she laid down in a little ball and closed her eyes. Peter tried talking to her, asking what she meant, but she remained silent. 

 

Maybe she’d really fallen asleep that quickly. Maybe she was ignoring him. Maybe her body was an illusion she’d left behind, and she was on another plane of reality right now. After her latest feat, Peter was pretty convinced that Seles could do anything, or close enough at the very least.

 

Left to his own devices, mind calmer after a good twenty or thirty minutes of sitting on solid ground, not floating in space, Peter began to get his bearings, looking for something to occupy his mind in the small room.

 

He’d been about to pull his grimoire out and begin to pour through it again when he noticed a sheet of paper at the foot of his door. It must’ve been slid under while he was out, and he was only now realising it even existed.

 

It was a letter, addressed to him, no envelope, scribbled in messy handwriting that he easily recognised. Peter walked past the occupied stall and sat at his bed, squinting through the sunlight to try and make out the words as they came into focus.

 

Peter,

 

I hope you’ve been well. I returned from Withering Winds three days ago. It was an absolute disaster, our healer lost so much blood that we had to jolt him awake just long enough that he could use a transfusion spell. Thankfully, he seems as if he’ll be okay.

 

These twenty-plus missions are kind of crazy. Awakened monsters are common. I’d love to have you along on one, but I’d be worried about you. Fighters stronger than me get hurt and killed all the time in the nastier areas, and I’m half convinced the only reason I’m still alive is because I get lucky and pick my quests well.

 

But oh well. This job’s important to me. It’s getting harder without a familiar face, though.

 

We should meet up at some point and talk. Every time I knock, you aren’t home, and your landlord screams at me. He’s staring at me as I write this and telling me to hurry up. 

 

I hope you’re keeping well.

 

Johl.

 

Peter smiled. He said the last part twice.

 

The smile didn’t last. 

 

A fledgeling adventurer that spent more time on the road or questing than he did anywhere else, Johl had been Peter’s most consistent friend in the last two years.

 

He was also impossible to talk to. Seeing Johl made Peter feel sad.

 

He didn’t crumple the letter like he had the flier from earlier. He simply folded it and set it down on the table, wanting to put some distance between himself and it. 

 

He opened his grimoire, beginning to scan the pages, rereading the entries he already knew and searching for new ones, but his heart wasn’t in it.

 

Maybe he should talk to his friend. Peter had a lot on his mind, and Seles was hardly reliable emotional support.

 

Johl was doing well as an adventurer. He knew how to get by and make a good living, even in the toughening environment of the last couple years. Maybe he could give him some tips on what to do next.

 

Peter shook off the notion. Last time he’d been a bit too honest with Johl about his life, he was facing eviction, and the man had practically shoved coins in his hands and refused to accept no for an answer, no matter how many times Peter had refused. It got me through the next three months, and he never expected anything in return.

 

He’d been a good friend to Peter from the minute they’d met, back when both were newbie adventurers, though Johl still had clear seniority due to his level. They’d quested together until Peter couldn’t justify dragging him down any longer, and it was clear his level cap was going to stick.

 

Ever since, Peter had grown more distant. It was difficult to speak to people around him who were doing so well when Peter himself felt as if he were drowning. 

 

It was easier if he sank alone. He couldn’t handle another handout, another pity quest where Johl did all the work. At least Peter had saved Mist’s life, but even the prospect of having her do work for him felt ridiculous.

 

And that led him back to their upcoming job, his mind going full-circle and confronting the thing it didn’t want to. Was Mist really happy to help him with this, like she said she was?

 

He wasn’t exactly sure how he’d do it alone, so if he was going to commit to this course of action, he’d have to trust that this was the right way. It was all he could do to not doubt himself right now; trying to think of alternatives only hurt his brain.

 

It was at least twenty minutes of page-flicking before Peter realised that this tome accommodated many more pages than it should’ve. He’d been at the middle of the book for a good while now, and when he attempted to push all the way to the end, he found there to always be more pages waiting for him, so many that he was sure he’d gotten solidly into the thousands before he gave up on seeing the other end.

 

If there were so many, how would he ever know if he’d missed an entry, or if there was something buried right at the end of the book he wasn’t aware of?

 

As if it could hear his thoughts, the grimoire moved back to [Glamour] of its own volition. Peter thought of [Phase], and the book travelled there instantly. He repeated the process with other entries, and they appeared in a similar manner.

 

Accessing the entries he’d already discovered didn’t look like it would ever be a problem. But finding new ones…

 

Peter mentally counted down from two thousand as he thumbed his way through the book, resolving to check that many pages. The process was calming, it helped him not to think for a little while. He spent a little time imagining what kind of things he might manage to unearth inside eventually, but mainly, his brain focussed on the slowly reducing number as the sun’s glare passed from over the book towards the middle of the room.

 

It was when he’d counted down to 980 that he finally saw ink colouring one of the rough pages. Peter blinked twice, rubbing his eyes and scrambling to peruse his latest discovery.

 

It, once again, wasn’t a spell. Rather, it wasn’t one spell.

 

Of the many forms of energy manipulation that exist across the cosmos, one of the most refined is that of the Bladedancer, a class of fighter capable of transmuting their latent energy into sharp, powerful weapons, as well as possessing the ability to concentrate their energy into feats of strength and agility that would be otherwise beyond their physical limits. 

 

Sharing martial characteristics with the simple warrior class, but bolstered by the intricate arcane rituals of the Zolatii, Bladedancers are both fierce and deadly, entering a state of intense pride during combat, which can, at times, be their downfall when left unchecked.

 

You do not possess a class of comparable strength, and are only able to access Bladedancing through a combination of osmosis and soul infusion.

 

Access to Bladedancing at the twelth level will cost you 50 lesser souls to activate, and 2 lesser souls per second that the class is active and available to you. Excess costs will be drained from you in an appropriate and cost-efficient manner.

 

Peter narrowed his eyes at that. The class sounded awesome, but the cost to use it sounded equivalent to a long distance phone call…

 

While under the effects of Bladedance, you will receive a passive 25% buff to your existing strength, speed, and stamina, as well as a 40% buff to your existing dexterity.

 

Bladedancing at the twelth level will give you access to the following spells:

 

Rain of Swords: (25 lesser souls per use): Summon three spirit blades to slash at your opponent, each disappearing after their second slash. Effective versus incorporeal enemies.

 

Pugilist’s blade: (1 nascent soul per cast): For the next thirty seconds, your unarmed strikes will cause blades of energy to strike from the same area as your strikes, piercing your opponent.

 

Lesser Blade Waltz: (10 lesser souls per second): Create a field of balance around you, allowing you to dodge oncoming attacks with massively increased speed within a 5 metre radius of cast.

 

Peter found himself reading this all over multiple times if only to try to begin and absorb it… 

 

Peter couldn’t get around the fact he was weak, meaning those percentage stat increases were likely not to make a huge difference versus a capable enemy, nor the fact that a level 12 class wasn’t exactly something to write home about, seeing as most fighters likely were in at least their teens, if not twenties, but the class itself and the abilities attached sounded like something.

 

They sounded like a lot more than he had, that was for fucking sure. What could he do right now? Zap someone with a little spark of lightning? Stab them with a little knife? Throw a magic book at them?

 

Bladedancing sounded like the perfect substitute for a fighter with no sword and a missing hand, if only it wasn’t so damn expensive.

 

There was the line about pride, too. That bothered him. He almost wanted to turn it on for a few moments, just to test the feeling, but at 50 lesser souls just toggle it on, Peter figured it best he pass. He was already gonna have to spend more on herbs any second now, and unlike with his landlord, soul debts didn’t seem like something he could put off or postpone, or pay in small installments. He either had what the contract wanted, or he was fucked.

 

Peter chose not to be fucked. 

 

He’d just finished putting together more herbs when Mist arrived with a pretty impressive array of foodstuffs. This time, he boiled water in a pot and dissolved the herbs inside. It went down a lot smoother.

 

Peter started the cooking once the herbs had kicked in, though Mist insisted on helping, maybe on account of his missing hand. 

 

He chopped vegetables and passed them to her as she stirred the pot, and eventually they’d made a broth consisting mainly of leeks, cabbage, and pork, which went down pretty nicely with a bit of sage, another of Mist’s purchases.

 

Eventually, he’d finished and dished three wooden bowls of the soup. Thankfully, he had three. He tried to nudge Seles awake, but she wouldn’t budge. Not wanting to startle her and catch a fireball to the face, he decided to leave her be for the timebeing.

 

“...wow, this is pretty well-cooked.”

 

Peter tried and failed not to look annoyed. “You sound more surprised than you should be.”

 

“N-no, I didn’t mean anything by it! Just, this is probably the first proper meal I’ve eaten in—” she trailed off, dismissing her own statement. “Look, it’s good. I’m enjoying it. I’m grateful that you cooked it for me.”

 

“You’re the one who bought the ingredients.”

 

Peter simply ate when Mist didn’t respond, but it wasn’t a few minutes until he was halfway through his food and feeling less ravenous, and his wish to fill the silence inevitably resurfaced, lest his thoughts drift to the massive, gargantuan dragon currently nesting in the sun. 

 

“So… you enjoying your freedom? Bet it feels nice to be able to walk around and do what you want again, huh?”

 

“I mean, yeah. Anything beats being in that place.” 

 

Peter slurped on his soup. “How’d you end up down there, anyways?”

 

“I was…” she coughed after a spoonful, sputtering and holding a hand over her mouth. Her eyes watered a little. 

 

“Damn. You okay?”

 

“Fine. It’s not your cooking, I swear.” She chuckled, smiled. “Do we have to talk about the stupid bloody dungeon right now? I wanna just forget about it, really.”

 

“N-no, I get that, it’s fine.” Peter bowed his head, embarrassed. He hadn’t meant to upset her. 

 

He supposed he didn’t really talk to people very often lately, and with everything that was going on, he was forgetting his manners. She was coming from a shitty situation, she was recovering, and she didn’t want his big mouth interfering with that. Understood.

 

When he laid it all out like that, he felt compelled to blurt an idea. “Hey, do you want your own room for tonight? I imagine that after everything, you’d probably prefer your own space. You don’t wanna share this tiny room with me and Seles, do you? I’ll pay, so don’t worry about that.”

 

Yeah, with the last silver to my name.

 

It doesn’t matter, you’ll make more money. Stop worrying.

 

“I don’t want to be a burden…” She shook her head, yellow-blonde bangs rocking to and fro. “Keep your money. I’m okay with sleeping here.”

 

“You’re sure? I really don’t mind. I wanna make sure you’re comfortable after everything.”

 

Mist placed a hand on his, causing Peter to drop his spoon. She looked into his eyes.

 

“Trust me. I’m fine with this. Drop it, and let me take the floor. Don’t ask me again.”

 

Hearing that, Peter didn’t press it. Wasn’t like he had the energy to argue.

 

It wasn’t long until him and Mist both were trying to catch more shut-eye, the one night of fitful sleep in the forest hardly a tonic for their aching bodies, and Mist seemed particularly fitful as she attempted to get comfortable, but refused whenever Peter offered to give her the bed. 

 

He thought about the Bladedancer class as he grew progressively more tired, a part of him eager to try it out, and then considered tomorrow’s coming task, his thoughts soon turning sour. 

 

He pulled out the crumpled flier and stared at it in the dimming light of the sun, eyes squinted. His target’s level was estimated to be around twenty, and he was worth as much alive as he was dead, 9 gold pieces, about five weeks’ wages for Peter. 

 

Just capturing a criminal sounds fine by me. If I can do that, and it doesn’t turn violent, then I’ll have enough money to be able to get by for a bit, and I’ll be able to figure things out from there. 

 

But then, where was Peter getting any new souls from?