A/N 1/3 Today
A quiet ping resonated in James’s ears, like the gentle chime of a distant bell. For a moment, he nearly forgot the salted jerky in his hands, mouth half-open as he stared off into the middle distance. Then, blinking, he shook his head and tore off another bite of meat, trying to keep his composure. As mundane as the campsite looked—embers dying, Marcus tossing him a lopsided grin, Elia and Joey tending to personal chores—the swirl of tension in the air remained palpable. They were all on borrowed time in this rift, and they knew it.
He shifted on the mossy ground, ignoring the faint chill that seeped through his already worn trousers. The tang of salted meat brought him back to the present, anchoring him, though his thoughts were hardly at ease. He’d spent the last few hours—if one could call it “morning” in this perpetual twilight—learning to suppress his aura with Elia’s guidance. Succeeding at such a skill was no small feat, especially for someone his age, but it came with a bittersweet mix of triumph and dread.
Before he could lose himself further in reflection, James glanced down at his Status. In the back of his mind, the system prompt still lingered:
{Active Skill Acquired}
{Accept? Y/N}
Aura Control (Saffron Level One)
Just hours ago, he’d been flaring his mana like a beacon—enough to catch monsters’ attention and earn concerned looks from his companions. Now, thanks to Elia’s instructions and his own pressing need, he’d finally gotten a handle on it—or at least the rudiments. His eyes flickered over the prompt, uncertain if he should accept the skill right now or wait. With so many skills in his Status already crowding for space, part of him hesitated, recalling an old warning from his father.
That memory—of Andy telling him “A person can only hold so many skills”—flashed briefly in his mind. He was sure Andy’s caution had been born from a lifetime of common sense and experience. James closed the Status screen for the moment, leaving the prompt floating in the corner of his vision. He’d decide soon enough.
He forced his attention to the people around him. Joey, sporting his runic prosthetic arm, sullenly poked the ashes of the small campfire with a charred stick, stirring them to a weak glow. Marcus, propped up against a half-toppled log, gave James a friendly wave of the jerky in his own hand, as though to say Eat up while you can, kid. And Elia was rummaging through a worn leather satchel, presumably checking for potions or supplies.
At the edge of the campsite, Jackson had slipped into the shadows—James could only guess where he was at this moment, but one glance told him the man was more than likely patrolling the perimeter with that uncanny stealth of his. And, further beyond, James spotted Ser Loran, the silver-haired knight who had saved him from certain doom when the Magma Elemental threatened Tellemoria. Right now, Loran stood beside the aethermares: five magnificently strange creatures whose translucent coats rippled with faint, otherworldly color.
James watched the knight stroke one mare’s sleek neck, murmuring soft words of reassurance. The aethermare flicked her ear and nickered contentedly, pressing closer to him. The tenderness in Ser Loran’s gesture caught James off guard for a moment. He’d grown used to the man’s gruff leadership, calm advice, and battle-honed reflexes. But here, tending to the aethermares, Loran looked more gentle, more human.
A swirl of gratitude welled in James’s chest. Had Ser Loran and the rest not intervened in that fateful moment, James and Joey would’ve surely been ash by now. He wanted to approach the knight, to ask about skill slots—an urgent question. But an inexplicable tightness pinched James’s stomach. Murmurs of caution tugged at him, but so did a pressing desire to know more.
He glanced at Marcus, who wiped his fingers on his tunic and pushed himself off the log with a groan. Marcus had clearly noticed James’s restlessness.
“You alright, kid?” the adventurer asked, voice low enough not to disturb Joey’s half-somnolent state. “I saw that look in your eyes. Something on your mind?”
James nodded, slowly rising to his feet. He could still feel the after-effects of aura suppression, a mild headache at the back of his skull. “Yeah, actually,” he admitted, voice subdued. “I was hoping I could pick your brain. About… skills.”
Marcus raised an eyebrow, chewing his last bit of jerky. “Skills, huh? Lemme guess—you realized you’re loaded with ‘em and you’re worried about capping out? Or maybe you’re confused about how to level them up properly?”
A faint smile tugged at James’s lips. “Both, maybe,” he conceded. “I’m, uh, definitely concerned about how many I’ve got. And how many more I can take.”
The older adventurer chuckled, though not unkindly. “Figured as much. Look, I’m no grand scholar on the subject. I know the basics: each person only has so many skill ‘slots’ they can fill. Twenty’s the number folks throw around for the average adventurer or farmer. Might be a bit more if you’re magically gifted, or if you’ve got some special Talent.”
He gave James a pointed look, as though to say I suspect you do, but I won’t pry. Aloud, he continued, “I can hold about Twenty Five at the moment, though I suspect that’s because I’ve done more than my fair share of rift-diving. Survived some nasty stuff that pushed me to my limits. You? Well, you’re a youngster, but something about you….” Marcus’s gaze roamed across James’s figure, as though searching for clues. “Let’s just say you’re an outlier. If you’re worried about the specifics, talk to Ser Loran. That man’s traveled half the realm, rubbed shoulders with top guild members, and studied old tomes. Bet he knows more about skill slots than I do.”
James followed Marcus’s line of sight to where Ser Loran was now gently combing the mane of an aethermare with a short-bristled brush. The creature snorted, half-stamping the ground in obvious contentment. In the faint twilight glow, the aethermare’s translucent coat shone, tinted with hints of lavender near its flanks.
“Thanks,” James said softly. He hesitated. Part of him felt a jolt of excitement at the thought of gleaning more knowledge from Ser Loran. Another part felt apprehensive. Because if he learned more, if he took in more new skills or revelations, would he drift even further from the simple life he’d known under Andy and Bell? As if being Frank from another world wasn’t already a wide enough gulf, he thought grimly. Was anything ever going to be the same?
Pushing the doubt aside, James mustered his courage and made his way to the clearing’s edge. Elia glanced up from her satchel, lips parted as if she might say something, but she let him go unimpeded. Joey, for his part, seemed too lost in his own thoughts to notice.
Ser Loran was speaking in a quiet, soothing tone to the second aethermare when James approached. The knight’s usually stern expression was tempered by a gentleness that reminded James of Andy’s patience with the farm horses back home—though these aethermares were far from ordinary beasts. Their existence teetered between the mundane and the mystical, as ephemeral as the rift itself.
James stood a few steps away, uncertain if he should intrude. It was almost disconcerting to see Ser Loran so unguarded. But he needed answers.
“Ser Loran,” James called softly, just loud enough to catch the knight’s attention. The older man turned, his gauntlet-clad hand resting on the mare’s flank.
“Ah, James,” the knight greeted with a small smile. “You’re finished with Elia early—or late, depending on how time flows in this blasted place.” He patted the creature one last time and stepped away, letting the aethermare wander a short distance to graze on whatever sparse vegetation grew in the rift’s twisted underbrush.
James inclined his head respectfully. “I wanted to—well, Marcus suggested I come to you to talk about skill slots and how many we can hold. It’s been on my mind a lot. I don’t want to fill up on random things without understanding the consequences.”