Soft rays of sunlight glimmered over the plush fabrics in the safe room, chasing away any shadows that might have lurked in the corners. For James, the oasis-like calm of this place felt both reassuring and a touch eerie, as though the rift itself watched him through a benevolent lens—granting him comfort now only to throw him back into chaos once the allotted hours expired. Yet he forced himself to accept that temporary peace, weaving it into the battered corners of his mind where grief still bit at him like a hungry wolf.
Stretching his limbs, James took stock of his body. Fatigue clung to him, though it had receded to a manageable murmur. Only a day ago—was it really that recent?—he had been on the brink of death in the Echoing Hollows Rift. With no class, no refined magic, and no thorough understanding of the dangers swirling in that cavernous labyrinth, he’d stumbled through fights and monstrous guardians to snatch survival by the merest thread. But at what cost? The question rang like a funeral bell in his thoughts.
He squeezed his eyes shut. Immediately, the image of Nyx, limp and cold, filled his mind, her once-vibrant eyes darkened. Stirrings of guilt and anger welled up—an all-too-familiar storm these days—but he pressed the feelings down. He had come to realize that grief would never truly leave him, but neither could he wallow forever. Instead, he allowed her memory to ignite a new resolve. If this world demanded such a terrible price, then he would repay it in kindness to those under his protection.
Rising slowly, he tested his joints. A new wave of mild soreness flared and then subsided. The scuff of his footsteps felt surprisingly loud in the quiet living space. Around him, lavish furniture beckoned him to stay, to rest more, but there was work to do. This safe room offered a kind of sanctuary—and though the lingering hush soothed him, it also gave him a chance to reflect on how ill-prepared he had been for the rift. He vowed to rectify that.
He took a moment to admire the “window,” which displayed a facsimile of daylight streaming onto a plush carpet. If he concentrated, he sensed faint lines of essence splayed out like filigree through the glass. They seemed to regulate the illusions of day and night within this bubble of refuge. The intricate nature of it all stirred his curiosity. This whole place is like a meticulously crafted puzzle box, he thought. Everything is woven out of wards, illusions, and runes so delicate that even a subtle push might unravel them.
That realization made him glance about the room once more. The walls, too, had that same ephemeral shimmer, as if brushed with cosmic chalk. A fleeting memory surfaced of how he had used {Essence Sight} absently earlier to study the wards. Right now, he was awake enough—he should try it again, see if he could glean more details. Maybe even copy them down as he had thought to before.
Taking a breath, he activated {Essence Sight}. Immediately, the edges of his vision glowed with a faint golden hue, and the safe room unveiled hidden patterns of swirling power flowing in a dizzying array. Intricate runic designs layered across the walls, floor, and ceiling, binding them into a symphony of protective wards. It was breathtaking. He had expected to see mere lines, but what lay before him was more akin to a living tapestry, each thread humming with magical resonance. It’s no wonder I feel so safe here, he mused. This chamber is more secure than a fortress, built from energy as much as stone.
The complexity quickly became overwhelming. Many of the runes vibrated with a frequency that made his head throb. Narrowing his gaze, James scanned a corner near the door that radiated particularly bright energy. A swirling glyph looped in on itself there, glowing with hypnotic pulses. He pulled himself closer, raising a hand as if to touch it—and while he knew it was intangible, he felt the gentle warmth of essence ruffling his fingertips.
He turned to grab some paper and a quill, recalling how last time, the room had provided him with writing materials as soon as he wished for them. True enough, a soft flicker occurred in the air, and the safe room manifested a small desk with parchment and an inkwell. Deep in thought, James stepped over, sank into the modest chair, and tried to replicate the glyph. Each quill stroke was tentative. The loops that looked effortless in the air proved maddeningly complex on paper, morphing into ugly squiggles. When he tried to correct them, the entire structure lost coherence.
Again, the intense shimmer in his Essence Sight coaxed him, almost as though the wards themselves urged him to see their true form. The more closely he studied, the more the lines on the walls seemed alive, shifting with each breath of magical energy. Once, as he dragged the quill tip along the parchment, he felt a tiny electric thrill race up his arm, and the swirl of ink on the page brightened momentarily. He jerked back with a startled yelp, but that ephemeral glow vanished the instant he relaxed his concentration.
And then it happened:
New Skill Acquired: {Rune Drawing (Ashen Rank One)}
You have taken the first steps toward capturing and reproducing magical scripts. Mastery requires study, practice, and alignment with essence flows. Proceed with caution, as incomplete or incorrect runes may lead to unpredictable effects.
James’s heartbeat slammed in his ears. A wave of hot embarrassment, or maybe excitement, coursed through him. He glanced down at his notes. Most of it was gibberish—sharp angles and half-realized curves that hardly resembled the swirling lines in the walls. Yet somewhere in that haphazard scrawl, the System recognized an intentional attempt to interpret magical script. It had granted him a skill for it. That left him with the question. Do I even want this?
Back when he was Frank, he’d gotten used to the idea of picking up new “skills” in games—like unlocking perks in an RPG skill tree. But this was real life, and there were real consequences to dabbling in areas he didn’t understand. He recalled all too well how a single ill-timed choice or half-baked plan in the rift could lead to lethal outcomes. On the other hand… knowledge is power. And if I can figure out runes, I might be able to craft wards of my own someday—or at least recognize them in the wild so I’m not blindsided.
Letting out a measured sigh, he decided to keep the skill in mind, neither dismissing nor wholly embracing it yet. His biggest fear was becoming a scattershot learner who ended up mediocre at everything and good at nothing. But a skill that helps me decode wards and magical defenses could be crucial. Especially if there’s more to come in the labyrinth of this world.
He rose from the chair, bracing his hands on the table as a bout of dizziness threatened. He shut off {Essence Sight} for a moment, grateful to let his eyes rest. Already, the strain of focusing that intangible sense made his vision swim. The safe room’s comforting hush enveloped him once again, letting him swallow down his racing thoughts. He half-laughed at how quickly things were progressing, from a borderline novice who had barely known how to fight with a trident to a potential rune interpreter. The System, or the world’s cosmic design, seemed eager to push him forward.
But that push had consequences, none so grave as what had happened to Nyx. He refused to let that sacrifice be in vain. If he had to gather skills, he would do so carefully, forging a path that would let him protect those he cared about.
A thought struck him: Stats. He had not yet finalized the gains he had made. Assenting to the EXP gain he looked at his Level now.
| Level: 7 (31/1139)
18 Attribute Points he’d gained from the massive experience drop in the rift. He’d leapt from level five to seven—skipping six entirely. Now at Level 7, a new horizon lay before him, and with it came the weight of deciding how to shape his body, mind, and soul. The pressure was growing but no where near as intense as it was in the rift. It seemed that the room came with a multifaceted and comprehensive soothing to the adventurers who made it out of the rift and that included the pressure to allocate.
Trying to quell a renewed wave of anxiety, James opened his Status window:
He tried not to stare too long at {Familiar Bond} The line through it were an excruciating reminder that he’d lost Nyx forever. Sighing, he refocused on the unallocated 18 Attribute Points. He retrieved fresh parchment and began jotting down a plan.
First, he scribbled down the base values:
- Strength: 10
- Dexterity: 10
- Agility: 10
- Intelligence: 14
- Endurance: 22
- Charisma: 6
- Wisdom: 12
- Fate: 13
Then came the puzzle of distributing 18 points. He tapped the quill against his chin. A memory rose: He’d decided earlier to funnel a good portion into Charisma—maybe six points—just to ensure he could speak with more confidence and sincerity. The fear of how his parents might react to his changes gripped him constantly. Even if that fear was intangible, he could at least improve his social presence to better articulate his experiences. So, with a few quick pen strokes, he wrote:
- Charisma: +6 (6 → 12)
That left 12 points. Now, physical stats were essential for survival. He’d felt powerless against some of the more ferocious creatures in the rift, and adding to Strength, Dexterity, or Agility might let him become more adept with the trident. But at the same time, his dire need for better stamina and better magical control also weighed on him. My father is an accomplished spear fighter, he reasoned. Maybe I can learn technique from him rather than just pumping Strength. There has to be a synergy between skill and stats.
This tale has been pilfered from Royal Road. If found on Amazon, kindly file a report.
Still, a couple points in Strength wouldn’t hurt, especially when facing monstrous opponents. Another line on the paper:
- Strength: +2 (10 → 12)
Now he had 10 points left. He remembered how often he’d run out of mana using skills. That might push him to invest in Intelligence and Wisdom. Yet there was also Agility to consider. A single blow from the Guardian had nearly crumpled him, but if he’d been faster, maybe he’d have dodged entirely. A balanced spread might be the best approach, so he jotted a few more lines:
- Intelligence: +2 (14 → 16)
- Wisdom: +4 (12 → 16)
- Agility: +2 (10 → 12)
- Endurance: +2 (22 → 24)
That used up all 18 points. The distribution looked something like this:
Strength -
12
Dexterity - 10 Agility - 12 Intelligence - 16 Endurance - 24 Charisma - 12 Wisdom - 16 Fate - 13
He paused to assess this. Is it enough? The sudden awareness that these numbers defined aspects of his being unsettled him. In the old world, “Frank” had believed in exercise, study, and personal growth, but never had these intangible improvements been so codified. Am I letting the System shape me, or am I shaping myself through it? The question tugged at him with a philosophical curiosity. He didn’t want to be a slave to numbers, but if they made the difference between life and death, ignoring them was foolish.
After a moment, he nodded in approval. This distribution wasn’t min-maxed for any one role, but it gave him a more balanced foundation. He mentally confirmed the allocation, and a hush fell over the room. Then, like a gentle tidal wave, a tingling current suffused his muscles, bones, and mind. His arms felt a fraction stronger, his vision a sliver sharper. An odd hush in his ears made him wonder if even his hearing had improved. Or is that just imagination? He took a few steps, noticing how his posture shifted. He rolled his shoulders and felt the tension in them lessen.
Wary of overthinking, he closed his eyes and turned inward. The calm hush of {Strategic Tranquility} came to him more readily now. That skill, a fusion of {Meditation} and {Battle Strategy}, helped keep his swirling thoughts from devolving into anxious tangents. It was as if someone had gently turned down the volume on his background fears and regrets, letting him focus on the tasks at hand. The sorrow over Nyx still lived within him, but it no longer threatened to overwhelm him every time he let his mind wander.
And yet, the moment he tried to probe deeper into his own soul—like a mental diver searching for hidden caverns—he met a stubborn blockade. Pressure built behind his forehead, enough that a headache formed. He recognized it as the same wall he’d run into last time, preventing him from exploring the deeper layers of his soul. A question surfaced: Could the presence of Frank’s soul in James' body be the reason? The duo felt as though there were one so there should not be a blockade, there was no one to ask so the puzzle remained unsolved, and every attempt to push further left him fatigued.
Weariness nipped at him, so he withdrew from that internal vantage point, letting the headache recede. Perhaps there were secrets locked away within him that only time, training, or a more specialized teacher could coax out. For now, he would accept that limitation—he had enough immediate challenges to keep him busy.
He glanced around the safe room’s cozy confines once more. This place, he reflected, really wants me to rest. A faint scent of herbs drifted from a newly appeared teapot on the sideboard. The room obviously recognized the strain he was under and provided gentle remedies. Part of him balked at the idea of being so closely “watched” by an intangible caretaker, but another part appreciated the respite. He had no illusions that outside this chamber, the world would be less kind.
A wave of tenderness crossed his features as he imagined returning home. Father with his commanding presence and unwavering gaze, and Mother with her quick intelligence and gentle smiles. How will they react when they see me again—see how much I’ve changed?
He clenched a fist. That was the real reason behind boosting Charisma. He wanted to ensure he could speak convincingly, not just in words but in presence. They need to know I’m still their son, no matter what memories or soul fragments came along for the ride. An unwanted seed of doubt lurked: What if they sense Frank overshadowing James? After all, “he” had come from a world far beyond this one. Would they label him a usurper?
Pulling the piece of parchment closer, he wrote a small note to himself:
*I will speak to them openly. I won’t lie or hide things, but I will do so gently. My new Charisma might help. But more than that, I will show them with my actions. I’ll train under Father’s spear lessons, using the trident as my own path. I’ll listen to Mother’s counsel on magical matters, if she can help me. I won’t push them away by seeming too… alien.*
Reading over his hastily scrawled words, James bit his lip. He didn’t want to manipulate them through superficial charm; he wanted honest acceptance, but he couldn’t deny the extra social acumen would help him convey the truth without floundering.
His hand drifted across the table, touching the fresh lines of runic scrawl. A half-smile quirked his lips. “Rune Drawing,” the System called it. In the short term, it might be a curiosity but it was worth considering taking.
Before he could delve further, a quiet chime echoed from the corner of the room—a gentle reminder from the System, or so he presumed. He realized he’d been here for hours already, lost in introspection. The safe room allowed him up to twelve total hours, a lavish grace period indeed. Despite the plush chairs and inviting bed, he was conscious that the clock ticked. Rejoining Joey, ensuring his friend was safe, and eventually returning home all loomed on his mental horizon.
A slow, shaky breath eased out of him. “I need to test these new stats and see how they feel.” He also realized he was wearing the Steel Bloom Cuirass—the living armor he had chosen from the rift rewards. It clung comfortably to him, warm and pliant, the steel threaded with faint floral engravings. On an impulse, he flexed his arms and twisted his torso, curious how the armor adapted. The etched vines seemed to glow faintly at the edges, as if acknowledging his movements. He felt a subtle sense of protection, like the cuirass was reading his body’s tension and preparing to defend him at any sign of danger. It’s almost alive, he marveled. The idea both comforted and unsettled him—what if it reacted unpredictably to a threat?
The swirl of new developments—skills, armor, attribute points—prodded him to consider the bigger picture of his build. In the old world, I thought about character classes and skill trees. Here, I have no class yet, but what does that truly mean? Could I be a mage-knight, or a warrior with a smattering of runic magic? Or do I keep forging my own path, trusting the synergy between my chosen abilities?
He tapped a thoughtful rhythm on the tabletop. “In RPGs, you’d pick a class at character creation or after some quest.” Yet the System here seemed content to let him remain unclassed. A piece of him wondered if being a “Convergent Soul” or having “Mana Harmonization” as a title might unlock a path to some unique class. But if so, it hadn’t revealed itself yet. And for the time being, maybe that was okay. He was free to experiment. He just had to ensure he didn’t become so broad that he ended up powerless.
Allowing {Strategic Tranquility} to once again saturate him, James breathed in a measured cadence. The edges of his anxious thoughts softened. He felt calmer, more present. The skill was a remarkable boon, helping him examine the labyrinth of choices without freezing in panic or second-guessing every move. I’ll keep forging ahead, see how each skill ties together in real combat and real negotiations.
But then, he couldn’t deny a flicker of longing for the simpler times. Just a boy with a family, he thought, not a reincarnated soul juggling half a dozen esoteric skills. Life had grown complicated, an image flashed in his mind from Franks memories: baby James being wrenched from the womb’s protections into a swirl of cosmic energies. Even now, the specifics of that event remained hazy, but it explained the dissonance he sometimes felt—like two puzzle pieces fused at the edges. The two have been together from birth at least.
Raking a hand through his long black hair, James forced that mental image away. Dwelling on it brought confusion and doubt. He turned instead to more practical matters: checking the battered old trident he had stashed beside the bed. The weapon was scuffed and chipped after repeated fights, including the desperate battle with the Guardian. He rubbed a thumb along a dent near the base of the prongs. The metal sang softly when tapped, reminding him of Nyx, who had perched on it once in her playful curiosity.
A bitter smile ghosted across his face. “I won’t replace you, old friend,” he murmured to the trident, “but I do need to maintain you.” If the safe room had forging capabilities, he might have tried to repair it here, but the space seemed geared for recovery and respite, not smithing. Maybe I can ask Father for help. leaving it alone for now he went back to the table.
He rechecked the letter with the Rift Completion details, confirming that everything was in order:
- Item Saffron Tier: Steel Bloom Cuirass – Claimed
- Skill Combination: {Strategic Tranquility}
- EXP Bonus: 1500 used
All lines had neat checkmarks. He felt a final wave of acceptance wash over him. Everything is done here, he realized, glancing at the door that presumably led back to the labyrinth’s exit or some safe exit point. He had a few more hours if he chose to linger and rest. But was there any point in delaying?
James pivoted on his heel, scanning the comforting space. Softly embroidered pillows, a plush rug, a table set with a carafe of fresh water. Even in his sorrow, this room had been a sanctuary—a place to gather himself, to plan, to mourn Nyx in solitude without enemies bearing down. Perhaps that alone was reason enough to remain a little while longer, to let his battered emotions breathe in the quiet. As if reading his thoughts, the bed’s covers rustled invitingly, coaxing him to steal some extra rest.
He weighed the options. If Joey was in another safe room, he might also be using his time to recover, or maybe the System had placed him in a different corner of safety. Perhaps they would reconvene at the Rift’s exit. Dwelling on that uncertain scenario left James uneasy. I do want to see him, to make sure he’s alright. But then again, finishing his mental regroup here might be the wisest approach.
Slowly, he wandered over to the bed and sat on the edge of it, letting the mattress give beneath him. He tested the tension in his arms, bracing them. “Maybe a short rest,” he decided. The mental battles had weighed on him almost as much as the physical ones. He allowed himself to stretch out fully, letting the bed cradle his worn muscles, and found he couldn’t resist the call of a short nap. His eyelids drifted shut, and he surrendered to the gentle lull of sleep.