-Harding-

The party had the same perfunctory energy as any other weekly party, but mercifully the food was markedly better than the temple’s. It was entirely a planned weekly socializer, with the only celebration being that the public had increased ticket sales. Instead of jubilation, what made the experience exhilarating to Harding talking to the fighters. Several fighters had come in with martial arts backgrounds and were trying to translate it to the game with mixed success. A few were training with various npc factions, referred to collectively as associations, including a couple with the Eastgate rangers and one with the Ayr Army itself. The vast majority of the fighters though were members of several various guilds, a term reserved solely for player-made organizations.

Of the guilds, the Eight Blossoms was the most represented in large part because they were the new owners of the Grinder. Members of The Empyrean Front and the Skullsworn were also common as they were the Eights’ financial partners in the Grinder. Beyond the investment and beta guild status, what they had in common was that each was developing their own fighting styles and unit tactics.

Harding learned that the associations trained well enough for their specific mission but lacked the broader skill sets. Effective techniques against another human were fundamentally different than against a chimera. Individual combat was fundamentally different from large group combat. The acquisition of both artifact and facility was primarily to facilitate that training, the public flights were just for offsetting the operating costs. And, for recruitment.

What really shocked Harding was that the arena fighters weren't the people crafting the new styles, those people watched from the suites to see aspects of their styles clash and expose issues. The arena fighters were the students of those innovators, learning as it was developed. Harding figured those masters must be even more impressive.

There were some other guilds that had fighters and teams in the arena culture, but training time under the soulnet protection was limited and payment became significant quickly. From what Harding could gather, the Grinder was running nearly all hours of the day, whether the front door was open or not. As Randal had indicated the next challenge for them was figuring out how to include monsters, both for the ticket sales and the style adaptations.

Though many questions remained for Harding, the night had passed. It was late and the party was winding down. Harding and Randal said goodbyes, the last of which was to Alexci. "Great job tonight sis, you're really getting there."

"Thanks, Rand. One more month of being unseeded and I'll earn my first," she enthused. "Maybe I'll even be a Duo by CombO."

"You'll do great regardless," Randal assured her.

"When are you going to start training for real," Alexci ribbed Randal.

"Hey, Howie's training is intense," he defended. "But CombO is mostly for the older fighters. Besides, someone has to learn all this natural magic stuff."

Alexci nodded in assent, "We do need that." Though it came as more of an automatic response and not a negation of her wish for her brother’s increase.

"What's this combo," interjected Harding.

Randal smiled, "Oh, it's a tournament. The Combat and Arms Expo, technically. Fighters and teams are coming from all over the Empire for a massive faire. Merchants and tradesmen, too.”

“When is it,” Harding inquired with obvious interest.

“About three months from now. The Grinder will shut down for it but they might be able to transmit images back here? Like a massive divination ritual to let people watch from the stands."

Harding furrowed his brow, “Wow, I didn’t know they had magic like that.”

That doesn’t sound like a godseed power.

Turning to Alexci, Randal apologized, "We gotta go, see you tomorrow.” He hugged her and led Harding away.

As the two walked the late night streets back to the temple Harding asked, "So are you just at the temple to learn for the guild?"

"Sorta," hedged Randal. "I am super interested in Spiritualism and they didn't say we couldn't share what we learn."

They walked on and Hearing mused on his uncertain future. Randal was correct about the lack of restrictions on their training, but Harding suspected that could change in the advanced classes. Harding hesitated, then shared, "I've been thinking about how long I want to stay. I don’t know what I want to do? Being a wandering monk isn't completely what I had in mind when I started."

“What did you have in mind?”

“To be honest, I didn’t know? Came in ready to grab a sword and kill wolves.”

Randal grunted, "Seems like the Okkor monks are treated like godseed technicians. I don't know about you, but long-term I don't want to be the magical help desk."

Harding laughed.

"You could apply for the Eights," suggested Randal.

Harding hesitated, "We will see. I'm just watching paths open up, waiting for the right one."

"Don't wait too long,” warned Randal. “They'll lock recruitment and do a purge after a while."

When they arrived at the temple, they went their separate ways. For the next hour, despite wanting to sleep, he worked on stretching the deeper parts of his spirit. It was mediative and a good end to a busy day.

-Joshua-

Joshua woke Saturday morning. As much as it defied logic, he felt well rested and excited for the day. Checking his messages, he found that Brandon had left him a time and location in game to meet up. The location was a pub called The Wandering Tom, Old Market and he would be the man in the yellow hat. His in-game name was Gregor Ein.

Joshua spent the morning cleaning his apartment and getting a few groceries before crashing into the rig’s recliner. He sat there a moment, aware he should probably do other things. But nothing seemed immediately pressing.

He pressed the button.

-Loader-

The sun breathed heat on his skin, baking the early summer humidity from him as he stood in the sun. The awareness had loaded in a yet smoother roll. He just stood there for no reason other than to take in the world. Here there was tranquility, freely had and without interruption. His staff still stood leaning against the tree. The breeze shushing through the tall grass in soft sighs as if reality itself was autonomically breathing.

His mood lifted by this taste of serenity, he touched the lonesome tree.

-Harding-

Harding had time to kill but no coin to burn, which is how he ended up in the Solar garden again. He threw his spirit body around in practice. Stretching and shaping; reaching and receding. He was hungry for that next breakthrough. Harding repeatedly pounded the bottom of the pool with his spirit until it was effortless.

I can actually feel the contour of the bottom…

The fish had long since scattered, driven away by his tempestuous spirit presence. Knowing that he needed to push himself, he changed the exercise and tried to reach laterally as the depth of the pool was no longer a challenge. Each progress further drove his intensity of effort.

"Better," Brother Roberts casually commented from behind Harding.

Harding started hard, his spirit body literally jumping out of his skin. "You're lucky I didn't fall in, sneaking up on me like that,” he exclaimed.

"Hmm, it is not I who was lucky," Brother Roberts responded smugly.

Harding scowled in jest and went back to practicing just to be interrupted again. "It is perhaps time you learn some finesse," Brother Roberts commented. "If you are going to harry the fish regardless, try to touch them without their notice."

"Is a light touch harder?"

"Perhaps. It is different. Both are necessary, what you breathe in must also exit."

The further I get the more I discover I lack.

Harding turned and looked at Brother Richards. The monk was crouched at the edge of the pool, wiggling his fingertips lightly in the water.

He must be doing what he wants me to practice....

Concentrating on the monk, Harding realized he could feel the monk's spirit stretched out. Brother Richards' spirit body was so subtle he hadn't consciously been aware of it.

If I can't notice it until I intentionally look, am I really feeling it?

"Brother, can spirit be seen," Harding asked suddenly. "At the arena last night, I could feel spirit. Or, maybe I couldn't but thought I could? Terms like spellflash make it sound like I should be seen though, not felt."

"Synesthesia," the monk speculated.

"Is that what the spell eruption is called?"

"No. It is when you interpret one sensation as another."

"So I couldn't actually feel it?"

"How far away?"

"Ah, seventy feet maybe?"

"Through a throng of people and spell reverb, nearly impossible. It is an ability usually limited to close proximity."

Spell reverb?

Harding thought about it while Brother Roberts entertained himself by trying to entice the fish with his fingers. "But vision could be possible," he catechized.

"Mmm, maybe," was the noncommittal reply as his teacher's focus was on his spirit-noodling.

"What's maybe mean?"

"Maybe means it is uncertain. Such vision can occur, but usually only as a result of select godseeds placed within the Third gate."

"But I could maybe do it without?"

"It has happened, though rare. And that distance seems unlikely in an, ah- untrained individual."

Harding rolled his eyes, "Very diplomatic of you, Brother Roberts."

"Such visionary development usually occurs as a result of a great epiphany. And, even then, with far less range," explained the monk. "Spirit Vision is one of the divine gifts of vision. It is impossible to replicate it through knowledge alone. It cannot be trained, only received."

"One of the vision gifts?"

"Along with Aura, Life, Magic, and others."

"Auras?"

"The coloration imposed on a spirit body by the divine influence of godseeds."

Harding rubbed his head, hair hot from the sun, as he completed the monk-to-english translation. "Aura shows you what seeds people have? That seems like it should be spirit because it's the color of the spirit body."

"They are related. Life has Spirit. Magic is spirit translated by Will and Authority."

"And I can see it?"

"Unlikely. Can you see your own spirit body?"

"No…"

"Have you tried?"

Harding had to think about it. Realizing he hasn't ever specifically tried to see his own spirit body, he took the time to attempt it but saw nothing. He could definitely feel the body, but that made sense since it was part of him. Unless he had this sensory issue and he should be seeing it and not feeling it. After a few attempts and some awkward staring at nothing he gave up. He suggested, "Either I can see spirit but I'm experiencing… synthia?"

"Synesthesia."

"Or," he concluded, "I'm just crazy."

"Do not place upon yourself undo limitations. You could achieve both," the monk suggested in his typical warm sarcasm.

"Asshole," chuckled Harding.

Harding stretched and resettled himself to continue his attempts at developing stealthy spirit powers. As usual, he was only vaguely aware of time when dealing with spirit. When he realized he’d been there longer than he had planned, he quit without any success. Brother Roberts had slipped away without him noticing sometime during his training.

Harding, fearing being late to the rendezvous, tore out of the temple at a run. Intentionally ignoring the discomfort of the exertion and the scowl of the pedestrians he made it to the Old Market district's Royal Exchange.

Gregor had called it a pub, but it was as much a market as anything else. The building was a large three-story fieldstone affair that had more in common architecturally with a bank than a bar. Multiple doors and windows on the ground floor were open, some of them obviously added later in the building's life where construction patterns suddenly changed. Inside was an enclosed open-air market, vendors selling food, drink, and variety. Crowds milled about browsing. People sat on stools, stacked bags and anything else that would support them as they ate or socialized. The crowd was noisy and the air smelled of hot food and rich spices.

A sign in back led him up the stairs to the second floor. There he found the more he had expected, dark wood paneled walls and a singular doorway into The Wandering Tom. It was full of twisting walkways and dimly-lit corner rooms. Central to the pub was a large, rectangular bar. A broad brimmed yellow hat broke up the fairly uniform row of sitting patrons.

Harding sighed and shook his head. Sliding onto the stool next to him, he chuckled, “Hey Bran- Gregor, nice lid.”

The young man looked over, his soft face rounding into a smile under the brim of his hat. “Harding! Wow. You said you got hurt, but… impressive.”

Harding's smile was a little redder, “So you started playing Life to become a day drinker?”

“No, but it's a welcome perk,” Gregor beamed proudly. “Seriously though, not alcoholic.”

Gregor poked the glass over towards Harding, “Try it. It’s an infused water beverage. My employer is investigating investing in the maker.”

“Employer, huh?”

Harding took a swig, finding it to taste like a slightly off lemonade with a hint of something green and herbal. His face wavered between indifference and distaste as he looked Gregor over. Gregor's choice in style was no more palatable to Harding than the drink. Gregor was dressed in a yellow suit jacket, not quite a modern cut but certainly more than a little out of place. Beneath it was a matching vest and white dress shirt. Light gray plaid pants and matching yellow leather loafers.

“That’s, uh- an interesting taste. What is with the suit,” Harding piqued, single brow raised.

“Long story, let's get a booth and talk," he explained and set a few coins on the counter before sliding off his stool. When Harding stood he realized how tall Gregor was and laughed, “Damn, you’re tall.”

“Yep. And it kinda sucks.”

“Because of clothes?”

“Everything. Everything has to be custom. Clothes. Furniture. Gear. It never ends.”

"Neither do you," Harding again laughed.

I’ve missed him.

Gregor ordered two more of the drinks, which Harding did not refuse but neither did he look forward to consuming it. With drinks in hand and with a bowl of small, yellow spheres, Gregor led a short expedition to find a preferable booth. The two caught up while tucked in a quiet corner booth that was most likely once someone's windowless corner office.

They covered what they had done, the highlights and a few select lowlights of their experience so far. Harding laughed at Gregor’s arrest for his unwitting narcotics smuggling and was shocked by his experiences doing community service at a food shelter. As much as they had separate experiences completely unlike what they had come looking for, they both agreed the world was far broader than a normal game. Much more care had been spent in the atmosphere than they’d ever experienced, and yet both had concerns about the game.

"I don't know," Harding confessed. "I'm on the edge with this game? I really like some of the stuff, but other things are really frustrating. It's nearly been a week and I've been in one fight with a few goblins. And the rest of the time it's more like a sim? All I do is learn the esoteric interface."

"Interesting," commented Gregor.

"Interesting?"

"Yeah, interesting," repeated Gregor. "We haven't been grouped together fighting kobolds in a dirt hole like usual. And that does kind of suck. But we both said we wanted something different than the usual. We needed something to be different and not just starting over on the same game with the same game play but with a new name."

"True," Harding allowed, "But this isn't the different that I had in mind."

"I was reading this journal the other day at work,” continued Gregor, pausing to eat a couple of the baked cornmeal puff balls. “This guy just joined the Ayr Marines after loading in. He's out there on a ship fighting pirates along the southeastern coast. Apparently, it's a real problem over there. But it's just this ‘life on a ship’ journal. All the hardships and horrors."

"That sounds interesting," Harding agreed, though with suspicion as to Gregor’s actual point.

Gregor held up a finger, "And I've got this friend, he's never been out of the city he lives in. Real minimal life experiences, you know? But in-game he's working at a logging camp. He used to think five trees was a forest and now he’s out there learning to hunt, clean his kills, that kind of stuff. He can walk a day in any direction and not find anything. He's learning foraging, tracking, all of it. He just logs in, gets the list of what is needed and heads out into the forest by himself. Well, they got these elf shits out there that take stragglers and eat them. Not sure that's cannibalism but it's creepy. So, anyway, he's gotta learn to hunt while being hunted."

Harding grunted, "Sounds like he's got a pop in the area."

"Sure. No clue what that is, but my point is he doesn't need to know,” Gregor pushed, leaning forward over the tabletop. “He just goes out and fights for it. He dies and logs off every night. But he doesn't care about being optimized, he just wants to be engaged. He keeps fighting."

"Sounds like you're saying our lives are repetitive and boring because we chose that," Harding skeptically stated.

Gregor shrugged and finished his drink. "Yesterday, I helped finish fulfilling a contract to get a new guild resupplied. All sixteen players have been out there slowly doing a dungeon. They're camping atop the thing like it's a gold mine, like they’re staking their claim. Every night they fight downward until they hit a stand still, then they retreat and log for the night. The next night they log in and do it all over again."

"Well that sounds like a great deal for them. They just ran out face first and it happens to be working out," Harding sardonically barbed. "But magic isn't really available, there's essentially no healing, and fighting is hard, monsters are limited, and so much more."

And death is so extreme.

"Why does it have to be easy,” challenged Gregor. “Are they learning to fight properly? No. But they are fighting. And they can always learn more later if they need it.”

Harding didn’t know what to say to that so he remained silently peeved. With whom, he did not know. Gregor had points, but he refused to believe it was that simple.

"So maybe sitting in the city is how we imagined something different having to be, so that's what we've crafted for ourselves,” Harding summarized with skepticism. “Maybe they weren't looking for something different and they acted and are experiencing?"

Harding felt a little anger at Gregor. He was his friend, they were supposed to be out there together. But instead Gregor was nowhere to be found, having adventures without him. Then again, he'd been sidetracked too.

Maybe he's right, I created this life. I followed fate instead of guiding it.

Harding sighed and ate a few more of the puffs. They were bland, but crisp and salty. They were nothing to be excited about and yet he kept eating them. They nursed their medieval sports drink, more due to flavor than being lost in their own thoughts.

Eventually, he asked, "So you're saying that maybe the problem isn't the game, but that we were given freedom to do what we want and we don't know what to do with it?"

"Or that we have freedom of action but we aren't free from our own expectations? I don't know, I'm not a philosopher, I'm an accountant,” admitted Gregor.

Harding chuckled. "Fine. So we get active, yeah? We go out and we- what do we do?"

Gregor laughed. "Right? And we’ve ended up at the start again, unsure."

What the hell, it is just a game.

"So let's just pick something?"

"I want to start my own business," admitted Gregor. "It's something I want to do, but I'm not… I can't right now. But, in this game, I could."

"That sounds.. Great," Harding lied in well-meaning support.

Gregor confessed his hesitation, "Yeah, but it doesn't really work well for grouping and adventures."

"It could,” Harding suggested, eating another handful of puffs. He had no idea why he was still eating these. “You need stuff to sell and people to sell to and… business stuff."

Gregor was noncommittal in body language. He asked, "What about you?"

"I don't know."

"Yeah, that's the conversation- figuring it out instead of just coasting and waiting."

"I need to learn to fight."

"Ok, sounds good. Then what?"

"I want to figure this natural magic stuff out? I mean, it has to have a reason right?"

"You're arguing there is a reason for the way Life works?"

"Yeah. Crazy right? But the people I know in a big guild say they screwed up by not paying attention to it earlier."

Gregor eyed him, a familiar expression to Harding. He was plotting. “Ah, which guild exactly?”

"The Eights, why?"

Gregor shrugged, "Could be useful later."

"So learn natural magic. Learn to fight. Sounds like a lot of learning and that’s what you're currently doing while saying there isn't enough action."

"Yeah. I just- I guess I want to get out there. See the world? Beat up the bad guys. You know?"

"I bet your temple has a cellar full of rats…"

"Har har."

They sat quietly for a moment, listening to the muted din of the pub around them. These were things they’d avoided, in game and out. Their hesitations persisted despite the desire to move past them.

Gregor broke the silence, "So the question is how are we going to do it?"

"You need capital and what, contacts and contracts?"

"Yep,” he nodded. “And you need… kung fu."

"I hate you," laughed Harding.

They had a few more laughs and finished their drinks before going on their own little adventure of sightseeing the town. They visited the Cathedral of Alexander IV, the massive and ornate home of the Ayr kingdom priests of the Church of the Seven.

They saw the Mage's college which was not a tower as Harding had imagined it. In fact it was a block of drab office buildings with a poorly maintained veneer. While they offered tours, no one apparently went on them. There were less painful ways of inducing mind crushing boredom.

The Castle and Manor of the Crown were somewhat visible, but held behind sturdy walls and strict men. There were no tours of its galleries or viewing of its manicured grounds. Still, there was an overlook from some ways away and they visited it.

"It seems so peaceful," commented Gregor while viewing the serene lawns. "You'd never know that the current chaos was happening."

Stolen from its rightful place, this narrative is not meant to be on Amazon; report any sightings.

"Chaos," piqued Harding, looking up at Gregor while shielding his eyes against the descending sun.

"You don't follow the happenings or politics do you," guessed Gregor.

"I meditate. For like, half the day."

"Well, maybe poke your head up occasionally? Things might affect you."

"Like what?"

"The King died at the end of beta. His daughter, now the Queen, took over," explained Gregor.

Harding shook his head. The timing was appallingly blatant, but that's how things worked with most monarchies. "So?"

"She immediately moved to add a new currency of the Kingdom," explained Gregor. When Harding lacked a comprehending response he added, "Previously, all currency was Imperial. There are now two competing currencies in Ayr. And all the economic and political tensions that come with that."

"Which is why the coins make no sense," realized Harding out loud. He nearly jumped in excitement. He still needed help from vendors to pay and it was a source of small embarrassment. He was also sure he'd been ripped off a few times and he did not have the coin to spare.

Gregor chuckled. "Yes, the exchange is complex and fluctuating. Completely different number bases. However, that's the simplest ramification of interfering with the economics of a ruling Empire."

Harding shrugged, "She's got a reason, I'm sure."

Gregor sighed with disappointment at Harding’s lackadaisical world view. "The Empire isn't in great shape. Not with the recent military losses and the civil war in Chrylen. However, the real chaos started yesterday when it was publicly admitted that three of the Queen's six ministers are now missing."

Harding raised his eyebrows at that.

"So we could see unrest, Imperial action, market instability, or even war, civil or imperial, and soon," Gregor predicted.

"How do you know all this," Harding sighed in frustration.

Why am I always clueless?

"Gossip and the broadsheets," Gregor answered. Given Harding's flat stare he further elucidated, "Pretty much every Way has people selling big sheets of paper with print on them? You read them to find out things that are happening?"

"You mean Newspapers?"

Gregor laughed. "It always amazes me how you can be so clever and yet so clueless."

"Good genetics and years of practice," promised Harding with a painful smile.

They wandered the city, chatting and laughing. They explored and took notes of entertainment and food events in their journals. In the end, it was an old friendship in new circumstances. Whatever the rocky start here, they would adapt and enjoy it. On their parting they agreed to have a solid and researched plan of action by the following Saturday when they would meet again. They weren't going to be passive anymore, it just would take some time to figure out.

Harding returned to his cell to find a stack of books on his bunk. Tucked into one was a list of other books Brother Richards recommended that the Temple did not currently have. Harding flipped through a few of the books, finding a particular passage pertinent to his present problems:

The subtle tool is the greatest when given over to the hands of the Divine. To be closer to the gods, realize Spirit moves freely. To hold firm in self is our ardor and not its.

Harding took that to mean his spirit was supremely pliable and it was only this concept of his that it shouldn't be that kept him from commanding it. It was easy enough to speculate, but not so easy to change your concept of self on a hunch. Finger in it to keep the page, Harding closed the book and turned it over to read the spine. It read The Sammasana. He shrugged and put the list in at that page as a bookmarker.

At least it isn’t another simple animation…

In his continued effort to do at least an hour of practice before logging, Harding started moving his spirit. Lacking a good target, he focused on trying to flood the room. Each time he focused on one corner, the others would start to slip. Quickly his attempts became a mesmerizing cycle of swirling awareness…

Harding found himself trapped inside a voidseed.

Am I dreaming?

Great waves of light blue light crashed in, passing into the voidseed then sloshing him around as he fought to not drown in his flooding spherical prison.

I can’t be, I didn’t fall asleep.

Each time just before he was submerged some of the light-water would leak out until he was safe, but almost immediately another wave would hit. The waves started coming faster and faster until he couldn't escape it anymore and he was completely submerged.

What the hell is going on?

He was smashed against the godglass wall, tumbling and seething in the wash of the violently turbulent light-water. He was slammed up and through the top of the voidseed into a murky black-violet space dotted with white stars.

This looks like the ISR home screen.

Ahead of him in the blackness a star winked. He watched as the light got closer, now able to see that it was an undulating rainbow rushing towards him. It seemed peaceful at first but he felt rising anxiety as it neared. He started to understand the immense scale and speed of this prismatic serpent of light. The anxiety grew to overwhelming levels just as the light hit him and consumed his mind. It burned through him leaving his mind truly blank until the light left. And when the light left there was only darkness. Darkness and the sense of falling.

A great impact struck him and he woke up face down on the floor. The sutures burned and he felt a little wetness between his scalding skin and the stone floor. Harding groaned, "Fug."

He just laid there against the cold floor for some time. Eventually he got up, made sure everything was hidden from theft and then logged.

The next day Harding logged in, got up and checked the sky to find mid-morning light warming the world in a soft glow. Harding made the conscious decision to not be intimidated. He went back to practicing. If he was going to become more, he needed to master what was in front of him now. The only way forward was through, he wouldn't start by quitting.

Eventually, Harding went to the meal hall for breakfast. There, with his meager meal, he sat in silence and contemplated existence. Shaky still from his experience, he no longer contemplated what he wanted to be but what he truly was. What was a being in this world? There was something to the many selves and the false edges of reality. Every time he got closer to an edge he found he was still in the middle. What changes occurred in him were minute compared to the changes in his perception. Understanding the system of the world brought greater growth than the mechanism of a single action. For instance, thinking about controlling multiple bodies at once tweaked his brain. Yet that was the presented reality. If reality was so malleable then many of his assumptions were wrong. And those assumptions acted as shackles.

But this is only a game, it isn't actually like that, right?

Having no answers and no more stew, his thoughts turned to his future.

As exciting as the arena fighters were, that life didn't seem like him. The structure of such a life appealed, but the very same clear progression and process that it offered also limited him. He could try a guild, but he'd probably just get lost in the organization. He could join a group like the rangers, but they were limited in experience, range, and funding. In every direction he was bound by expectation and existing structure.

The wandering monk route offered the most freedom. Rent was as impressive as he was exhausting, but he had decades more experience than Harding. Surely, he couldn't catch up? That really was the heart of the matter. The seeming impossibility of learning everything and being as capable as Rent. That and the lifestyle wouldn't leave room for Gregor. But while he wished Gregor all the luck, he hadn't really left room for Harding. He'd not been the best, but he had waited. All this had been him waiting for Gregor.

Or is that a lie I tell myself?

Harding turned in his utensils to the kitchen and walked back to his cell to read. The Sammasana provided long winded descriptions and analogies on the properties of spirit. He read for a while, but nothing really stood out to him other than a vague sense that everyone was wrong.

That’s what it means when no one knows, right?

It was Sunday which meant, among other things, that there was no class. Still, at the urging of Sabina, most of the class had agreed to meet in the Sanctuary garden before lunch. The Sanctuary garden was sunny and exhibited a vast array of bright flowers. Sabina and Arnold were already there. Harding had come to consider them the social core of the class. They were the ones that pushed group unity and activities, where Alina and Ed were more likely to go off on their own. Randal had his own thing too, but Harding was more welcome with him.

As he approached, Sabina waved greetings but kept talking to Arnold. Harding sat down with them, but wasn't really listening. Instead, he started to investigate his spirit by staring at the ground and then trying to see himself reach out to that point.

If I could mistake seeing for feeling, could I train feeling to be seeing?

He wasn't a minute into his attempt though when Randal sat next to him. "Alexci fights tomorrow night, you're coming right," he probed.

"For sure," Harding confirmed while nodding. "She's fighting on a Monday?"

"Yeah, she's trying a new bracket. They're hoping she'll increase interest," he added with a smile, clearly proud of his older sister.

They both set about their exercises, what communication was needed between them having been said. The others chatted but didn't intrude.

Brother Roberts came in a few minutes later, walking with Alina, talking quietly with her. When they were close, he motioned her to the group and stepped in front of everyone. "Good morning class," he smiled. "I know there is no class today, but I thought I'd give you a fun non-standard exercise since you were meeting on your own."

"Wait, are you giving us homework," groaned Arnold.

The class booed playfully and Brother Roberts held up his hands defensively. "Nothing of the sort, it’s just bonus work as a reward."

"I don't know, that sounds like homework," ribbed Arnold. Sabina pointed to him and nodded her agreement.

The monk walked to the great tree at the far end of the garden. "As you know, being alive strengthens a being's connection with spirit. Certain lifeforms are more adapted to this energy than others and this type of tree has an especially deep connection with spirit. The exercise is simple, touch your spirit to the tree’s and attempt to learn from it."

And with that he walked to the corner of the garden and sat down on an ornamental boulder ringed with a variety of blue flowers, effectively excusing himself from being a part of their practice. Harding immediately got up and walked up to the tree. With his spirit and not his hand, he reached out and touched the tree. Again he tried to see his spirit, but nothing was visible.

As most plant life seemed to have a puddle of spirit, Harding expected a shimmering pond of energy. Instead, he got a deep ocean. His breath caught at his massive capacity of the tree's spirit body, a reservoir of spirit that blotted his senses and bludgeoned him senseless. Harding pressed himself further, like a child in an aquarium leaving handprints on the glass. Peering deep into the tree he looked for answers to the mysteries of the spirit body. Intellectually, he knew it was just a tree. Yet, disappointingly, he got nothing from it beyond the being lost in the expanse of its reserves.

Harding pushed harder.

He was about to give up finding only more depth when he felt a subtle cohesion between his spirit and the tree’s. Like a suction seal of water, his spirit body was pulled to the tree. Attempting to pull back only tightened the crushing grip. Unable to free himself and fueled by a sudden anxiety, Harding pushed back. He forced his spirit through the barriers between the spirit bodies, pumping out all his spirit at the tree in a desperate attempt at escape.

It didn't work.

Faint whispering grew in Harding’s head, a murmur of some distant crowd speaking a foreign language. Fairly certain it wasn't with his ears that he was hearing, he thought at the tree, "Hello?"

Harding instantly felt foolish.

He had no idea how to communicate with a non sentient being. Still, he could recognize his own spirit, his classmates' spirits, even Brother Roberts'. It stood to reason that the spirit reflected something about its being. If the spirit was the path of the divine, being the construct through which the divine interacted, then shouldn't it essentially be labeled?

How would such a label be read?

Harding touched and thought, "Who?" It wasn't truly a question any more than it was a command, more like tasting by smell. Harding heard in his head words he didn't understand, they almost sounded latin. Yet, as unintelligible as it whispers were, it left a clear impression: 'Tree. Spirit, Mature, Large.'

Harding retreated spiritually, then tried again, this time tasting deeper this new frontier. He felt the spirit, its own indescribable name, even its location in the world. There was yet more there, hungry for knowledge he pushed harder. Deeper he delved into the tree's being, pushing against the mental current into its very structure. Penetrating the spirit body without direction or purpose he thrashed about trying to find what could be found. Harding felt the form of a gate, and another, and another… gate after gate he moved within the tree's spirit. Deeper and deeper, feeling the form of godseeds within some gates as he passed through it and along the clear conduit of power between them.

Spirit surged and Harding rushed through the passage born on a geyser of power to be ejected from the tree. He cried out with the sudden excruciating pain. Putting his palms to his eyes, Harding gasped as the pulsing pain tore apart his concentration. It felt as if someone had smashed him in the head, the force delivered straight into his brain.

The pain was loath to recede, clinging to his agonized nervous system.

Holy shit, is this a curse?

He looked around through streaming tears. Brother Roberts motioned for him to come to him. Harding got up shakily, then carefully walked over to the monk.

"Going into a more powerful spirit has consequences,” counseled the monk.

"But you told us to," whispered Harding, trying to not sound like he was whining.

Brother Roberts smiled softly, "You were supposed to knock politely, Harding. Not try to kick down the door and pillage the place."

"It's just a tree," moaned Harding.

Brother Roberts chuckled, "That tree has greater spiritual energy than you. In fact if it had intellect it would probably be a godling. And you now suffer for your disrespect."

Smarting, Harding accused, "You knew this would happen."

"I knew it could happen,” he nodded. “I hoped my students would show respect and some subtlety."

Harding just stood there, rubbing his forehead though it didn't really help.

The monk shook his head. "You'll be ok," he assured. "Go to the Lunar garden, press your forehead to the stones in the heaviest shade and empty your mind. Give it time and it will pass."

Harding did so, walking out of the one garden and through the temple to the other. With his eyes still watering he went into the darkest shade by the pool and knelt down, pressing his forehead to cold stone. Harding had no idea if these stones were magical, but they were firm and cold and it felt like an ice pack. He just stayed still like that, on hands and knees, forehead against stone.

As he was finally starting to feel slightly better when a familiar voice asked, "Practicing communion or seeking lunch?"

Harding turned his head sideways to look over. There was that magical hart again, standing astride the plant life and chewing on Brother Rodney's prize winning Midnight Lilies. Harding asked, "Rent?"

"I know you're young and foolish, but you do know that you can't eat that stone," the hart questioned.

Harding rolled his eyes and regretted it immediately. That was definitely Rent.

"Heard you got personal with the local quercus spiritus," commented Rent. "She plays a little rough."

"You're not funny."

"You're just sour that she kicked you in the mental junk."

"Don't you have something better to do," Harding pleaded.

"You're right, those Tidewater shrubs do look ripe and delicious," he said with disturbing excitement. The hart lazily moved to a new section of the planted garden, as if stalking a flight-prone prey.

Harding gave up on Rent, instead moving to a neighboring stone to press his forehead to the colder surface. His headache seemed to have worsened since Rent had revealed himself.

"Uhm, Brother Rent, can I ask a serious question," Harding asked quietly.

"Sure," Rent replied with a full mouth.

How does he speak as an animal without the appropriate biology? And why does his mouth sound full of it isn't the hart's?

Shaking the distracting thought, he requested, "Can I be your apprentice? Or whatever they call it. I want to learn more than just this, I want to see the world instead of just Brother Rodney's shrubs."

"It is good that you've decided your path, but you're not ready," Rent decreed.

Harding sighed. The answer, while annoying, was not a no. He asked, "What do I have to do to be ready?"

"Mmm…" groaned Rent, "these are amazing, you should try some."

Harding pulled away from the stone and stood upright, the sudden movement flaring renewed pain he fought to ignore. Rent destroyed the bushes like they were a buffet, heedless of Harding walking along the edge of the water. As he got nearer, Harding complained, "I'm serious, I'm ready to, ah, be ready."

The stag looked over at him and smiled widely. The decidedly human expression proved disturbingly unnatural on an ungulate's face. Rent morphed instantly, but instead of being a man he was something else. It was a haunting form Harding didn't know.

Normally short and stocky, Rent now stood easily a foot taller than Harding. His body was thin, limbs thinner and elongated. He wore the Okkor blue robes, but his head was a great antlered skull of bleached bone. The eyes were a hypnotic black, not empty though but as if they were portals to space itself. The inverted infinite depth of those portals leaked a thin trail of black goo so thick it was nearly a paste as it crept down the cheeks of bone.

The form's presence thrummed with a rapidly pulsing energy. It could have been the headache, but Harding threw up a little in his mouth with the rippling reality. When it spoke, it spoke without sound. Ideas slid over his mind and deposited concepts both ambiguous and absolute. Reverberating in his mind, a blurry thought coming into focus, a distinct impression was formed.

"Be not afraid. With certainty is the reaping. Stray not, let not your harvest wither. Soon you will die."

Harding lost his balance and fell backwards. It felt as though he was falling from a great height and yet when he splashed into the pond it was clear it couldn’t have been. He scrambled out of the pond, soaked and clawing his way out. Brother Rent stood there as the hart, chewing and watching Harding with those big black eyes.

"What the fuck was that," Harding angrily demanded.

The Rent-stag blinked and, mouth half full, asked, "What was what?"

"That, that thing, whatever you did to me with the, the, the pictures in my head, those eyes and…" Harding was mentally stumbling. Too much had awakened in his mind in those few seconds for him to make coherent sense of it.

The Rent-stag continued to blankly watch him struggle with his thoughts before finally suggesting, "Don't chew the cactus in the Solar garden anymore, it messes with your head."

"I didn't. Be serious."

"I am being serious, those flowers give vicious trips."

"I mean about that thing."

"What thing?"

"With the antler skull and the space eyes…"

"Kid," Rent-stag cautioned, his voice taking on a serious tone, "I don't know what in the giant, juicy, divine sandwich you're chewing on, but I did nothing. If your reality warped enough to see something, you're pulling on a seriously heavy thread. One you're not ready for."

Rent fluidly shifted back to human and stretched. He paused for a moment to dig at his teeth with his tongue before addressing Harding again. "I'm headed out again for a while, but I'll return in time. Be ready by then if you're serious about learning from me."

Rent paused and added, "Also, you're muddy."

He took a step, stopped, and added again, "Also, I'm serious about not eating those cacti." And with that he turned and walked out of the garden whistling, while Harding sat at the pond edge and stared in exasperation.

He never told me how to be ready…

Alone and with no other purpose, Harding went back to his cell to change. He took his time, but returned to the Sanctuary garden to catch up with his classmates. He found that his fellow students’ practice had devolved to chatting once more.

"It's pretty crazy, it's been a week and we have really only learned one skill," complained Arnold.

"That's not true Arnie, it has barely been three class days. And, we have learned multiple uses of a single skillset," corrected Sabina. "It is slow, but it's not that slow."

The class sat around the garden for another hour, discussing the topic of spirit, the game and anything else until another class started coming in. They took that as their cue and left. The classes rarely commingled. They barely even interacted with any other monk other than their teacher. There was something about the temple life, some urge to isolate.

It kind of feels unnatural here. Are they even real? Does Brother Roberts even exist if no one looks for him?

There had to be at least thirty monks at the temple. Brother Richards had said only two new classes on launch day, but Harding felt like there were at least three students to every monk at the temple.

Something is wrong in the temples.

As the group left the meal hall, Harding stopped chewing on the strangeness of the place. Brother Rodney’s angry yelling echoing in the hallways was becoming so commonplace the group ignored it. Both were just other mysteries that solving wouldn't help him advance. He needed to focus. Between Gregor and Randal, he felt almost embarrassed at his lack of progress.

The day’s practice group broke up at the base of the hill. Sabina and Arnold headed into Old Market, while Randal turned to the Mill district destined for the Grinder. Harding felt aimless and wandered. He needed to make decisions and that meant not focusing on the immediate.

As he neared the Rivergate, he spotted Lon Kioski, sitting near the guards. This time, he had brought a mat to sit on to keep his robes clean.

Harding gave him a nod and called, “Hey Lon, what’s up.”

“Greetings, young Harding,” responded the monk with a broad smile. The monk looked exactly as he had in the tutorial, but somehow Harding felt like the monk was happier not doing the tutorials.

“I have got a question for you,” Harding said, looking around to see if others were listening. There was something that made dealing with Kioski fundamentally personal no matter the question.

Lon kicked an empty collection cup suggestively, “Then they will not hear what we say.”

I have to pay for help?

“Not free anymore,” asked Harding, one brow raised.

“Payment is a type of intent, a fundamental basis for magic. In this instance it represents your intent to engage in private conversation,” explained the system monk.

Harding nodded, following the concept.

Kioski coughed lightly, “The cup remains empty…” It was unclear if Lon meant Harding had yet to pay or that he didn’t make much. Harding tossed in a coin.

“Excellent. Please continue,” said Lon, but his voice was way too clear and crisp to Harding, like the monk was speaking in his head.

“Creepy Lon, very creepy.” Harding paused before asking, “I want to learn to fight, but I don’t want to leave the temple. What should I do?”

Kioski answered, “I am unable to predict success. However, I can inform you if an option is viable."

"That's ok. How do I get a list of part-time associations that teach combat,” asked Harding.

“Restricted," declared this monk. "You would have to develop your own or trust a non-system source. It is not ours to divulge the activities or existence of associations.”

“Secret associations, huh? Cool, like assassins and such?”

Lon Kioski starred in pointed silence.

“Ok, thanks for the info Lon.”

“My pleasure,” replied the Great Kioski.

Harding walked to the Rivergate ranger station. While curious how they were doing, he had ulterior motives. They essentially acted as an NPC check against dungeon overgrowth, which meant their skillset was probably optimized for that game play.

"Can I help you," Walt mumbled from behind the desk, not bothering to look up at him.

"Is Captain Milton in," Harding asked.

"Nope."

"Sergeant Bresburg?"

"Nope."

"What about Isobel?"

"Yeah."

"Thanks."

Harding walked through the door and back to the mission ready room. He found Isobel changing, though she was covered in bandages.

"Woah, sorry," Harding apologized, flush with embarrassment at his faux pas.

She scoffed, "Whatever, I spend days at a time in the woods with five guys."

Harding smiled softly, glad to be released from any wrongdoing. He hadn't really thought about what her life must be like in that group. He had imagined their patrols to be just short jaunts, not the majority of their time outside the walls. "That must be tough, how do you do it," he asked.

"How do farmers do it?"

"What do you mean?"

"Farmers. They live on farms, relatively isolated and outside the protection of city walls. They don't have the immediacy or variety we have either. And they're out there most of their lives. Yet we eat because of them."

"I guess, yeah, good point," he concurred. "I came to see how you were doing."

"What, this," she asked while pointing to her previously damaged eye. Harding looked carefully. Her previously green eye was now a strong blue color. The skin on that side of her head wasn't as tan as the rest of her either. She'd cut her pale red hair down to a fingers width in length, just making the transformation all the more pronounced.

"Woah," Harding gasped. "What did that?"

She sighed and returned to getting dressed. "You mean the poll on a troll's ax hitting me and breaking my eye socket out, or that the replacement healing is different than my body," she asked.

"Yeah, that," Harding responded, honestly fascinated by both.

"Meh," she shrugged. "Can't change either."

"I'm just glad you're alright," expressed Harding.

"Oh," asked Isobel sardonically. "Why, are you sweet on me?"

"No," replied Harding hastily. He conscientiously looked away, realizing he was still examining her abnormal facial tan line, "I just feel kinda guilty, like it was my fault you were out there to begin with."

"As rangers, we would have been out there eventually. Unless adventurers cleared it out before us," she concluded as she finished pulling on and lacing her shirt.

Harding shifted his feet and looked around the room, still uncomfortable with just standing there and watching her dress. "How does that work anyways, dungeons spawning and adventurers clearing them?"

"I forget sometimes the new people haven't been around as long as the rest of us. Here's the really quick breakdown," she said, gearing up to teach.

"Basically, natural animals breed as a living population and can be managed as such. They’ve got biological needs you can predict,” she explained as she sat down and began pulling on her tall boots.

As she laced her boots she continued her explanation, "Monsters don’t do any of that, they’ll spawn in pops or from entities and then, maybe, wander off for who knows what reasons."

She was quiet as she finished lacing and Harding waited wordlessly. Finished, she looked up from her seat and shrugged her indifference, "We go around, check the pops, investigate sightings. If no players are around, we clear it and move on while it resets."

"And what do your team members do when you're not on," Harding wondered.

"It's weird? They seem to not notice and will be fine if I'm partying with them." She stood and buckled her sword belt. "Totally different from being with players. I was an Imp for awhile, that stuff you set up a camp and then log together, but anyone still on is on their own."

"You were an Imp? Why'd you leave?"

"Didn't like the guild stuff."

Harding didn't pry, he already knew the ups and downs of guild life.

"I need training, suggestions?"

She smirked before it morphed into a lopsided scowl. "Meh. Different groups train for different needs with different gear. Unless you have a really elite trainer, quality is mostly about you," Isobel stretched, winced and sighed. "You gotta be dedicated if you want to be good, but dedication alone won't get you there. You have to think and adapt to it, challenge yourself and your training."

Isobel looked pointedly at the door and Harding got the message. She had things to do and his noob questions weren't among them. He thanked her and turned to go when she suddenly asked, "Oh, you're a Spiritualist right?"

Harding looked at her and nodded suspiciously.

“Can you seal gates yet,” she asked, a slight edge of hope bleeding through.

Harding admitted, “Not yet, why?”

“I know a couple people looking for a Spiritualist to do some work for them. That’ll be the best way for you to monetize your skills,” she dutifully informed him.

Magical help desk. This exchange feels familiar…

“I've heard that and I do need the coin, I'm just not there yet. Thanks again.” He waved and left the station towards the market.

Harding made a brief stop at a haberdashery as the idea of a functional hat seemed beneficial. He could not find one that didn’t look silly on him though and he was no Gregor. Finally, Harding bought a dozen sweet rolls from the Bres-Morain Bakery. He had found nothing else of value, so he might as well bring a treat home for the class.

Walking back he felt a tug on his robes. He looked down to find a small girl in dirty clothes looking up at him. She held out her tiny hand, palm up but did not utter a word. Looking her over, Harding noticed her wide set eyes, overly large and slightly protruding dark eyes. Her little mouth turned down in a pout. Harding thought she was a beggar, but was unsure what he was to do. He asked, "What's your name?"

"Sa-man-tha," she replied, annunciating every syllable like they were individual words.

"You hungry," he asked, immediately feeling like a fool.

She nodded.

With little else to offer, he calmly suggested, "Here," as he brought forward the bag of sweet rolls. As he was opening it up to withdraw one for her, she grabbed the whole bag and rummaged through it. Harding smirked, she was looking for the perfect roll.

Samantha pulled out a roll, sniffed it and took a big bite. "Mmm," she appreciated with exaggeration. Her eyes didn’t show enjoyment though, they remained passive as they watched him. Harding started to reach out for the bag as she had retrieved a roll already when she turned and took off with the whole thing down the alley.

Nope.

Harding wasn't doing the dim alley thing. Not again.

He was forced to accept his losses and continue on. Harding returned to the temple empty handed, but was quickly distracted as he found a simple sack tucked under his bed. In the sack was a note, a book and an ornate metallic sphere. The book was bound in simple leather and branded with a double hexagram. It was a full sized book, nearly two fingers tall, but didn’t even have a title page. The sphere was an odd thing, slightly larger than a godseed, made from orange enameled steel and some other metals Harding couldn’t readily identify in filigree. The enamel itself was covered in scrollwork of symbols unknown to him as well. Finally, he picked up the note and broke the unadorned wax seal. He noted the smell of the wax, as if aromatic oils had been mixed with it. The note read:

> Keep these secret!

>

> The Szaktaa is banned by the Wizard's college, all Temples, and declared heretical by the Church of the Seven. Such is the state of the world, that the clearest instruction on Spirit comes from a Phirisian magus writing down his conversations with an uneducated cannibal. Read it daily.

>

> The seedcrypt is a lockbox for extremely rare godseeds harvested from Tyrants. Don't worry that it's Kasagonian, it is empty. However, people will assume it isn't and covet it. Keep it secret or you will have to defend it. Practice with it daily.

>

> Neither will help you defend yourself. By sunrise of the coming week, report to Master Bradon Sancliff at the Merchant’s Trade Hall in Old Market district. The temple is great, I love the brotherhood, but the temple is not the road. The road can be dangerous.

>

> I will return soon. Have all but the last chapter mastered and the crypt open before I return. Stewardship of these items and mastery of these lessons will determine if you are ready.

>

> -R

>

> ps - I have officially claimed you as my apprentice, so don't even try switching when Sister Sara comes to Gremuth.

Harding scoffed audibly.

Rent just had to be Rent.

Being accepted, however, came with a feeling of validation and success. As chaotic as he was, Rent was a renown Wanderer. A hero, even if he denied it. Despite Harding’s eagerness to dig into the forbidden book, he found himself handling the spherical seedcrypt. It was of amazing craftsmanship, he felt like it belonged in a museum and not in his ungloved hands.

Though he wanted to get started right away, he needed to eat and make a showing of himself to the group. Which meant hiding the forbidden book. He was concerned about what would happen if he was found out. Would failure in this test be permanent or mean being kicked out of the order if a monk found out? Rent had dropped on Harding stewardship over a forbidden book and a divine relic, as well as teaching himself magic and fighting. And all while having to keep up appearances at the Temple.

It would be just like Rent to throw me into the literal fire.

He hid both the book and sphere in his stack of books, figuring under the bed mat would be the first place someone would look. As he strolled down the hall, he realized his life was about to get a whole lot more complicated. His simple life here had ended, a new one was beginning. He could choose between being afraid or innervated.

Harding was tired of fear.