Water fell from sopping clothes and hair as he slogged ashore, gasping for breath. They had dropped him from a boat far enough from the beach that he had to swim there.

It had been relatively fine, back floating along when he got tired of actually swimming. Until he noticed a shadow moving below him. He didn't stick around to find out what it was. Instead, he had powered through the last 2 kilometres of the swim. His Skill [Fleeting Dash] was the only thing that got him to shore alive. The Skill allowed him to get out of dodge—an excellent Skill for a [Thief]. He was able to move fast, but only for a brief time.

He spit out seawater as he wiped the salty spray from stinging eyes. His moppy, cinnamon-brown hair was tangled and damp, clinging to his forehead and cheeks.

Rivien was many things: exceptionally handsome, savvy gambler, memorable lover, brazen thief and now, [Exile]. See, he’d snagged a couple nicknacks. A few bobbles, truly. A key and a ruby and gold bracelet that had made his fingers twitch just glancing at it. Ruby always fetched a handsome price. But the owner threw a fuss over the whole thing. Very dramatic.

He got caught out, too, which was how Rivien ended up on Deadman’s Chance. This was the sentence for his crime. The bracelet had been a mistake. He should have left it; he had only been there for the key. Temptation and arrogance in his abilities got the best of him.

Deadman’s Chance was a punishment. He was from Hascea, the ruling city in a region of Olera governed by religious zealots who practised swift and exacting punishment for crime. It might not sound like the best place to be a career criminal, but when he considered the minimal competition and the abundance of stuff to be stolen. Any aspiring [Thief] would swoon at the potential.

Fanatical, they may be, but religion had some benefits for a thief. Benefit one, Ysesite priests forced people to pay astronomical alms, a fancy way of saying taxes. The Sacred Temple of Yses, in Hascea—the centre of Yses worship—quite literally sat on top of an alluring mountain of gold and silver, among other things, which was squirrelled away in the crypt. Besides this being somewhat common knowledge, Rivien had an intimate knowledge of the crypt and coffers because he had planned to use the key to break in and liberate a few select items.

Benefit two, most patron deities were covetous and competitive. Gods and Goddesses urged their followers to adorn effigies, shrines and temples with ornate decoration and precious stones. Yses the Unsullied, most of all, as they demanded only the purest of tribute from their followers. Chills ran down Rivien's spine just thinking of the payout that could be had from dismantling the objects and adornments in the temple’s sanctum alone.

The third and final reason religious cities were the best and most dangerous place for a [Thief] was artefacts. Ysesite Godspeakers, the mouthpiece of Yses’ will, spent vast sums of the gold horde on sending out scouts, adventurers, monster hunters, and the like to investigate rumours of, and collect, enchanted artefacts—powerful magic-imbued objects, each worth a fortune, were sitting ripe for the taking.

Yes, it would be damn near impossible to steal, and that was just the beginning of the problems. Moving the items would be tough. They would be hot. He’d have to lie low for a while. Let the heat die down before he could seek out a fence. But his infamy would be known across the world. Who would dare steal from Yses and risk their wrath?

The Thief of Gods!

The God Thief?

He was still working on his criminal mastermind name, which would be on people's tongues everywhere.

Of course, that's what would happen if he had succeeded. But he was on Deadman’s Chance. He had not succeeded, to the highest degree, and now he was an [Exile].

The Class stripping had been painful. It was a Skill specific to religious orders—and a few other authoritative Classes. Probably better to call it a Class suppression versus a stripping. It was dreadfully painful either way.

If he survived the island, his Class would be restored—yes, even a thief’s Class—and he’d be set free. He’d get a few minutes to collect any belongings, and then they’d ban him from the city and make him someone else's problem.

The thing was, Rivien had every intention of surviving, sneaking back into Hascea, and finishing what he started. He wouldn’t make the same mistakes twice. The rest of his plan had been foolproof. But if he was ever going to get that amulet, he had to make it off the island first.

Said island stretched before him, a vast desolate desert that ran the length of the shoreline towards the island's centre. Desert was only interrupted by a lush, verdant jungle in the very middle. The paradise beckoned to him with its promise of cool shade, water, and food. A respite from the unrelenting heat that beat down upon the desert. But that was also where the danger lay.

He set off in the direction of the jungle. Exposure alone would kill him quickly in the desert. Eventually, he would have to explore the sandstone mountains and dunes that broke up the flat expanse of wavy sand, but it wasn’t a place to start his exile.

It wasn't like he didn't have some ideas to get started. During imprisonment and transport, Rivien had tried to recall all the little tidbits he’d heard over the years—stories from survivors. Gossip. Rumours.

The basics were all he could remember. Make a tool or weapon. There was fresh water inland, but be careful. The jungle was extremely dangerous. A medicinal plant with fuzzy leaves resembling sheep ears was good for making bandages and healing teas. Either learn how to build a snare or how to hunt for food.

He reviewed all this again as he moved across the desert. The gap between him and the jungle didn’t seem to be shrinking. Hours into walking, Rivien’s energy faded. His skin was burnt, and what could have been a pleasant breeze instead whipped sand around, causing it to lash any exposed skin. But he kept moving.

A gust of wind shifted the sand and revealed a skeleton. Bones bleached from the sun. It wasn’t the whole body, just a skull and ribcage, but it unnerved him.

“I need to get out of this sun.”

He glanced at the blazing inferno in the sky. Could he use [Fleeting Dash] again to get to the shelter of the jungle canopy? He tried, but it was still on cooldown—he wasn’t sure his body would survive using the Skill anyway, in his current condition.

The Class reset meant his levels also reset. Getting one of his Skills back was an advantage many exiles did not get, but lower levels meant longer cooldowns.

Walking through sand was nothing like walking on a solid surface like dirt or brick. Sand swallowed his foot with each step he took. Not only did that mean he was using more than double the usual muscle and energy to walk, but scorching sand also filled his shoes each time it went under. Now, his feet were blistering, too.

He could already imagine his bones buried in the sand, waiting to warn the next desperate [Exile] dumped here.

Rivien squinted, looking at the jungle.

“Just a little bit further.”

His vision was waning when he first stepped into the shade of the giant trees. The relief from the sun gave him a small bit of sense back. There were things more dangerous than the elements in the jungle.

With the stealth skills of a highly practised, almost infamous [Thief], Rivien picked his way through the foliage, water the only thing on his mind.

He wandered, silent but aimless. Until he heard a glorious sound. Running water. He pushed through bushes and trees with a renewed sense of purpose, determined to find the source of the noise.

As he got closer, he saw the glimmer of sunlight from rays that broke through the jungle canopy bouncing off the water's surface. Finally, he emerged at the edge of a river, lazily streaming along with a gentle murmur. Rivien felt a sense of relief. Step one complete.

He drank greedily from the river. Threw up from dehydration and the shock to his system. And drank some more. His stomach cramped terribly, but the water revitalised him, giving him the strength, however limited, to focus on what he needed to do next. Find food.

By some stroke of luck, food was readily available. A few varieties of fruit trees grew near the river. He stayed away from the ones he didn’t recognise. They were either poisonous, hence never seeing them at market. Or, they were unknown and, therefore, potentially toxic. Not worth the risk to himself.

“Surely, a banana is safe to eat, though.”

He looked up at the fruit growing near the top of the tree.

Just because the Godspeakers took his Class didn’t mean they took his hours of practice and expertise. Class, level, and Skills made it easier, but he was a halfway decent thief without all that, and the [Purifier] couldn’t take his know-how. His amazing natural ability—if he did say so himself—meant Rivien effortlessly shimmied up the 3.5 metre tree and plucked a few bananas down. Piece of cake.

The [Exile] had successfully located water and a limited food source. He just needed a tool or a weapon—an axe. To protect himself and make collecting resources easier. Then he would rest.

No one had explained how to do it. Little details like that were never a part of the stories. But common sense told him it involved smashing two stones together.

He grabbed the first rocks he saw. They were a rust colour and felt gritty to the touch. And when he started smashing them together, something curious happened. They both began crumbling apart. The rock was sandstone. Not suitable for tool crafting. He tossed the stones down and watched as they crumbled into even smaller pieces from the impact.

“That won't do.”

This time, when Rivien searched for rocks, he looked for one that didn't look like sandstone. Which is how he ended up clanging together two very hard river rocks. The stones left tiny white marks where they hit together but did little else.

He was starting to figure this out, though. What he needed was a mix of the two. A hard rock to break off pieces of a softer one, easier to shape. Not as soft as the sandstone, it still needed to be able to take a few hits. He took one of the hard rocks to use for shaping and then went in search of the perfect rock to make an axe from.

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As he walked along the winding riverbank, he couldn't help but notice the abundance of flint scattered about. Maybe that would be a good rock to try. He smashed one of his hard rocks to the flint, and a piece flaked off with the strike. The flake that came away was as sharp as could be. Flint was the key to making the axe.

The clash of rock on rock produced a loud crack that echoed throughout the jungle. He worried it would attract something, but nothing ever came. Still, the racket was annoying, but Rivien could get over that. The main issue was that every time the hammering rock collided with the piece of flint, shrapnel flew off in every direction.

Rivien’s grip grew increasingly slippery as sharp slivers battered his hands, leaving thin but deep cuts. Blood caused his grip to fail, and he nearly smashed his other hand to a pulp from the slip. Yet, he had to finish it.

The axe was an essential part of his mental how-to-survive list—that he was sort of making up as he went. The list would get him through this setback and back to Hascea. Daydreaming about pulling off the biggest heist in the last decade, maybe century, helped pass the rest of his axe shaping.

Once the head of Riviens axe was complete, an alert softly rang in his mind.

[Exile: Level 2]

[Skill: Basic Crafting]

He’d managed to carve a razor-sharp edge into one of the large pieces of flint. The edge knicked his thumb when he felt at it. As he raised his hand to examine the cut, he realised how mangled his hands were from making the axe. The injuries needed to be bandaged. Then, finally, he could rest.

Rivien took his handy dandy rock, now sporting a chopping-edge, and headed out to look for a plant with sheep ear leaves. It grew abundantly, and he didn’t have to venture far from the spot he deemed his safe zone. He wrapped some of the long leaves around his hands, and maybe he imagined it, but he swore the pain in his hands ebbed just a bit when the bandage was secured.

Watered, fed, and tended to, Rivien found a tree with thick limbs, wide enough to rest somewhat comfortably on. That night, he slept sitting up, his back pressed to the tree trunk. He'd be lying if he said he slept lightly, constantly on alert for danger—exhaustion put him in a heavy slumber.

———

Rivien had had better sleeps in his life, but he had also had worse. That didn’t mean he missed a lovely down bed with a beautiful lady, surrounded by riches, any less. Okay, he had never been surrounded by riches. He was a successful thief. Just not successful enough to be swimming in gold and jewels yet. But when he got off this gods forsaken island…

Bananas were breakfast, lunch, and dinner for the foreseeable future unless he figured out hunting. Rivien was a lover, not a fighter. But even one day on the banana diet was making him crave meat.

“Do I try to make a snare? [Basic Crafting] might help with that. Though, a bow might be more helpful in the interim. I bet with enough practise I could get a bow Skill pretty quick. Yuck, who’d think I’d ever need Skills like these.”

Rivien was a Skill snob. There was no guarantee, but he had consulted the Book of Skills many times and trained to get the Skills he wanted. Sometimes, he got similar Skills instead. Like [Fleeting Dash], it was a lesser version of [Dash], which is what he had been shooting for. Other times, all his practise was for nothing, and he got utterly unrelated Skills on a level up—the worst was when he didn’t get any Skills at all. Some level-ups were plain boring.

He looked at the axe head. It wasn’t feasible for hunting, especially without a handle. So, how did he attach a handle to the makeshift tool?

The search for wood and rope began.

With the new Skill, [Basic Crafting], came vague knowledge. He knew he needed rope to improve his tool, but now he had an inkling of how to make it—almost like a [Survival Sense] Skill but simpler. It only built on basic foundations he already knew, like rope.

Rope was made from stands. That's why it got all stringy when it frayed. He needed something strong but flexible enough to be braided into a single durable rope. So, fibre. Fibre comes from plants. And that’s when the Skill kicked in.

As Rivien surveyed the area, he spotted two promising options for harvesting fibre. The first was a tall, sturdy tree that caught his attention. He felt an inexplicable urge to examine it closer. After a moment of careful observation, he realised that he could collect fibre from under the bark if he could peel it away. He glanced at his little handaxe and knew it wasn’t the right tool for the job.

The second option he noticed was a group of dead plant stalks scattered nearby. As he approached them, he felt a subconscious feeling again and knew he could split the stalks open and harvest the core. Once he had the core, he needed to rub the fibres to remove any debris. Then, he would need to ensure the fibres were dry before he could cord them.

His axe head was able to cut the plant stalks easily, so that was the choice he made. Collecting the stalks was effortless, but the rest was laboursome. And each plant only had so much inside it.

“Only needed…”

He glanced at the substantial pile of discarded plant parts behind him.

“Alot of plants to make some damn rope.”

And it barely even qualified for rope status. More like twine than rope. All of Rivien's laborious efforts for hardly more than a string. But it would do for the makeshift axe.

It took a long time to create a suitable binding and then find a quality piece of wood for a handle, but eventually, the stone axe was complete—an axe, food, and water. Rivien was feeling accomplished. Now, he had a tool he could use to collect resources to make better tools. This [Exile] thing wasn’t too bad. Or maybe he was just that good.

Yes, overconfidence in his abilities landed him on Deadman’s Chance, but it was a hard habit to break. Of course, the few circulating survivors tales helped sober him. And the fact that it had been roughly five years since someone returned from exile. He tried not to dwell on that point.

Deadman’s Chance wasn't a common sentence. Ysesite Godspeakers could pass one of three judgements in Hascea. Execution. Excommunication. Exile.

Excommunication was being kicked out of the city. Since a religious order controlled Hascea, they called it excommunication. Semantics. They didn't consider being kicked out of your home, never allowed to return, a severe punishment. That was getting off easy.

Exile was different. That was the sentence the Godspeakers gave when they felt you needed to learn a lesson and suffer consequences for your actions.

After judgement, Rivien had been brought to the [Purifier]. The first step of exile was to become an [Exile]. They force you into rags and override your Class—he shuddered to recall the agony of having his Class forcefully taken from him.

Next, Hascea guards escorted him to a holding cell, where he had to wait until a transport boat was prepared. Luckily, they fed him, but he’d not be requesting turnip soup at the next restaurant he visited.

When the boat showed up, he was moved into a cage in the ship's hull. Then the [Purifier] revisited him. The Godspeaker had laid a hand on Rivien's head, and as the magic of the Skill washed over him, there was a voice only he could hear.

[Exile: Level 1]

[Skill Reinstated: Fleeting Dash]

If any Skills overlapped with [Exile] Skills, you got to keep them, sort of an exploit in the system. And the only advantage Rivien arrived with.

He had another advantage now. He examined the axe. It should work for hunting weak game that couldn’t outrun him—or chopping down small trees for shelter and fire. Staying in the safe zone wasn’t going to get him far. He needed to venture out. Get the lay of the land. Look for meat.

“The sun won’t be out much longer.”

He grumbled quietly to himself and left the area. Assembling the axe took a large portion of the day. He needed to capitalise on any remaining daylight.

As he ventured deeper into the jungle, the trees grew more tightly packed. Their thick canopies blocking out most of the already dimming sunlight. Sounds came from all around him. The chirping of insects. Animals running through low foliage, rustling giant waxy green leaves. Birds of every colour singing from tree branches. He changed direction when he heard a terrifying predatorial screech far in the distance.

Skulking through the dense, increasingly dark foliage, he noticed movement ahead. Peeking through a barrier of bushes, Rivien saw an enormous jungle cat pacing in a small clearing.

The cat had shiny coal-black fur adorned with intricate red spots that flowed and shifted like molten lava. Thick, stocky muscle rippled and flexed with each step, the beast exuding power. But what truly set it apart from a regular jaguar were the tracks it left in its wake—they seemed to smoke and smoulder as if the very ground was ignited under the cat’s paws.

Rivien fled the area, realising the danger was greater than he could handle. He retraced his path to the safe zone. He’d be eating bananas again for supper, not an exciting thought, but his safety was more important than his appetite.

It was cold that night. He didn’t make a fire for fear of attracting the jaguar or other predators.

———

The axe wasn’t going to get him any meat. His stomach ached—presumably from the banana diet—and letting himself waste away was not on his how-to-survive list.

“I need a bow. An archery Skill would also be well received.”

To Rivien’s great relief, [Basic Crafting] included rudimentary bows. The urge struck him as he thought about making the weapon. The Skill told him he could make the string from the same fibres as the rope. It wouldn’t be very durable, but it would work.

For the wood, he’d need something flexible. He was on the prowl for a sapling before he even realised what he was looking for.

“The axe head is strong enough to chop down a sapling.”

Rivien’s Skill nudged him in the right direction as he gathered materials and assembled the bow.

Basic wooden arrows were the next step. After sharpening the tips of each, he inspected his handiwork. There was nothing pretty about the bow or arrows. But no one was around to see, and this was a matter of life or death.

The new weapon was like a shot of liquor. Boosting him up with unfounded confidence.

He was ready to hunt down that cat. He was hungry. He was cranky. He forgot he only knew the basics of archery. And he was absolutely delusional if he thought he could take on the cat and win. But hunger drives people to do crazy things.

Following the same path, he returned to where he first saw the massive predator. It was pacing back and forth in the small clearing, just as before.

Rivien's heart was pounding in his chest as he approached the spot where the jaguar was waiting. It was unlike anything he had ever seen—its fur was jet black, and its eyes glowed with a fierce orange light. The lava spots and smoking tracks were clear signs that the cat had fire powers of some sort.

The [Exile] had only a crude bow and his axe as weapons. He moved cautiously, trying to stay downwind of the cat so it wouldn't catch his scent.

As he drew closer, he saw the cat crouch low, ready to pounce. His [Thief] Skill, [Silent Step], would have helped him sneak up on it, but lacking that, the beast was alerted to his presence.

Rivien raised the bow and took aim, but before he could shoot, the jaguar unleashed a blast of fiery magic that sent him reeling backwards, dodging the deadly flames.

Rivien stumbled and fell to the ground, his bow slipping from his grasp.

The jaguar advanced on him, its eyes blazing with a vicious intensity. Rivien scrambled to his feet, dodging as the cat lunged at him with razor-sharp claws.

He reached for his axe, but the cat was too quick, swiping it away with a flick of its paw. Rivien knew he was outmatched, but he refused to give up.

Taking a handful of dirt, he flung it in the jaguar's eyes. The beast roared in rage, giving Rivien just enough time to grab his bow and fire an arrow.

Fire was extending across the ground. Spreading from the jaguar's paws. The flame moved quickly, rushing towards Rivien.

The arrow moved quicker. Straight into the jaguar's heart. It was a lucky shot. Nothing more.

The beast let out a final, pitiful yowl as it fell to the ground, the fire magic pulsing in its spots fading away.

Rivien stood over it, panting, covered in sweat and grime, but triumphant.

“Looks like meat’s back on the menu.”

His mouth salivated at the thought. He just needed to figure out how to get it back to the safe zone. And how to prep it. And how to start a fire.