Perks could be saved, so if Damien didn't use up any perk slots before level fifty, he could take the [Runic Embroidery] boost ten times immediately after selecting the feat. Each one would give a five percent multiplicative boost, for a total of sixty-two-point-nine percent. An amount that could be exceeded with a mere two perks for someone at Shigeo's tier, or even Fleta's, but that wasn't important right now.

Using [Runic Embroidery] to boost perk effectiveness would have a base effect of five percent, which would become a little over eight percent with the perk boost. That would boost the five percent per perk to five-point-four, for a total of sixty-nine-point-three. But that was more or less the end of it. No matter how many new items he created, the boost never quite reached seventy percent. So much for being a cheat; it was equivalent to only two perks of a tier seven.

What about at the level cap? Damien repeated the calculation, finding it to converge at a little over a two-hundred percent boost to the effect of [Runic Embroidery]. Nothing to sniff at, but it was hardly the infinite power he was hoping for, and it would consume all twenty of his perk slots.

Another calculation showed that he would need thirty-three perk slots for the feedback loop to diverge, but there was no known way to get more perks. You gained one slot per five class levels, and that was all. It would still require twenty-five perks even if [Runic Embroidery] was a skill instead of a feat, so a [Neophyte Alchemist] was closer, but still couldn't reach the breaking point. Damn, was this idea a dead end, then? He couldn't stack multiple items with the same effect, so it wasn't as if he could manufacture multiple items of clothing with the same magic circle and wear them all.

No, wait. That wasn't quite right. You could use multiple items with the same effect, as long as the source was different. A potion of perk enhancement from the aforementioned [Neophyte Alchemist], for example. And could [Runic Embroidery] stack with [Runic Engraving]? Damien hurriedly scratched out more numbers, finding that at level fifty it would make surprisingly little difference, the trio of classes working together achieving a boost that didn't quite reach ninety percent. At level one hundred, though, the sequence diverged. In fact, it would only require level ninety. Infinite power was an actual possibility!

Actually, it was even better than that. Thanks to [Neophyte Alchemist] getting an improved multiplier over level fifty thanks to [Alchemy] being a skill instead of a feat, it only required level eighty. In fact, that extra boost was enough that it was possible even without a [Neophyte Smith], but it would require level ninety-five.

Perhaps it would even be possible solo, if there was an appropriate feat at level one-hundred. Something that boosted perk multipliers? It would be a stretch, but high-level feats could get a bit weird.

Even the best-case option of level eighty was still high, though. Would it help to get a starter boost from a higher tier crafter? No; even if the base effect of a better enchanting feat was higher, the perks were more than enough to make up the difference.

So, that was a potential plan. Find a pair of tier one co-conspirators and raise everyone's levels to eighty. The dragon would have plenty of materials for alchemists and smiths alike, so would be a great start for power levelling. If his parents could source a few high-powered experience boosting items, the dragon alone would probably take everyone over level fifty. He'd need to calculate that, too, and work out how long reaching the required levels would take. If it would take a century of solid crafting, the plan would be a non-starter.

What was the limit on experience boosting items, anyway? A tier ten individual—of which there hadn't been any examples since the war of the rifts but who were presumably possible—who spent all twenty perks on boosting an experience enchantment would give... well over three-thousand times experience. Impressive, but not exactly world breaking, given the ridiculous requirements. Someone at tier six and level fifty, who spent a couple of perks on it, would only give a forty-two percent boost. Sure, it was better than nothing—even a five percent boost would be considered valuable—but it wasn't going to cut the time taken to carry out a plan from decades to months.

Unfortunately, Damien didn't have all the figures required to work out timescales. Despite the veritable library in his bedroom that his parents' overeager education had left him with, there was no catalogue of the items he could produce. The skill itself granted some level of knowledge, but he needed to know exact tiers, material requirements, production times and experience rewards. He'd need to visit an actual library to find that information. Or maybe another tailor. A task for later; between the politics and the thing that had invaded his ceremony, he had no intention of leaving the house until his father returned.

Of course, something else that could doom the plan was the existence of caps or other safety nets. It assumed that an enchantment or potion could be arbitrarily powerful. It may turn out that the perk boost capped at a hundred percent, for example. Such a cap had never been documented, but what sort of idiot would have previously considered taking sixteen copies of the same perk?

... Anyone who had a tier one class, had read this book and come to the same conclusion, for a start. Damien couldn't be the first, surely? Something to think about later.

His maths session completed to his satisfaction, Damien returned downstairs.

"Finished with your research already?" asked Fleta. "Did you find anything?"

"Maybe. I need to find a tier one [Neophyte Smith] and [Neophyte Alchemist] who haven't taken any perks yet. If we all get up to level eighty, we could theoretically make infinitely powerful potions and enchanted items. I'll need to reserve some more of that dragon for them."

Fleta looked as taken aback as one might expect at such a ridiculous claim. "Even if that's true, it'll take far more than one dragon to get that high. You know me and your father are only in our low eighties, right?"

"Yes, but you both have a big pile of skills, some of which have stupidly specific requirements for use, and it's not every day you bump into a dragon and have a chance to practise them. Whereas—given a supply of fabric and thread—I can grind forever."

The tale has been illicitly lifted; should you spot it on Amazon, report the violation.

Fleta sprouted a small pout. "We could go sailing to the Isle of Mist, you know. We just couldn't bear to be separated from you for so long."

Damien grinned at the poor excuse. Some people did indeed try visiting the Isle of Mist to fight against the endless sea of monsters that dwelt there. The few that returned were the ones that realised what a foolish idea it was before getting out of sight of the shoreline.

Or perhaps there was some hidden paradise in the middle of the island, so wonderful that no-one ever wanted to leave?

Damien's musings were interrupted by the door slamming open, Shigeo storming in with an expression of thunder.

"What's wrong?" asked Fleta.

"Someone got there before me. It wasn't his brat, and I made it perfectly clear the only reason that waste of space still has any limbs is because a palace representative stepped in, but he'd already heard a rumour that we'd destroyed one of Gaia's shrines while fighting the dragon, and that the Five had punished us by giving Damien a crap class."

"Well, that's disturbing... Who told him that?"

"He refused to say. Damn inconvenient time for the Earl to grow a spine."

"What's so disturbing about that? Why would anyone spread a rumour that's so easily falsifiable?" asked Damien, getting another sheepish look from his father in return. "Wait, you did smash up a shrine?!"

"The dragon did, but we gave the locals some money to get it rebuilt! It's not like either of us had the masonry skills to do it ourselves. And we left a generous donation to Gaia's temple when we got back here. That has nothing to do with today."

"The disturbing part is that someone knew."

"Someone was spying on you fighting the dragon?"

"Not necessarily. They could have passed through after we did and got the information from the locals. The fight wasn't exactly subtle. But the fact remains they took a half-truth and wrapped a plausible rumour around it, and acted so quickly, too..."

"I hate bloody politics," muttered Shigeo.

"No, you love bloody politics," responded Fleta with a small grin. "It's the vocal kind—where you aren't allowed to punch everyone—that you can't stand."

That poor joke was enough to elicit a small chuckle from the grumpy warrior, and to reassure Damien that the situation wasn't as dire as it could be.

"Right, I'm going to visit our tailor, unless you think I shouldn't be outside of our wards alone."

"Huh? Why?" asked Shigeo, having missed the earlier conversation. "It's not as if he'll take you as an apprentice."

"I need more information to decide how to best grind my [Tailoring] skill."

"No-one will touch you while we're in town, I can promise you that," said Fleta. "But I'll walk part way with you anyway; I need to visit the guild to contact the dismantler, and I'll put out a request for those other crafters."

"Oh? Sounds like you two came up with some plans while I was out?"

"Yeah, but I'm going to need some teammates, and get us all to level eighty."

Shigeo blinked a few times in silence, before breaking out not into a small chuckle, but a massive belly-laugh. "Well, I can't fault your ambition, kiddo," he managed between the guffaws. "Here. This'll help."

He removed a thin bracelet from his wrist, tossing it to Damien, who looked at it in confusion. "It'll slightly more than double your experience gain," Shigeo clarified.

"Would it be cheeky to ask for two more?"

"I give you one of my prized possessions, and you ask for more?" gasped Shigeo in mock outrage, chasing a laughing Damien out of the door. Fleta followed him with a smile, walking gracefully and yet somehow not falling at all behind her sprinting child. The benefit of proper skills and feats.

He soon slowed down, however. "Is it just me, or is everyone staring more than normal?" he whispered, feeling the gazes of the masses on him. Attracting attention while walking with his parents was normal, but it was normally focused on the famous adventurers, rather than him.

"Do your best to look proud, not guilty," advised Fleta.

Damien sighed, but did his best to walk tall and upright towards the port. Thankfully, it wasn't hard to not look guilty; he had nothing to be guilty about.

Despite his fears, none of the townsfolk had heard rumours of Gaia's shrine. Most hadn't even heard anything about him being tier one. All that was widely known was that he'd been able to walk through the barrier after the ceremony of paths, which was to be expected, given that he'd done it in front of the entire crowd of spectators. It was enough to cause surprise, and let everyone know he was tier four or below, but nothing beyond that.

The adventurers' guild was on the seafront in the middle of the town's port, while their regular tailor was set a few streets further back, where property was cheaper and a small business was more viable. The extra foot traffic of the port would mean nothing if the shop couldn't keep up with the demand it would bring.

Damien pushed down his nerves as he split from Fleta, heading down a road leading away from the seafront. It galled him he was worried about walking around town. This place had been his home all of his life. It was safe, friendly and peaceful. And now, a few words from some random servant sent by the palace and a rumour fed to the Earl, and the feeling of the place had changed completely. He felt like he was walking through hostile, monster-infested territory, and that something was going to jump out at him any second.

Nothing did, and he pushed open the door to their local tailors, the bell signalling his arrival with a tinkle.

"Hi. Can I help you?" asked a young girl, still classless, but old enough to play the role of receptionist and reduce the number of distractions facing the real workers. She was sitting on a tall stool, her legs nowhere near long enough to reach the floor, and swinging idly instead. She was also wearing a pure white, frilly dress even a noble wouldn't be ashamed of.

Not just a receptionist, but also an advertisement. That was why the stool was so high; to give customers a good view.

"I was hoping to talk to Edward, if he's available," answered Damien.

"You want dad? I'll go check if he's busy," she answered, hopping down from her stool and vanishing through a doorway in the back.

A minute later, she returned with a middle-aged man. Edward, the fourth tier [Adept Clothier]. "Well, if it isn't Damien. Such a shame you didn't get a good class, but I'm glad to see you didn't take it too hard. Now, what can these old bones do for the likes of you?"

"You aren't old," snorted Damien.

"Try telling that to my poor knees."

Edward's daughter, Lucy, jumped back onto her stool, wisely choosing not to pick sides in that conversation.

"As to what you can help with, that's actually related to my class."

Edward raised an eyebrow, not having heard of any combat classes that would need help from a tailor. There were plenty of classes that imposed serious restrictions on what armour someone could wear, and some higher tier classes that gave bonuses when wearing certain styles of clothing, like [Highland Warrior] and their kilts. He didn't know of anything rank four or below that required a specific outfit, though.

"You see, I told the Five that I didn't want success handed to me on a silver platter, and that I wanted to earn it with my own hands, and they took my request to an unexpected extreme."

"Wait, you asked for a class?!" burst out Edward. "And they listened?"

"I didn't ask for anything specific; just for a challenge. And, well, as challenges go, Grungle gave me one hell of a doozy."

"... So, what class have you got?" asked Edward, suspicion finally dawning.

"[Neophyte Tailor]."

A clatter from behind accompanied Lucy falling off her stool. She hit the floor about the same time as Edward's jaw.