Blake rubbed his temples, fighting off a headache from staring at his status screen. "So let's start with facts. I've got nothing. No levels, no class, no profession."

"Nothing," Eland's voice carried over the electrical hum. "Except those titles you shared with me. You're not quite a blank slate, but you do have a lot of room to start growing."

"Great." Blake closed the screen with a thought. "What's the fastest way to start that growing?"

A shower of sparks cascaded from the power coupling as Eland shifted his grip. His massive frame cast dancing shadows on the wall. "There are two paths forward. The fast way, and the good way."

Blake crossed his arms. "And those are?"

"I'd prefer to start you with true cultivation. Build your foundation properly, develop your understanding of the Aether, and train your mana manipulation from the ground up." Eland's eyes flickered with blue energy. "But given our time constraints and the immediate threats, you should pursue a Class first."

"The difference being?"

"A Class is like training wheels. The System provides structure, clear progression paths, and immediate power gains. True cultivation requires deeper understanding, but the rewards are exponentially greater in the long term."

"Time's not on our side," Blake said.

"No." Eland's shoulders sagged. "It's not."

Blake shifted his weight, muscles tense from inactivity. "Taking a class won't mess up my long-term potential?"

A deep, resonant chuckle echoed through the chamber. Eland's massive frame shook with mirth, causing another cascade of sparks from the power coupling.

"No, my friend. The System exists to help people grow stronger. I prefer teaching the old ways first." Eland's eyes crinkled at the corners. "Think of it like learning mathematics. You can memorize formulas and still get the right answers, or you can understand the underlying principles. Both work, but one gives you a deeper grasp of the subject."

Blake tapped his fingers against his thigh. "Alright, so where do I start? What class should I pick? How do I pick one?"

"That," Eland grunted as he adjusted another connection, "is a question better answered by your new friend. Chimera understands your capabilities and limitations far better than I do at this point."

The symbiote's avatar shimmered into Blake's vision, one paw raised in a wave.

"That makes sense," Blake conceded.

"She's something of an enigma." Eland's nostril slits flared. "I know how much I don't understand about your situation. The nanite suit has integrated with your body and mind in ways I can't fully comprehend. Better to defer to the expert."

"Understood. Can I get you anything before I head out?"

"I'm fine," Eland said, smiling at the perfect moment to allow a ripple of static to flash across his teeth visibly. Blake shuddered, imagining the charge of a 9-volt battery amped up 1000-fold.

----------------------------------------

Blake stepped out of the ship, squinting against the alien sunlight. He found a spot in the shade of a twisted hull plate and sat down, resting his back against the cool metal. A breeze carried the scent of rust and ozone across the junkyard, ruffling his hair.

Chimera's holographic form shimmered into existence next to Blake through the dust motes that danced in the mid-morning sun. Her tail cut lazy arcs through the air as she cocked her head at him. "I'm surprised you've managed to hold your tongue this long about the whole 'third circle' business."

Blake tracked a scrap of metal as it skittered past on the breeze, buying time to organize his thoughts. "Would any explanation make sense to me right now? From what I can tell, there is some hierarchy based on power. One that commands respect. That's enough to follow along."

"That's not a bad way to look at it," Chimera said, her form rippling slightly in the wind. "But we'll need to catch you up on the jargon at some point."

"That some point can be after you explain more about turning me into one of the cool kids with the fancy abilities."

"Well, we'd be a bit further along if you weren't such an overachiever," Chimera complained. "You should have gotten your first level during the fight last night."

"Ok, XP for killing bad guys? Good to know. Why didn't I get it?"

"It's complicated as hell, but we can boil it down to you literally not gaining any experience fighting them." Chimera sighed loudly despite not needing to breathe. "I'm almost afraid to know what kind of life you lead that a night like last night felt routine for you."

"So, my history of violence aside, what's the plan?" Blake was getting a bit tired of constantly looking back at his past. Focusing on the future was healthier.

Blake watched Chimera's tail flick back and forth as her holographic eyes narrowed. "There might be a way to do both. We could work toward Eland's goals while pursuing immediate power."

He raised an eyebrow. "I thought Eland said true cultivation would take too long."

"Eland's working with limited information." Chimera's translucent form drifted closer, her paw passing through a mote of dust in the air. "But I'm integrated with your body. Your core." Her ears perked forward intently. "And you're much closer to taking that first step than he knows."

"Just tell me," Blake said, waving a hand through Chimera's holographic form. "Stop dragging it out."

Chimera's ears flattened against her head. "Fine, but I need to lay some groundwork first. The System isn't what you think it is."

"What do you mean?"

"All these fancy mechanics—levels, classes, skills—they're just window dressing." Chimera's form solidified, becoming more defined. "At its core, cultivation is about finding your Path and walking it. No matter how difficult, no matter what stands in your way, you keep moving forward until you reach the end."

Blake frowned. "And the System?"

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"It's just another way to interact with that core concept. The Path." Chimera's tail swished through a dust mote. "Everything else is just different methods of measuring and facilitating your journey."

Blake leaned forward, interest piqued. "So, how do people walk these Paths?"

"There are three main approaches." Chimera's form shifted, taking on a more serious posture. "Body cultivators believe in forging the perfect vessel. They temper themselves like master craftsmen working steel, breaking down and rebuilding until every cell serves their purpose."

The concept resonated with Blake's military background. He'd spent years honing his body into a weapon. On the other hand, he'd had some boundary issues with his body recently. The idea of changing it entirely—of fundamentally altering or abandoning his humanity? That scared him.

"Mental cultivators take a different approach," Chimera continued. "They see the body as a limiting factor. Their goal is to transcend physical limitations entirely, creating a mind so powerful it needs no vessel to walk the Path."

Blake wasn't sure what that would even look like. A psychic floating through the air? A wizard on a floating disk? "And the third?"

"Spiritual cultivators." Chimera's form flickered briefly. "They seek to align their very essence with their chosen Path. Every thought, every action, every breath becomes an expression of their journey. When they succeed, they don't need to walk the Path—they become it."

Blake remembered the Buddhist monastery he'd frequented in Thailand while working in the region. The monks there moved with perfect economy, and every gesture was deliberate and meaningful. Even their breathing had seemed purposeful, as if each inhale and exhale carried a significance Blake couldn't comprehend.

He'd dismissed it at the time as religious devotion, but now he wondered if there had been more to it. Those monks hadn't just practiced their faith—they'd lived it. Their entire existence had been an expression of their beliefs.

"Okay, that all makes sense, I guess. In an abstract way," Blake said, still a bit unsure about all the magical thinking required. "I notice that these aren't mutually exclusive."

"No, they're not. Most cultivators draw from multiple methods. But understanding the core approaches helps you choose your starting point." Chimera's tail curled around her translucent form. "It's about finding what resonates with who you are."

"Great," Blake responded, growing impatient. "Have we laid enough groundwork to get started yet?"

Chimera's holographic ears twitched. "You know, for someone who just got access to literal magic powers, you're awfully grumpy."

Blake glared at the projection.

"But since you asked so nicely..." Her tail swished through more dust motes. "When you were talking with Mara about fighting back against Rax, about protecting people from his influence—your core lit up like a Christmas tree. The resonance was unmistakable."

Blake shifted against the metal hull plate, the coolness seeping through his shirt. "I didn't feel anything special. Just a perfectly normal distaste of bullies lording themselves over people too weak to fight back."

Chimera's tail flicked in a dismissive gesture. "You're forgetting something important. Your Resonance score is abysmal. Your spirit is barely equipped to notice such things right now."

Blake opened his mouth to argue, then closed it. She had a point. "So you think you picked up on something I missed?"

"I know I did." Chimera's form settled into a sitting position. "Close your eyes. Think back to that conversation again. Really focus on how you felt about Rax's actions. About the people suffering under his rule."

Blake shifted against the hull plate, getting more comfortable. The metal's coolness helped ground him as he closed his eyes.

"I'll handle cycling your mana," Chimera said. "Just concentrate on the memory. Let your spirit explore those feelings."

A familiar warmth spread through Blake's chest as Chimera took control of his mana flow. He breathed deeply, letting his mind drift back to Mara's words about Rax's oppression. About families going hungry because they couldn't trade for food. About children growing up in fear of speaking against those in power.

Blake's thoughts drifted to the morning he'd enlisted. The TV had played footage of the towers falling on an endless loop, smoke and ash coating Manhattan in a gray shroud. His father's words echoed in his mind: "Son, there are people in this world who want to hurt others, and there are people who stand in their way."

The choice had been simple then. Clear. A straight line between right and wrong, between those who'd murder innocents and those who'd stop them. He'd signed the papers that afternoon.

A decade of service had complicated that black-and-white view. The decade of private sector work had shattered it entirely.

The world held more shades of gray than he'd imagined at twenty. But some things remained constant—the look in a village elder's eyes when the local warlord's men came collecting "taxes." The way mothers clutched their children closer when trucks full of armed men rolled through town. The quiet gratitude of people who could finally sleep through the night without fear.

Rax was cut from the same cloth as every petty tyrant Blake had encountered. Different planet, different species, same playbook. Create dependency. Foster fear. Crush resistance early. Let suffering breed compliance. Blake had seen it play out in a dozen countries across three continents. He'd helped topple men like Rax before—arms dealers in Kosovo, insurgent leaders in Afghanistan, cartel bosses in Colombia. They all shared that toxic mix of cruelty and cowardice, ruling through terror while hiding behind walls of expendable followers.

His hands formed fists. He sank into memory. A rifle in his hand, his squad in position, a target ready for neutralization. Natural. Like coming home. Blake lived for that crystallized moment before violence erupted, when a steel-reinforced door was about to splinter inward. Not much could top the raw satisfaction of dismantling a tyrant's empire piece by piece. Except maybe one thing: watching hollow-eyed victims realize their nightmare was ending. Seeing that first spark of hope flicker back to life in faces that had forgotten how to dream.

But other faces cut through his memory like shrapnel. Not grateful eyes, but terrified ones. Accusing ones. Eyes that saw his uniform or his weaponry and recognized not a liberator, but another invader bringing hell to their homeland. Another man with a gun, no different from the rest.

From somewhere deep inside him, a note resonated. A tiny chime, barely audible, yet echoing through his spirit like a gong in an empty temple. It was his Affinity, whispering a truth he'd buried under years of denial.

The familiar hollowness crept in, the emptiness that had plagued him since... well, since always. It was the price of what he was, of what he'd done—the cost of walking the line between order and anarchy, between protector and oppressor.

Another chime sounded, this time from his Awareness. A minor note, one resonating in haunting harmony with his Affinity. It was a moment of perfect clarity, a sudden understanding of the turmoil within him.

He was upset because the line was so thin. So easily blurred. One misstep, one wrong decision, and he could become the very thing he fought against. The guardian could become the oppressor in the blink of an eye.

Something shifted deep in Blake's core. The resonating notes of Affinity and Awareness spiraled together, building in intensity until they merged into a single pure tone that rang through his entire being. The hollowness inside him filled with light—not the searing brightness of an explosion or the harsh glare of desert sun, but something more profound. Ancient. Primordial.

Knowledge flooded his consciousness. Not facts or information, but understanding. The weight of every choice he'd made, every life he'd taken or saved, every moment of doubt or certainty—they crystallized into a singular truth that defied words. He saw his path stretching before and behind him like a golden thread woven through time, each twist and turn necessary, each mistake and triumph essential.

His body hummed with power, but it wasn't the raw physical energy he'd felt while cycling mana. This was different. Fuller. More complete. As if he'd spent his whole life seeing in black and white, and suddenly, the world erupted into color. The boundary between his physical form and his spirit blurred, reality itself seeming to pulse in time with his heartbeat.

The sensation crescendoed, and Blake felt something fundamental click into place, like the last tumbler in a lock. Like the final piece of a puzzle he hadn't known he was solving. Everything he was—soldier, protector, killer, savior—collapsed into a single point of perfect clarity. For one eternal moment, Blake understood precisely what he was meant to be.

And just as quickly, it was gone. The power. The Clarity. The Understanding. All that was left were the echoes of its passing. But the impact of the experience left Blake changed. He understood a bit more, now, why so much of the cultivator speak seemed like so much imprecise metaphor. He was feeling it now. The hollowness, his doubts, his regrets—they weren't gone. Might never be. But they had been… Recontextualized. They were something new.

They were the first flagstones laid down on his path.