> "For all debates and countless theories, the system has been agreed upon by most that it is a fair judge, proven by the numerous attempts of countless great monarchs and famed warriors and arcanists, failing in their experiments of exploiting the system to further strengthen their abilities and lifespan.
>
> One point of stat would always be given to each earthwalker every three years, to be put into either Strength, Vitality, Dexterity, Perception, Intelligence, or Arcana. Professions, skills, and arcana, on the other hand, would always progress depending on how much you’ve learned and how well you’ve applied your knowledge.
>
> Never, in history, has there been a method to boost the system, progressing one's stat and abilities by a significant observable margin."
>
> - Academician Zaltan
> Introduction to the System
> Published 546 AE, Month of the Sparrow
----------------------------------------
One thing he realized as he ascended pick by pick, inch by inch, was that he did not know how to climb mountains at all.
He had hiked tall hills, scaled cliffs and crevices, and he told himself this was the same.
Yet it was not.
The mountain seemed an insurmountable thing, its height dwarfing him a hundred times over. Already, the cold started creeping into the slits of his leather and furs, his muscles were starting to ache, and the rope chaffed his hands even over his gloves.
The pick struck a loose stone and he jerked, and fortunately he did not fall with the struck rock, and was able to stay balanced with stable footing. He watched the stone tumble and echo down the mountainside, and as it reached the ground he also saw crimson eyes staring at him from below.
Still here, huntress? He wondered, to pick up a body if it falls?
He steadied his shaky breathing, tightened the grip on his picks, and continued to climb.
Move forward, he said to himself like a mantra, and don't look down.
He interchanged pick by pick, and did not give notice to the time, distance, or strain of muscle. Only the next step, and the next foothold.
Move forward.
To make it easier, he began thinking to distract himself.
A poor choice.
Second thoughts began to form. What if his fragmented memories were just delusions? No such things as the reemergence of demons or the like. Only fantasies of a bored boy wanting a world beyond the north.
The pick struck true and steady, and he ascended on stable footing.
Move forward.
[Climbing +1]
He did not give mind to the notification, offhandedly reminding him that his climbing had reached LV. 6, and only continued his thoughts.
Then maybe I did not need to pursue the sword, he continued to think, learn embroidery instead and delve into passionate smithing. Be content.
He had difficulty breathing now, with the air getting thinner, but he scaled the mountain still.
Move forward.
Stolen story; please report.
But if it were false, he thought, it did not explain the familiar memories of a different world. If the fantasies were of his own concoction, where had they come from?
No matter, he said to himself in simple finality, if this mountain holds no secret that I believed it to have, then I am delusional, nothing more.
His pick struck flat rock, and he hoisted himself forward to an open space. Before him lay a dark tunnel, unexplored, hidden when observed from below.
An unbidden shaky smile came to his lips, and he moved forward.
***
The shadows flickered over cave walls as he waved his torch, searching for anything out of place. From what he recalled of this place, there should be humanoid monsters present here, non-sapient cannibals that dwelled in the mountains.
Yet the path was empty, and he walked straight and true.
He encountered turns and multiple passages, met with dead ends and circles, and as he went back to the same spot where the cave wall seemed dreadfully familiar,
He stopped, and realized he was lost.
He shook his head, denying it. The cave wall is familiar because they're all the same, you idiot, he told himself, you're not lost, you're just- you're just inefficiently navigating.
Yeah, that sounds about right, he patted himself on the back.
His torch flickered, and he frowned, noticing it was starting to burn low. In the coldness of the cave, it was about to be snuffed out.
Knowing his time was limited, he started walking and anxiously gripped his sword tighter, wanting to find monsters. That's how it worked, didn't it? If there were enemies, it meant you were going the right way, in the game-
He stopped again, scrunched his eyes, and took a deep breath.
This wasn't a game.
His world darkened, and when he opened his eyes, the torchlight was gone, and blackness greeted him.
He sighed, and began walking cautiously, a hand always on cavern wall.
Move forward.
He did not count the time nor measure the distance, only the next step, and the next. Slow and steady, he told himself, there is hope while there is breath.
Cold hells, he was a northerner! He would survive.
So he repeated again and again to himself, even when his skin now felt the chill, and his breath came out colder and colder. Slowly, his feet started to become heavy, his toes becoming numb.
Frostbite has begun, he realized, no matter, I will cut my toes if I have to.
He walked forward still, his heart a fire that burned yet could not exhaust the cold he felt. He started to think of his mother, of his village and its people. He wanted to protect them, he knew, and he thought to accelerate his growth with relics.
Foolish, he thought, my impatience brought me here, cold, alone, and no relic-
Firelight danced in his vision, and hope blossomed once more.
There, he noticed, in the distance. Around a bend of cavern wall there was a spot of light, its origin something he would have to get nearer to know. He approached cautiously, a hand on his sword.
He turned the corner.
A firelight orb hovered lazily around a conspicuous chamber, the red fiery ball radiating a bright light, giving definition to a scroll that laid on a rock pedestal and a woman contemplating before it.
The scroll.
He found it, the relic;
Wisdom’s Tapestry.
Reading the scroll would boost one’s progress in their skills, doubling their learning capability, as if they were given wisdom. It was vital he had this relic, for it would significantly shorten the time he needed the master the sword.
Then he looked at the woman that wore leathers and furs like him, yet without a bag, and realized after a time that it was a girl.
Her hair were like long strands of golden wheat, bright and lustrous locks of hair that rested on her shoulders and pooled on the hood of her fur coat. Her skin was white and pale, yet so smooth, like carefully molded snow. When she turned to face him, finally noticing the boy that stood on one of the entrances of the chamber, he then saw that she had bright blue eyes, as dazzling as the ocean.
It was Amelia Swordfang, a major character from the game, and he knew with certainty she wasn’t supposed to be here.
The northern girl tensed, her eyes furrowed, and the red orb of fire flew to her side, as if in vigil. Her hand made grasping motions, and out of thin air one hand crackled thunder and the other held misty ice. Arcana arts, he noticed with disdain, yet too advanced for her age, is it because of the scroll?
In an attempt to defuse the situation, he called out to her. He could’ve said a great number of normal greetings, yet as he continued to feel the shiver of cold he croaked instead:
“Toes.”
He grimaced at his quick mouth, and readied for lightning to fall and to become a wintered statue. Yet the girl suddenly withheld her wary posture, dismissing the thunder and the ice. Her face held a dumbfounded expression, as if she heard the most unexpected thing and was dealing with an idiot.
“Toes?” She asked softly and slowly in confusion, her voice like the caress of a soft winter gale.
He, in return, was dumbfounded, how the girl was, well, dumbfounded. No matter, he did what he always did in situations he wasn’t sure how to act.
He nodded confidently.