It was a cold, suspicious night, with the fires of the church at his back.

Jasper walked as quickly as he could without running. Already, he knew, his life in this town was over. His life in general was over– unless he could get away, and soon.

Every shadow seemed to be watching him.

Every person who passed by was a potential threat.

But sleep did not come easy. Jasper spent the better part of the night twisting in sweat-stained sheets, grinding his face against the pillow at odd angles as if he was a speedrunner trying to wall-clip through the bed directly into the land of dreams.

Two times, he had to convince himself not to run away, alone, that very night. Running would just draw attention to his absence and get them on his trail faster. It would leave him alone, without resources, stumbling through terrain he didn’t understand. It was a surefire way to get caught.

But he couldn’t constrain himself any longer by the time dawn came through the shutters.

Marching down into the inn’s lower room, Jasper dropped into a seat across from Amun, who was scraping up the yolks of runny eggs with slabs of dark rye toast.

“When are we leaving?” He knew he looked like shit, and he knew his voice was rough and peaky.

Amun looked at him, chewing slowly like a cow with its cud.

He swallowed with the slowness of stone eroding.

“Jasper, we found a Ruin.” He said, in tones of disbelief. “Do you know what could be down there? Coin, yes, without a doubt. Shards? Yes. Artifacts? Yes.“ The last words came out in a greedy hiss. “We have a chance for first crack, Jasper. If there’s a Core down there we might even get a Blessing out of it.”

“What happened to the Anointment?”

“Fuck it.” Amun bit into his toast with a spatter of crumbs tumbling through his beard. “The lord-regent will have more sons. We can visit the next one.”

Jasper wanted to scream. His whole night had been one great cry of dark terror building up, and it was clawing like a beast against the inside of his chest, trying to get out.

“Do you actually think they’ll give us first crack?” Jasper tried arguing. “They’ve got their own people. And more adventurers will probably show up, once they hear.”

Amun nodded. “They won’t want to. They’d rather delay us and sell the first rights off to a more established party. But. Don’t forget who my father is.”

Oh here we go. Daddy says.

“I’ve already requested a letter of marque giving us the rights to enter the Ruin. And the townsfolk know it’s coming. Playing games will only make the terms they surrender to us worse, in the end.” He slid his plate aside in satisfaction. “You see Jasper, I’m not without my social graces.”

The only Grace you know is a whore who stops smiling when you turn the other way… Jasper thought. But what he said was, “Of course. You teach people patience everywhere you go.”

And then he was gone, before Amun could process that one through.

It was time to start thinking of alternatives to asking nicely.

— — —

“So you want to join up with our crew?" The man speaking was a well-dressed Ardish merchant, with oiled black hair swept down to the nape of his neck, and a long, sharp face dominated by a hawkish nose, wearing a layered silk turban keep the sun off his pale skin.

And he owned a caravan that was heading out of the city.

“Yeah. This whole Ruin business, it’s not for me, you know?” Lying out of his teeth was starting to feel less sweaty and nervous for Jasper. He’d told so many lies over the past few days, small ones and large, that it was beginning to feel natural. “Too much danger.”

“Mm. Say what you will for caravan-life, we don’t go looking for trouble. Can you handle that sword at your hip, boy?” He nodded.

Jasper drew and kind of let the memories in the sword lead him through a dancing step-pause-step, blade stabbing at the air. The caravan master nodded approvingly.

“You’ll do. We take off at dawn tomorrow, so, be here or be left behind. You get a wren at every stop and five when we make it to Ceremystra. I run things sober– drink yourself dead in town, but show up on time and keep dry on the road. If I ever catch you stealing or smoking dram, I’ll beat you half to death and call myself merciful.”

Somehow, despite the man’s thin build, Jasper knew he was capable of living up to that promise. Normal people didn’t move in such a predatory, efficient way…

And the Knucklebones’ sense for danger told him the man was more than capable.

Nodding, Jasper reached out for a handshake. “Tomorrow morning, sharp. Glad to be aboard.”

The caravan-master looked down at his hand, and then back up at him a thin, are-you-kidding-me smile. “Just keep your head down.” And then he strode away, leaving Jasper with his hand out.

Oh, man, I would not be making enemies with that hair. Or those shoes. You are a walking joke and the punchline is, you probably paid too much for a stylist to do that to you. Kicking sand, Jasper walked away. Obviously this little road trip wasn’t going to be any fun, but it would get him out of the city without leaving him stumbling through the wilds, alone.

And he still had the better part of twelve wrens to his name.

It was time to get his mind off things.

— — —

Spending his money in a tavern was just too public; the thought of being around people right now made Jasper sweat bullets. Instead, he rented out a training house. It was a little courtyard of white sand shaded by palm trees, with several straw dummies, a magical array that could animate them, and a small pagoda for meditating.

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At first Jasper didn’t understand why anyone would shell out three wrens for targets to hit, but it quickly became obvious why Teysa had nudged him towards this place.

The proprietor was one Yasmine, a slender, dark woman with black hair in gold-threaded braids piled like a crown atop her head. She brought out a book– compared to Earth, paper here was rough, brittle, and yellow, the kind of thing you could imagine being tree bark once.

Written within were row after row of Skills, the price to learn them, and the name of the teacher. Yasmine knew everyone in town, and what it would take to convince them to spend an afternoon passing on their Skills in hunting, sword-fighting, or a dozen other areas. But for most of the Skills, she was listed as the primary teacher.

Calligraphy - 3 Silver - Yasmin

Calisthenics - 3 Silver - Yasmin

Card-Playing - 2 Silver (plus stakes) - Lasmer

Carpentry - 3 Silver - Oran

Cartography - 3 Silver - Yasmin

Chanting - 5 Silver - Priest Melmer

Chirurgy - 10 Silver - Sarabas

Confectionary - 3 Silver - Yasmin

Cooking - 2 Silver - Yasmin

Command - 5 Silver - Chief Ghedd

There really seemed to be a Skill for everything.

“Let me get you something to drink.” Yasmin said. Jasper couldn’t help but follow with his eyes as she swayed out of the room, and a sudden thought paused his search down the list. He flipped forward a few pages, towards ‘S’.

Well, there it is. There was, in fact, a Skill for sex.

And the teacher was…

Yasmin

An immense amount of flustered, heated thought sped trough Jasper’s mind in the next few moments, trying to put together how to, well, ask for sex lessons without opening his mouth and blurting ‘one sex please ma’am’ with a tip of his metaphorical fedora. His tongue, usually the fastest part of him, felt like an alien slug in his mouth.

“Everything alright?” Her voice was cool and clear like river-water, and somehow only raised the heat a notch. She had brought a clay mug of earthy-red liquid, which smelled floral and rich. Floating within were see-through cubes of ice, little pinkish flowers, curled leaves, and two dark cherries. “This is an herbal infusion, made cold to help with the heat. The snow blossoms assist with stamina, the cherries will bolster your mana, and the deepmarrow herbs will allow you to develop muscle memory faster and with more precision…”

“And the ice?”

She paused, lifting an eyebrow. “It’s water, but cold.”

“Oh.” Jasper felt the world collapsing. “Everything else here is magical, so I thought…” And then, a streak of panic went through his mind like a comet descending. Wait, did that come off as flirtatious?

Wait didn’t I want to be flirtatious?

What am I? A man or a miserable pile of secrets?

A distinct laugh twitched at her lips. Her smile was heart-ache inducing. “Drink your tea. Will you be training alone, or shall I fetch a tutor?”

“Uh, yeah–” Yeah he was gonna be training alone over this one. Jasper felt his soul cringing and shriveling, like a spider curling up as it died. “I’d like to learn Fencing, actually, but I want to practice alone first.”

“Of course. The tutor will be here in half an hour’s time.” And she was gone, leaving him the courtyard and the cup of ice-cold tea. The latter, Jasper chugged down, hoping it would do something to cool him off. It didn’t exactly work.

Two weeks without the Internet… He sighed. And I think I’d start a small war– a middling war, easy– to get laid. Really puts the crusades in context…

He sipped the last of the tea slower. It had a delicious, savory-sweet flavor that hung on his tongue with a faint crackle of electricity. Over the next few seconds, his mind seemed to sharpen and his body lighten. There was an awareness that ran through him– a supernatural sense of where his limbs were, how fast he was moving them, with how much strength.

It didn’t seem extraordinary– but that added awareness made it much easier to make the same movement, over and over, and adjust it in precise ways. It made training easier.

Setting aside the cup, he hopped up and down on the balls of his feet, bringing up his fists into a boxing stance, feeling out the state of his body. Not bad. Just how he was eating, how much he was working, and of course, the ‘Reforging’ had all conspired to put him in the best condition of his life.

And he needed, desperately, to vent some frustration.

“Yeah, buddy, I don’t know where to start. How am I suppose to insult you?” The target dummy’s painted face stared back at him, unresponsive. “Dummy, scarecrow– all your names are already insults.”

A knife was in his hand. With an easy, flicking blow, Jasper launched it into an arc of silvery steel, blurring through the air and thudding into the dummy’s chest. It was quick, easy, natural. Far better than should be possible, considering he’d never thrown a knife before coming to this world.

Now there were a few things he wondered about his Cutting Words ability. It summoned daggers from insults, sure. And over a few hours, those daggers slowly faded back into wherever they came from. But he didn't know its real limits.

So, Jasper set out do a science.

Experiment 1…

He picked up a stone and threw it as hard and fast as he could. It flew into the wall, missing the dummy by a mile.

So it wasn’t that he was a natural pitcher. It was the daggers.

Experiment 2…

Jasper tilted his chin up, staring down coldly at the dummy. “No way your girlfriend is feeling that needle in her haystack.” The dagger appeared in hand, and he wound up for a big, powerful throw…

That was aimed to miss, and go harmlessly to one side.

Instead the dagger curved in the air and spun around to strike the dummy in the side of its throat. The target rocked back and forth on its pole.

So it really was magic. He couldn’t miss if he wanted to…

Experiment 3…

Well, this will be fun… Jasper winced, gingerly flexing his fingers as he wound up for this last test. “You know, it’s pretty rare for me to be the second biggest dummy in a room.”

It was a weak insult.

And he was lucky it was, because the dagger manifested backwards in his grip, blade against his palm and fingertips. He grasped on instinct– and the rusted, chipped surface sawed against his hand. “Fuck!” It dropped to the earth as he shook his fingers, blood welling from a long cut across their inner curves.

“Okay. Okay, if that’s the way it is…” A self-burn meant a reversed blade. Technically, the dummy had gotten first blood.

Jasper drew his new sword from its scabbard with a rasping note, admiring the way the light shone through the crystal blade. Posing, he advanced in a quick, sideways step, stabbing out high-low-high. The blade guided his hand into each strike, piercing through the straw and leather of the dummy with a pleasingly smooth punch.

He repeated the motion, trying to consciously track the instinctive steps he took. Trying to memorize and actually learn, rather than just follow along with how his abilities wanted to move him. It was an odd kind of dance; his body led and his mind tried to keep up.

It was after several minutes of sweat, strain, and viciously assaulting a strawman that Jasper became aware he was being watched.

Leaning against the doorway was a man with long, ill-kempt hair in a ponytail that sprouted loose threads. He was handsome in an ugly way, as if someone had taken a good face and rearranged it; raggedy scars crossed his heavy lips. His hand sat loosely on the hilt of a broad-edged chopping saber.

The man’s eyes ran across Jasper, and he snorted.

“So you’re the one my daughter is on about? Hmmph.”

The fencing instructor had arrived.