Arkrest City,
State of Meioria,
Kingdom of Eriya,
781 AC
The carriage rattled along the uneven road, the clopping of horse hooves echoing in the night. Inside, Baron Aldric Vennor sat across from his son, Tyron, his face illuminated by the flickering lantern light. Tyron fidgeted nervously, his hands wringing in his lap.
"I don't want to do this, Father," Tyron said, his voice quavering. "It doesn't feel right."
The baron sighed heavily. "Tyron, we've been over this. I paid a great deal of coin for you to gain this skill. With it, you can join the army as an officer, not some lowly foot soldier. It's for your own future."
Tyron shook his head. "But using a [Skill Trainer] is illegal! If anyone finds out-"
"Keep your voice down," Aldric snapped. He glanced out the small window, ensuring no one was in earshot, before continuing in a harsh whisper. "No one will find out. I'm doing this for your own good, son. Now hush up, we're nearly there."
The carriage slowed to a halt. Tyron peered out at their surroundings - a dilapidated stone building squatted at the end of the road, its grimy windows dark. Overgrown weeds choked the cracked cobblestone path leading to a rusted iron gate. The place looked abandoned, forgotten.
This is where I'm supposed to gain the skill? Tyron thought incredulously. It looks more likely to give me tetanus.
The baron stepped out of the carriage, his boots crunching on the gravel. After a moment's hesitation, Tyron followed, his legs unsteady. The night air was cool against his skin, carrying the faint stench of rot.
Aldric squared his shoulders, putting on a brave front, but Tyron could see the unease in the tightness around his eyes. The baron turned to his guard, a burly man in chainmail. "Go knock on the gate. Tell them we've arrived."
As the guard approached the gate, it swung open with a drawn-out creak. A skinny young man emerged wearing stained, grimy robes. He looked to be an apprentice of some sort. The boy shuffled forward, his head bobbing in a jerky bow.
"W-welcome, my lord," he stammered, not meeting their eyes. "My m-master is ready for you. But only the b-boy may enter."
The baron and Tyron exchanged a heavy look. Tyron knew this was his last chance to back out, to beg his father to reconsider. But seeing the hard gleam in Aldric's eyes, he knew it was futile.
Swallowing past the lump in his throat, Tyron stepped forward. His father gave him a firm push toward the gate. "Go on, son. I'll be waiting right here."
Tyron wanted to look back, to see the reassurance on his father's face one more time. But the apprentice was already ushering him through the gate, the rusted metal slamming shut behind them with a resonant clang.
The path underfoot was cracked and uneven. Tyron tried to match the apprentice's quick pace, wincing as he stumbled over a loose stone. "So, uh, have you been studying under your master long?" he asked, hoping to ease his nerves with conversation.
"J-just a few years," the apprentice mumbled.
"I see. And what's your master like? Is he strict?"
"He's... h-he's very wise. Keeps to himself m-mostly." The boy tugged open a heavy wooden door, gesturing for Tyron to enter.
Inside was a cramped room that looked like an apothecary's lab and a dungeon cell had an unfortunate baby. The walls were lined with shelves bearing all manner of oddities - murky jars of preserved creatures, dusty tomes bound in cracked leather, strange arcane instruments of tarnished brass. A thick odor hung in the air, acrid and chemical.
But what caught Tyron's attention was the limp body lying on a couch against the far wall. It was a man - at least, Tyron thought it was. Its face was obscured, a burlap sack tied over the head. Ropes bound the thin wrists and ankles.
Dear gods, what is this place?
The apprentice pointed at a bare pallet. "P-please remove your shirt and l-lie down. My master will arrive sh-shortly."
Tyron was certain his heart was about to beat out of his chest. With shaking hands, he pulled his tunic over his head, shivering as the chill air met his skin. He lowered himself onto the pallet, the rough fabric scratching his back. His eyes kept flicking to the unconscious figure, a growing sense of dread churning his gut.
Father, what have you gotten me into...
The apprentice ducked out of the room, leaving Tyron alone with his increasingly panicked thoughts. He stared up at the cobwebbed rafters, trying to calm his breathing.
You can do this, he told himself. Father wouldn't put you in danger. This is just a means to an end. With a powerful skill, you can rise through the army ranks quickly. You'll bring honor to the family name. It will all be worth it.
But as the minutes stretched on, Tyron's conviction began to falter. Every creak of the floorboards, every distant clank from somewhere deeper in the building set his nerves more on edge. Worst of all was the body on the cot, lying motionless except for the shallow rise and fall of its chest.
The door scraped open. Tyron jerked his head up to see a tall figure sweeping into the room. They wore a dark, hooded robe that obscured their features, and a bone-white mask covered the lower half of their face.
Is that the apprentice? No...too tall. This must be the master.
The robed figure loomed over Tyron, a pale hand extending from the folds of fabric. "Be still," he rasped, his voice muffled behind the mask. "And no matter what, do not open your eyes until I tell you."
Tyron obeyed, squeezing his eyes shut. He felt a tug at each wrist and ankle as his limbs were secured to the corners of the pallet with coarse rope. The knots bit into his skin.
"W-what are you doing?" Tyron asked, cursing the tremor in his voice.
"Preparing you." The man moved away, and Tyron could hear the clink of metal instruments being arranged on a tray. "What Class do you have boy?"
"[Soldier]. Like my father."
A thoughtful hum. "And he wants you to gain the skill to lead, does he?"
Tyron didn't like the sly undertone to the words. He felt a prick in the crook of his elbow. "Ow! What was that?"
"Something to help you relax." Already a numbness was spreading through his veins, making his head swim. "Can't have you squirming."
There was a sudden, sharp sting low on Tyron's abdomen. He bit back a cry. A needle? A knife? The pain was quickly consumed by a deeper, nauseating pressure.
"Shhh, easy now. Just a little incision..."
Tyron fought to stay conscious as he felt something probing around in his gut, an alien and violating sensation. The pain was reaching a fever pitch when it abruptly changed - from a physical agony to a sense of a vast, yawning space opening up inside him. He could feel his innermost self being pulled through that opening and dissected under a merciless scrutiny.
The man's voice reached him as if from underwater. "Ah, here we are. [Soldier] Class, Level 3... hmm, decent Strength and Vitality stats but rather lacking in leadership abilities. Not to worry, that's what we're here for."
Through the haze of drugs and pain, Tyron dimly processed that the man was somehow examining his very soul. Invisible fingers rifled through his being, stripping him bare and vulnerable in a way he couldn't even comprehend. He wanted to scream but his tongue was thick and useless in his mouth.
There was a pause, then the pressure changed, a tugging sensation. Distantly, Tyron registered the clink of instruments, a wet organic sound. Something pulsed at the edges of his consciousness.
What is that? It feels like...like someone else's life being stitched into mine...
The otherness pushed into his core, a memory not his own unspooling in vivid detail - nights spent huddled around a campfire with a loyal squad, the weight of responsibility, the burden and thrill of command. And with it, a kernel of knowledge crystalized - how to project an air of calm strength, how to inspire loyalty in the face of death. The [Lead] skill, transferred and grafted into his being.
You have learned the skill [Lead] at Level 4!
XP Gained: 400
The foreign memories receded, leaving Tyron dazed. He felt the pallet shift as the robed man leaned over him. "There now, that wasn't so bad, was it? Though perhaps that's just the opiates talking..."
A thin chuckle. "You're lucky - your father proved very resourceful in procuring a suitable skill donor. That's high-level stuff. Not the sort of material I usually get a chance to work with."
Tyron tried to form words, but his tongue flopped uselessly. The man patted his cheek. "Don't strain yourself. The worst is over. Just need to close you up..."
There was a prickling sensation traveling up Tyron's abdomen as his flesh was sutured back together, the movements quick and practiced. Something cool and soothing was smeared over the wound, numbing the raw nerves.
The man stepped back, surveying his work. "There. Give it a few days before you exert yourself. The site may be itchy but you mustn't scratch. If you start running a fever or oozing anything foul-colored, well, that will be your problem. I trust you know to keep this quiet unless you fancy a visit from the Inquisitors."
The ropes binding Tyron's limbs fell away. "You can sit up now. Slowly."
Bracing a palm against the cold stone floor, Tyron dragged himself upright. The room spun dizzily and his stomach clenched with nausea. He looked down at himself - a neat line of black stitches puckered an angry red line just above his navel.
The man was cleaning his tools, his back to Tyron. "I've applied an antiseptic salve to prevent infection and reduce scarring. Can't have anyone asking inconvenient questions, can we? A shame, really, that my work must stay in the shadows..."
He paused, tilting his masked face in Tyron's direction. In the candlelight, his eyes glinted an eerie blue. "You are not the first soldier I've attended to, but I must say, your resilience is impressive. I expect you'll go far in your military career."
Tyron finally found his voice, though it rasped like rusted hinges. "Who...who are you?"
The man turned away again. "You don't need to know my name, boy. Safer for us both that way. Just think of me as a facilitator of ambition. A dream weaver, if you will."
"But what you do...it's forbidden. If anyone knew..."
A dark chuckle. "Oh, they know. The ones that matter, at least. How do you think we procure our materials? But the Crown is willing to turn a blind eye so long as we’re discreet and limit our clientele to the right sort of people. Sons of privilege, like yourself. It’s the Inquisitors we need to worry about."
The man wiped his hands on a bloodstained rag. "You should consider yourself fortunate. Not everyone has a father willing to risk so much for their future. I suggest you don't squander his efforts."
Tyron looked over at the body on the other pallet. "That man...is he...did you kill him for this?"
The robed figure followed his gaze. "What, him? Oh, no. Not this time. He still lives, if you can call that living. Another young lordling hoping to claw his way up the ranks. Amazing what the promise of power does to one's scruples."
What the promise of power does...
In a sudden moment of clarity, Tyron saw his situation for what it was - a devil's bargain, trading scraps of his humanity for a shot at glory. He'd let himself be drugged and carved up like a Winterfeast goose, all on the word of a faceless stranger in a dank hole in the ground.
And for what? A chance to throw myself on an enemy's sword slightly faster than the next man?
Revulsion churned in his gut. Whether for his own weakness or his father's ruthless ambition, he couldn't say. Likely both.
His head swam as he swung his legs off the pallet, his bare feet hitting the frigid floor. The room tilted precariously. "I need to go," he mumbled. "I need air..."
"Yes, you ought to be getting back," the man said absently, most of his focus on the instruments he was packing away into a leather satchel. "I have another appointment arriving shortly and I'd rather you not be seen. But remember - discretion. Not a word of this to anyone."
Tyron fumbled for his tunic, his fingers clumsy on the fastenings. Father, what have you done? What have you got me involved in? He wanted to run, to hide, to scrub his skin until he no longer felt the phantom itch of the stitches. But his limbs were sluggish and uncooperative.
The robed man straightened up, hoisting his satchel. "Right then. Off with you. And do try to make something of yourself, boy. I'd hate to think my artistry was for nothing."
Without another word, he swept from the room. Tyron stared at the closed door for a long moment, his mind reeling. Then, on watery legs, he stumbled out into the night, desperate to put as much distance between himself and that room as he could.
As he staggered down the path, he thought he could hear a muffled scream emanating from the building behind him. Just the wind, he told himself, knowing it was a lie. The wind, or another wretched soul learning the cost of ambition.
The gates swung open before him, silent on their rusted hinges this time. His father stood beside the carriage, his face lined with worry that melted into relief when he saw Tyron. The baron crossed to him in two long strides, reaching out an arm to support him.
"Steady on, son. You're white as a sheet. Here, let's get you home to rest."
Tyron allowed himself to be led into the carriage, collapsing bonelessly onto the threadbare cushions. His father climbed in after him, rapping on the roof to signal the driver.
As the carriage lurched into motion, Tyron leaned his head back and shut his eyes. His abdomen throbbed, the pain already receding into a sick, pulsing ache. But worse was the lingering sensation of being unmade, his core self-rifled through and stitched back together with foreign threads.
I have the [Lead] skill now. I can command men, make them follow me into battle and death. But is it truly mine? Or will I always feel the ghost of that stranger's will in my blood, animating me like a puppeteer's marionette?
Allowing another to have access to his status screen made him feel a vulnerability unlike anything he’d experienced before.
The narrative has been taken without permission. Report any sightings.
Across from him, Baron Aldric cleared his throat. "I know that wasn't pleasant, son. But you endured it well. Like a true Vennor."
Tyron said nothing, acid rising in his throat.
"That [Lead] skill will serve you well in the military. You'll gain ranks in no time. Bring glory to our House. It was worth it, you'll see."
Worth it, Tyron thought numbly, watching the dark countryside roll by outside the window. Father had said not to worry about my lack of talent, I guess when you have coin, you can get anything…
***
The masked man closed the door with a soft click, shutting out the chill night air. He turned, surveying the cramped room, his eyes falling on the still form lying bound and hooded on the cot. Reaching up, he hooked his fingers under the edge of the pale mask and pulled it free, revealing a youthful face - the same face that had greeted Tyron at the gate, stammering and bobbing.
Kiel, the [Pharmacist], the apprentice, and the master. They were all him.
He approached the unconscious body, his footsteps echoing hollowly on the stone floor. With deft fingers, he untied the burlap sack obscuring the man's face, exposing a grizzled visage, creased and weathered by years.
A soldier, no doubt. Kiel almost felt a pang of sympathy. Almost.
Kneeling beside the cot, Kiel placed his index finger into the neat incision on the man's abdomen, just above the navel. He closed his eyes, sensing inward, and with a twist of will, pulled up the hovering screen of the man's status.
Name: Gunther Steelmark
Class: [Soldier]
Level: 10
HP: 10/110
MP: 1/50
STR: 101
DEX: 100
CON: 105
INT: 32
WIS: 38
CHA: 76
A level 10 [Soldier].
Far higher than any of his previous subjects. The highest he'd dared work on before was level 5, and even that had been a risk. If it weren't for the baron's "contribution", Kiel might never have had an opportunity like this. Not until he'd raised his own level, at least.
He considered what he knew of the Class levels. Levels 1-4 were the lowly novices, barely a step above the unclassed rabble. Levels 5-9 were the journeyman ranks, those who had gained some measure of competence in their craft. And level 10? That was the threshold of true expertise, the mark of a master in all but name. Anything beyond that was shrouded in mystery and speculation. Grand-masters, legends, mythic figures - if they even existed.
Kiel had been careful in his negotiations with the baron, speaking through his constructed persona of the stuttering apprentice. He had insisted that for the procedure to have the best chance of success, the baron must provide a body with the [Lead] skill at level 5 or higher. For a man of the baron's means and influence, pressuring some washed-up old soldier into service was trivial. Men like that were as common as cobblestones in the capital.
His eyes scanned the list of skills, lingering on the gaps where [Lead] had once been. A faint smile curved his lips. He could feel the stolen skill settling into place within him, like a key sliding into a lock. It was an intoxicating feeling, the rush of newfound power.
At a mere level 5, the [Extract] skill allowed him to glean a surface understanding of skills at or below his own level. To truly grasp the intricacies of a high-level skill, to siphon every nuance, he would need to raise [Extract] in tandem with his [Skill Trainer] class. The thought made him grimace.
Leveling was a tedious process.
But he had made gains tonight. His [Engrave] had ticked up to level 5 during the operation, bringing with it the capacity to inscribe skills of that level. The flavor text floated across his mind's eye.
[Engrave] (Level 5, 100/1000 XP) The precision and knowledge to inscribe any learned skill into the bodies of recipients. The [Engrave] skill is limited by its own level.
Not bad for a night's work. He'd even managed to sneak a few points into [Willpower] this time. Mother would be proud.
The thought soured in his gut. No, she wouldn't. Not of this. Not of him. Not after what had happened when his accursed Class first manifested.
He'd been seventeen, a late bloomer by most standards. Already, the superstitious whispers had begun among the household staff about the young master being "unblessed". When the telltale blue window finally appeared before him, he'd been elated. Until he read the words emblazoned there.
[Skill Trainer]
(Level 1, 0/100)
His blood had run cold. He knew the stories, everyone did. [Skill Trainers] were heretics, abominations. Hunted to the brink of extinction by the Purge. To be one was a death sentence, or worse. Panicked, he'd gone to the only person he thought could help.
His father.
Lord Gareth Wexler had listened in silent, stony-faced shock as Kiel poured out his confession. When he finished, chest heaving, his father simply stood and walked out without a word. An hour later, the chamberlain had come to Kiel's room, bearing a small satchel of coins and a terse message: leave, and never return.
Numbed by shock and despair, Kiel had fled the only home he'd ever known. He'd thought to throw himself on the mercy of the priests, to beg for absolution, but as the days turned to weeks on the run, as hunger gnawed at him and fear became his constant companion, his desperation turned to resentment, then anger.
Why should he cower, for a gift he'd never asked for? Why was HE the monster, and not the world that had made him so?
Without the support of his family, status and inheritance, survival became Kiel's sole focus. He took odd jobs where he could - sweeping floors, hauling crates, any crust of bread to keep the gnaw of hunger at bay. And through it all, his [Skill Trainer] Class silently ticked upwards.
He soon learnt that skills could exceed the level of their governing Class, but the higher the gap, the harder they were to raise. He poured his precious few Class points into [Extract], [Memory] and [Skill Inscription], eschewing defensive Stats for utility. Offense was a luxury he couldn't afford.
At level 3 [Skill Trainer], he'd acquired [Disguise Mastery] and [False Alibi], and the pieces of a plan began slotting into place. Why scrounge in the gutters, when nobles would pay hand over fist for his talents? He just needed a front. Something believable, but humble enough not to draw unwanted interest.
Enter Kiel, the soft-spoken [Pharmacist] apprentice at a small but respectable shop in the merchant quarter. His master, an introverted fellow, usually stayed hidden in the basement, engrossed in his work. This suited Kiel just fine, as it allowed him ample opportunity to cultivate a certain mystique about the man.
By day, he sold wart remedies and sleeping draughts. By night, he went to his lab outside of the city to work on his real trade. Careful, always, to target only those who could afford the utmost discretion. Men like Baron Aldric.
A small cough drew Kiel from the depths of memory. He looked down at the soldier, and saw glassy eyes half-opened, staring in drugged confusion. A spike of irritation flared through him. Damn, he'd let himself get distracted. He needed to work fast, before the potion wore off entirely.
Kiel passed his hand over the soldier's abdomen, feeling for the threads of power nestled beneath the skin. He had already extracted the [Lead] skill during the procedure with Tyron, but there were other valuable skills to harvest.
Closing his eyes, he extended his senses into the soldier's body, his [Extract] skill probing for the telltale knots of mana that indicated an ability. They glowed like stars in his mind's eye, each one a potential prize.
[Sword Proficiency] (Level 6, 23%) Mastery of bladed weapons. Increases accuracy, speed, and damage when wielding swords.
[Shield Wall] (Level 5, 87%) Discipline to form a cohesive defensive formation with shields. Increases defense against charges.
[Battlefield Triage] (Level 4, 15%) Skill to provide emergency medical aid on the battlefield. Stabilizes the wounded quickly.
[Command] (Level 4, 89%) Force obedience. Lasts 60 seconds. However, the effectiveness of the skill can be diminished by the opponent's willpower.
[Marching Cadence] (Level 3, 52%) Conditioning to maintain steady pace over long marches. Increases endurance and reduces fatigue.
[Weapon Maintenance] (Level 4, 89%) Knowledge to maintain and repair weapons and armor in the field. Keeps gear in top shape.
[Formation Fighting] (Level 5, 31%) Teamwork and spatial awareness to fight effectively in a disciplined unit. Increases attack power and defense when in formation.
A slow smile spread across Kiel's face. A decent haul, all things considered. His [Extract] could only extract skills up to Level 5, but that still left him with several useful additions to his repertoire.
One by one, he latched onto the skills with his power and tugged them free, the ghostly filaments unspooling from the soldier's meridians and drifting into his open palms. The man jerked and moaned as each one was ripped away, his eyelids fluttering in unconscious torment.
Kiel paid him no mind. The pain was temporary; the benefits would be his for a lifetime. He focused on guiding each skill into his inner web, weaving them into his own pool of abilities.
[Extract] flashed as it absorbed the stolen skills.
Skill: [Shield Wall], Level 4 (0%) The discipline to link shields with allies and maintain formation in the chaos of battle. Grants a bonus to Defense when fighting in a shield wall.
Skill: [Battlefield Triage], Level 4 (0%) The ability to stabilize wounded allies and keep them from death's door. Grants a bonus to First Aid checks made in combat.
Skill: [Command] (Level 4, 0%) Force obedience. Lasts 60 seconds. However, the effectiveness of the skill can be diminished by the opponent's willpower.
Skill: [Marching Cadence], Level 4 (0%) The conditioning to maintain a steady pace over long distances without rest. Grants a bonus to Endurance when force-marching.
Skill: [Weapon Maintenance], Level 4 (0%) The familiarity to care for and repair common weapons and armor in the field. Grants a bonus to Craft checks made to maintain gear.
Skill: [Formation Fighting], Level 4 (0%) The coordination to strike and defend in concert with allies in a disciplined unit. Grants a bonus to Attack and Defense when fighting in formation.
As the last skill settled into place, Kiel released a slow breath. The strain of extracting multiple skills left him light-headed, but it was a small price to pay.
As the last mote of power winked out, Kiel opened his status screen with a swipe. The blue window shimmered to life before him. He leaned in, eyes narrow, then barked an exultant laugh.
Name: Kiel Wexler
Class: [Skill Trainer] (Level 4, 50/2500 XP)
HP: 44/45
MP: 12/48
STR: 32
DEX: 44
CON: 29
INT: 44
WIS: 45
CHA: 39
Kiel stared at his status screen, the glowing numbers a reminder of his progress and limitations. At level 4, he had come a long way from the scrawny street rat he'd once been. But he knew he still had a long road ahead if he wanted to truly excel in his chosen Class.
His physical stats, STR, DEX, and CON, had been the easiest to improve initially. After having been expelled from his clan, life as a young urchin involved scraping by on the meanest streets of the city, which meant he'd had plenty of opportunities to hone his strength, agility, and resilience. Hauling crates at the docks, scaling walls to escape angry shopkeeps, enduring long stretches without food or shelter - it had all served to toughen his body and sharpen his reflexes.
But he'd quickly learned that such organic growth had its limits. Once a stat reached 10, it became exponentially harder to increase through natural means. To push past that threshold required deliberate training and, more importantly, stat allocation.
Kiel grimaced as he recalled his early attempts to game the system. He'd naively assumed that he could pump all of his level-up points into a single stat, turning himself into a peerless master thief or an unbeatable brawler overnight. But he was told by others that the world, it seemed, enforced a certain balance.
Stat allocation was capped by Class level - he couldn't raise a stat higher than the maximum range for his current level.
So, while breaking through to level 4 had granted him 20 precious stat points to distribute, he couldn't funnel them all into DEX or STR. He had to spread them out judiciously, shoring up his weaknesses while still playing to his strengths. It was a maddening exercise in restraint and foresight, trying to predict what skills he might need down the line.
The mental stats, INT and WIS, were even trickier. Kiel had always been a quick study, absorbing knowledge like a sponge whenever he could steal a moment with a discarded book or eavesdrop on a learned conversation. That natural curiosity, coupled with a keen eye for observation, had allowed him to gradually raise his INT and WIS to a respectable level.
But again, once he'd hit that threshold of 10, progress had slowed to a crawl. He'd had to get creative, finding ways to challenge his mind and expand his understanding of the world. Picking pockets was all well and good, but it didn't exactly stimulate the intellect.
So he'd started frequenting the public lectures in the city square, lurking at the back of the crowd and straining to follow the convoluted arguments of philosophers and scholars. He'd sneak into the temple libraries, poring over dense tomes of history and arcane theory until his eyes crossed and his head throbbed.
It was slow going, but he could feel his mental faculties sharpening, his ability to analyze and extrapolate growing with each passing day. And with that growth came a corresponding uptick in his INT and WIS stats, a gratifying validation of his efforts.
Of course, the most efficient way to boost those stats was to use skills that directly relied on them. Kiel had recently acquired a few such skills, including [Analyze] and [Decipher], that allowed him to break down complex problems and see past surface deceptions. By repeatedly using these skills, he could simultaneously increase their potency and his own mental acuity.
But that method was not without its drawbacks. Overusing a skill could lead to mental fatigue and even burnout, temporarily crippling the associated stat. Kiel had learned that lesson the hard way, pushing himself too hard and ending up bedridden for days, his mind lost in a fog of exhaustion.
Since then, he'd been more cautious, pacing himself and balancing his skill training with other pursuits. Slow and steady, as the saying went. It was a marathon, not a sprint.
The last piece of the puzzle was MP and HP. These stats were closely tied to Class level, increasing by a fixed amount each time he advanced. But they could also be subtly influenced by Kiel's actions and choices.
Every time he pushed his magical abilities to their limit, draining his MP down to the dregs, he could feel his reserves growing a bit larger, like a muscle tearing and rebuilding itself stronger. It was a risky gambit, leaving him vulnerable in the short term. But the long-term benefits were undeniable.
HP worked much the same way, though Kiel was understandably warier of flirting with death for the sake of a few extra hit points. Still, in the course of his adventures and misadventures, he'd had more than a few close brushes with oblivion. Each time, as he clawed his way back from the brink, he could sense his life force expanding, his body adapting to better withstand future trauma.
It was a delicate balancing act, pushing himself to the edge without tipping over. But Kiel had always thrived on that razor's edge between risk and reward.
Kiel’s eyes went to the unspent points, a tantalizing "20" that seemed to beam at him, begging to be used.
He considered his options carefully. As a [Skill Trainer], he knew that INT and WIS were crucial stats. They governed his ability to analyze and manipulate the complex metaphysical structures of skills and classes. Without a keen mind and deep understanding, he would be little more than a hack, fumbling in the dark.
He allocated 5 points to INT and 4 to WIS. It was a significant investment, but one he knew would pay dividends in the long run.
As he confirmed the allocation, he felt a rush of energy surge through his mind. It was like a veil had been lifted, the world coming into sharp, crystalline focus. Connections that had once eluded him now seemed obvious, patterns and possibilities unfolding in his enhanced awareness.
Kiel shivered, a giddy laugh bubbling up in his throat. No matter how many times he experienced it, he never got used to the heady thrill of cognitive ascension. It was addictive, this feeling of sudden, immense potential. Like he could conquer the world with nothing but the power of his mind.
But he couldn't neglect his physical stats. As much as he relied on his intellect, there were times when a quick escape or sturdy constitution could mean the difference between life and death. He'd learned that lesson the hard way, through close calls and narrow escapes that still haunted his dreams.
He put 5 points into DEX, feeling his muscles twitch and tighten as the energy suffused them. He imagined himself darting through the shadows, evading pursuit with preternatural grace and speed. Let the [Brutes] try to catch him now - he'd dance circles around them, always one step ahead.
For the final 6 points, he chose CON. It was a practical decision, if not a glamorous one. A resilient body could weather all manner of abuse, shrugging off blows and resisting the ravages of fatigue and illness. In his line of work, where a single mistake could spell disaster, that extra margin of endurance could be a lifesaver.
As the last of the points flowed into his chosen stats, Kiel closed his eyes and savored the rush of power. He could feel his body changing, knitting itself into a leaner, tougher version of itself. His skin prickled with newfound vitality, his breath coming easier as his lungs expanded.
It was a heady cocktail of sensations, almost overwhelming in its intensity. Kiel rode the wave of euphoria, letting it wash over him and carry him to new heights of physical and mental prowess. In that moment, he felt invincible, untouchable. Like he could take on the entire world and emerge victorious.
But he knew better than to get lost in the rush. Power was seductive, but it was also fleeting. He had to use it wisely, channeling it towards his goals and ambitions. He couldn't afford to rest on his laurels or grow complacent. There was always more to learn, more skills to acquire, more challenges to overcome.
Kiel opened his eyes, his gaze falling on the updated status screen. The numbers had shifted, reflecting his new and improved stats.
Name: Kiel Wexler
Class: [Skill Trainer] (Level 4, 50/2500 XP)
HP: 44/45
MP: 12/48
STR: 32
DEX: 49
CON: 35
INT: 49
WIS: 49
CHA: 39
Kiel felt a surge of pride and satisfaction at the tangible proof of his growth. But there was no time to bask in the achievement. He had work to do, he had a body to dispose of.
With a sigh, Kiel pushed off from the wall and crossed to the soldier. He gathered up his tools, the runes on their handles still warm from channeled mana. The stitched wound on the man's abdomen was already fading, the flesh knitting together in spurred regeneration. By this time tomorrow, it would be little more than a pink line, easily mistaken for a battle scar.
He collected the last drops of blood and alchemical ichor with a soft cloth, then tucked it away with the rest of the power-latent materials in his bag. No sense in letting it go to waste. The base elements of the man would fuel his future works.
"Thank you for your generous donation," Kiel murmured, sketching a mock bow. "Your contribution to the advancement of the thaumaturgical arts is noted and appreciated."
He turned to the single shelf on the far wall and retrieved one of the small, unmarked vials from their niche. The liquid within shone a sickly, iridescent green in the light. He always kept a handful prepared, for situations such as this. The draft of the eternal sleep, an alchemist of the past had called it, before his own lips had closed around the mouth of the bottle and his eyes closed, never to open again.
But Kiel didn't bother with such melodrama. It was a tool, no more, no less. He uncorked the vial with his thumb and bent over the soldier, pinching the man's nostrils shut with one hand as the other smoothly tipped the vial against his slack lips. The body twitched once, limbs spasming, then subsided. The last rattling breath wheezed out of its lungs and its eyes rolled back, fixing on the ceiling.
Kiel watched the whole process with clinical detachment. The entire affair took less than ten seconds.
He stoppered the empty vial and pocketed it, running through his mental checklist. The corpse would need to be stripped and wiped down with antiseptic tinctures. The clothes and boots could be resold, after mending. The meat...well, it wouldn't do to let it spoil. The Flensers down in Charnel Row could always find a use for a large man, densely muscled. They'd give him a fair price for it, and no questions asked.
The bones he'd render down to ash in his athanor and sprinkle in the public gardens. No one would suspect a [Pharmacist] apprentice out for a morning walk, a bag of powder slung over his shoulder. Likely they'd assume it was a delivery, some exotic herb or mineral salt for his tinctures.
The invisibility of the underestimated, his greatest camouflage.
The blood, of course, he'd keep. Mana-rich hemolymph from a high-level body was too precious to waste. He'd distill it in his alembic, refine it to a single pure drop of carmine promise. With the right binders and reagents, it would make a potent addition to his mana potions, but that would have to wait till he was able to establish a new identity as an [Alchemist].