Tomorrow. The word hung in Jace’s mind like a blade suspended by a thread, sharp and inevitable. Tonight, though, he lay on his cot, staring at the jagged dance of shadows across the ceiling. The dim glow of his quarters cast everything in muted gray, the only splash of color the faint black smudges staining his fingertips.

Ink, dark and stubborn, clung to his skin—a relic from the journal entry he’d poured himself into. His fingers bore the marks of hasty scribbles, crossed-out lines, and moments of hesitation where the quill had hovered too long over the page.

In a world of vibrant magic, where gods shaped existence with a word and monsters shattered reality on a whim, it was strange that something as mundane as ink could unsettle him. It wasn’t blood. It wasn’t ash. Just ink. Yet the way it streaked his fingers, etched into the grooves of his skin, made him pause. Not because of what it was, but because of what it meant.

The ink was a reminder of the words he’d written—half-formed thoughts, desperate questions, and fears he couldn’t quite bring himself to say aloud. Proof that no matter how far he’d come, no matter the power he’d claimed, he was still human. Still fumbling with fragments of understanding, trying to stitch them together into something that made sense.

He pressed his fingers together, smudging the ink further, feeling the slick, tacky texture grind between them. He let out a long, slow breath, as if he could exhale the weight of it all.

The divine notification had come earlier, the sterile ping of the system as unfeeling as a factory bell.

You are requested in the Underworld Offices before the Winter Games departure. Prepare.

Prepare for what? Jace had no idea. Something awful, probably. It usually was.

He sat up, dragging a hand through his hair and shaking off the fog of half-finished thoughts clinging to him like cobwebs. The faint tang of iron and ozone hung in the air, a lingering reminder of the summoning ritual he'd been working on earlier. The room still felt charged, like the echoes of his magic hadn’t quite settled.

He was experimenting—trying to mold weapons out of aether, shaping them into something tangible, something deadly. It was easier said than done. Ever since he Ranked up to Silver and unlocked Affinities for both Soul and Truth, he’d felt… sharper. The power coursing through him came with new insights, sure, but also new frustrations. His abilities listed on the Character Sheet were just the tip of the iceberg, the parts the System acknowledged because he was finally starting to grasp them. The rest? Those he’d have to figure out on his own. Trial and error. Heavy on the error.

He’d figured out something most Travelers didn’t: the System wasn’t some benevolent force handing out powers like candy, or even dishing out EXP. It didn’t grant anything. All it did was measure what was already there, tallying it up and filing it neatly so his mind could make sense of this bizarre new world.

The System didn’t give him power—it just labeled it, organized it, and tried to help him not lose his grip on reality. The System wasn't the cause, but rather, the effect.

Lately, he’d been focusing on Soul Swords—blades formed from his will, drawn from the aether like molten light. For a few seconds, they felt real in his hands, humming with a power that was almost intoxicating. But they never lasted. The swords would flicker and vanish, draining his reserves faster than he could stabilize them.

Unauthorized duplication: this tale has been taken without consent. Report sightings.

The real issue was his aether pool. He wasn’t just burning through it for the swords; a hefty chunk was being siphoned off constantly to fuel his Ring—the White Raven Familiar. It was still recovering, its essence fractured from the last battle it had, so many years ago, and the only way to nurse it back to full strength was to keep feeding it.

It hurt—both his pride and his progression—but it felt worth it.

Still, as he flexed his fingers and felt the telltale tingle of aether sparking beneath his skin, he couldn’t help but wonder how much longer he could afford the cost.

He checked its status, the progress bar crawling upward at an infuriatingly slow pace.

89% replenished.

Close, but not close enough.

He checked his inventory, fingers flicking through the menus with the ease of someone who’d done it a thousand times. Each item, neatly cataloged by the System, appeared in glowing rows before him—armor, weapons, tools, even the odd trinket he wasn’t sure why he’d kept. He scrolled past the heavier sets, shaking his head. Too bulky. Not practical.

Finally, he settled on a suit that struck the right balance: lightweight, reinforced, and versatile enough for both combat and travel—it was something Twig had custom made for him. The material shimmered faintly as he selected it, the System automatically equipping it with a soft hum of aether.

He gave himself a once-over in the mirror. Dark hair, perpetually tousled, framed stormy gray eyes that stared back at him with a weariness he couldn’t quite shake. His face was lean, the kind of leanness born from too many skipped meals and too many nights spent running or fighting. His body told the same story—hardened by necessity, sharpened by survival.

But there was more now. Power thrummed beneath his skin, subtle but undeniable, a spark that hadn’t been there before Terra Mythica. It didn’t erase the scars or the sharp angles of his frame, but it added something else—something otherworldly.

Jace adjusted his robe, the black fabric clinging to him like shadow, the faint emblem of the white raven glinting on the back.

“Good enough,” Jace muttered, flexing his fingers and rolling his shoulders as the suit adjusted to his frame. He wasn’t sure what he’d need to face, but he wasn’t about to show up unprepared.

He straightened the moonstone pendant around his neck, letting out a slow, measured breath to steady himself. The Prismata Shard, its soft silver glow pulsing in time with his heartbeat, felt cool against his skin. It wasn’t just jewelry or some flashy bauble. The shard could be worn or absorbed into him, its essence becoming a part of his very being. For now, he preferred to keep it external—something tangible to anchor him.

The pendant was more than a focus; it was a lifeline. A tether to the magic he was still struggling to fully control, a conduit that bridged his raw potential with the reality-bending forces of Terra Mythica. Without it, his power felt like a wild beast, barely leashed. With it? He had a chance to hold the chaos in his hands, to shape it, to wield it.

He checked over his status screen, glances quickly at his progress.

Silver Rank One.

It sounded impressive until you realized how far there was to go. Two Words of Power. That was it. Two Words, two Affinities, barely enough to scrape by in a world crawling with gods and monsters. He’d been practicing, trying to combine them, trying to unlock something greater. Progress came slow.

The Fields Below stretched before him, an endless maze of caverns and tunnels carved into the heart of Mount Olympus University. When Jace had first arrived, this place had been little more than a forgotten corner of the campus, a neglected shrine for a god no one cared to worship anymore.

Now, it was alive.