Jack lounged in his desk chair.

The sun had reached its zenith, warm light washing over the musty floorboards. He was alone but for the sound of his breathing.

After the previous two days, he’d decided to take one for himself—he could afford it, since a generous donation in the name of Oyster had shown up in his bank account. It had come with a note:

‘Better luck next time.’

She was mocking him. He needed to relax; order his chaotic thoughts into something resembling a cohesive image.

Of course, that was difficult with a sword spirit stuck in his head.

“Why don’t I have a name?” Her voice rang clear, skipping his ears with a note of bemusement.

He sighed inwardly. Shouldn’t your creator have named you?

“I don’t know who that is. It’s so unfair; all the other cool swords have names: Ziptide, Sword of Shennara, Zar’rac…”

Come up with one, then. I don’t need this nonsense on a day off.

“Okay, how about Alan?”

Sucking his teeth, he drummed his fingers on the desk. What kind of sword is called ‘Alan’? That’s way too boring.

“It’s a perfectly respectable name.” If she’d had a face, it would have been pouting.

He sighed. But it’s not a sword’s. Your name should be sharp and wicked and strike fear into the hearts of my enemies.

“Well…” She paused to ponder, and an irritating rhythm beat out in his brain. He could hear nothing else. It was like he had a direct line to Hell’s customer service desk.

Eye twitching, he pounded the desk. “No-one asked you to play hold music, you moron!”

The music halted. “No need to shout, I have the perfect idea. Are you ready?”

Hit me.

“Yes, you’d like that, wouldn’t you?”

Just tell me the damn name!

“Elphaba.” Her pride welled within him—it was strange feeling someone else’s emotion urging him to brag.

What welled from him was a little hotter, splashing crimson on his cheeks. “Wrong kind of Wicked, you moron!”

“Hmm… Johnny Corkscrew?”

That’s just a rip-off!

“If none of my ideas are good enough, then you come up with something!”

Picking up the scabbard, he brushed his fingers over it, drawing her and regarding her blade. It could have cut a piece of paper dropped from twenty metres; he figured she’d give a person the closest shave of their life.

“Razor,” he said, nodding. “Your name is Razor.”

He felt a flash of her approval, his spine tingling.

“I like the sound of that, actually. Very threatening.”

With a deep sigh, he rested his forehead on his hand. Now that’s over with, is there any way to cut this connection for a couple of hours?

She gasped. “Why would you want to do that? Especially when I have such a wonderful present for you!”

A chill ran through him. Whatever it is, I’m sure I’m not interested.

Chuckling, she flashed an image into his mind. More like a video, really; the events of the night before were accompanied by his memories.

“I live within you, Jack. I saw what you did last night, all of it. As you are now, can you protect what’s important to you? Will you rely on Lydia to protect you? But what if she’s outmatched, as she was then?”

He rolled his eyes. Should he be worried Razor’s invasiveness didn’t concern him? What’s your point?

“If you want to avoid repeating your failures, then you have no choice but to get stronger; luckily, I have a special technique for that.”

I already said we’re not doing a training arc!

“It’s the fiftieth chapter, and the stakes just rose, you have to do something! It won’t even feel like a training arc, and it’ll probably draw in even more readers!”

He cocked an eyebrow; he could at least hear her out. What is it, then?

Projecting a grin at him, she chuckled. “Only the most popular power-up in the world of web novels.”

We don’t need the suspense, just tell me.

“Cultivation.”

He slammed his face into the desk. Your idea of training is a genre shift? Give me a break!

“Everybody wins: both you and the story get a boost!”

How is cultivation even supposed to help? What am I cultivating?

“Magic, of course.”

I thought magic was done by channeling outside energy?

“It is, but that energy must still travel through pathways naturally present within you. The higher the quality, the easier it is.”

I see. He stroked his beard. And cultivating increases the quality.

Stolen content warning: this content belongs on Royal Road. Report any occurrences.

“That’s right! Unfortunately, yours are completely useless since you and your brothers summoned that—”

Oi, who gave you permission to rifle round in there? Stay out of my memories, dammit!

A warmth akin to a hand being placed there spread in his shoulder. “I’m sorry. Without any of my own, I found myself impossibly curious about yours.”

Contemplative silence bloomed in his soul, and he struggled for an appropriate thought. He wasn’t sure if she could hear ones not directed at her. Still, it was another reminder of the stark change in his old friend—and the circumstance which had led Razor to his possession.

It wasn’t her fault.

He sighed. We’ll get them back. I have unfinished business with Lea myself.

She giggled. “Not in your current state; you’re too weak.”

Thanks for the vote of confidence.

“Your pathways are basically decayed. You’re starting from the bottom, but don’t worry: it’s not a cultivation story without an OP protagonist who starts from nothing!”

It’s not a cultivation story at all!

“In any case, you’ll need to meditate to use the cultivation technique.”

Seems easy enough.

“Okay, first, I’m going to need you to take your clothes off.”

His eyes bugged from his head as he fell out of his chair. It wheeled away, and he glared at it, wishing great misfortune upon its family. A dull ache spread from his coccyx.

What the fuck is wrong with you, you perverted sword?!

“Should the Content Ratings Board really be so hypocritical?”

No-one remembers that joke! Besides, why do I need to take my clothes off to meditate?

“It helps the quintessence flow better,” she said, her voice shrinking.

Pressing his lips together, he exhaled. He climbed to his feet, pulling his t-shirt over his head with a glance at the window.

He wandered over and closed the curtains.

Unbuttoning his jeans, he started sliding them past his legs. It was a bit chilly.

“You should do a little dance, make it sexier.”

His face reddened. Shut up! He threw his jeans to the floor, removing his underpants with a sigh.

And there he stood, free as the day he was born; his fingers twitched uncontrollably at the guffawing ringing in his head.

“Ahaha… I can’t—I can’t believe you… actually did it!”

He picked up the blade, sending a glower even sharper than she was. You know, I’m not against going to Italy so I can throw you in a volcano.

Somehow, she managed to gulp, and followed it up with a nervous chuckle. “All jokes aside, why don’t we get started? Just sit down and clear your mind.”

After dressing himself, he sank into one of the sofas, closing his eyes and trying to think of nothing.

He snored.

“Augh!” A sharp shock jolted him awake.

“Don’t fall asleep while I’m teaching you my secret technique! This could be a matter of life or death.”

For the view count, maybe. He cradled his face. No-one’s gonna keep reading now.

“You people always say that, yet the readers are still here. Now clear your mind!”

He did as she told, evicting the fluttering thoughts and creating a void. When he felt the urge to open his eyes, he couldn’t resist, and found himself staring into the deep eyes of a giant woman in pointless armour.

“Now then,” she said. “Currently, your senses are focused in here. Cast them outside, and search for—”

“Not my first time channeling, remember?” Vision, hearing, smell, touch, taste. All five were sensitive to quintessence, in the way they’re all affected by differences in air. He reached for the energy surrounding his body, and fought to gather it.

Even inside his mind, he felt something pulsing through his body. Like liquid gold flowed in his veins.

It made him shiver and seize. But it was pleasant, and its flow revealed to him energies and patterns he’d never noticed before—though he hadn’t been looking.

He’d attempted magic precisely once in his life. It hadn’t ended well.

Lizzie had tried to teach him, but he was staunch in his refusal. Was now going to be different?

He had to try, he supposed. Life was getting more dangerous, and he refused to let himself repeat his past mistakes. They’d promised to protect him.

He needed to return the favour.

Who would protect him from Lydia, he didn’t know, but maybe he could learn to block the gravity thing.

On second thoughts, cultivation was a great idea.

***

Three hours later, Jack sighed, head propped on his hand.

Nothing’s happening; I don’t feel any different.

“You have to give it some time.”

He groaned. How long am I supposed to give it? This is killing me; I’m going out.

In his mind, she slammed a fist into a palm. “That’s a great idea! Maybe you’ll meet another cultivator and end up in a—”

We’re not changing the genre!

Thunderously, he tore his jacket from the back of his chair and stormed out.

Patting Choo-chooin’s head as he passed, he turned left out of his door. The turtle shifted an eye to him, more interested in the head of lettuce it was devouring.

He walked south down Central Drive for a while, taking a few turns and ending up at the park. It was a relaxing place, with plenty of peaceful corners and benches—except on bandstand nights, when one was better served looking for quiet at the end of an exhaust pipe.

The clean, crisp air wafted up his nostrils, bringing the savoury smell of food stalls and cafés with it. Light chatter washed across the expansive grounds. A few people ambled and walked dogs, but most were enjoying their central heating at home.

The shiver shocked him to attention. He had things to consider, decisions to make.

And magic to learn, apparently, once this cultivation thing started working.

“Okay, it should be kicking in now.”

Glancing about himself, he nodded. He was near the park’s centre, surrounded by winding pathways and benches and rows of hedges. A row of small buildings stretched out thirty feet away.

Gurgling ripped through his stomach. He doubled over.

Oi. Hands clutching his midsection, he growled. What the fuck is going on here?!

His insides roiled, becoming so full they threatened to burst.

Razor hummed. “That’s strange. Try taking a look at the status screen.”

He bunched a fist. I don’t need a status screen, I need a toilet! Stop trying to change the genre!

“Look, just yell ‘status’ and we might find out what’s wrong.”

With a sigh, he said, “status,” his voice flatter than a coyote fooled by a painting of a train tunnel.

Before him popped up a row of words and numbers, hovering in the air:

[Jack Of All Trades

Wretch/Level -24]

“Who are you calling a wretch!” he screamed, drawing odd looks from a pair of women walking past him. They spied the sword at his waist and hurried along. “And why is my level negative?”

“It doesn’t matter, just keep going.”

[HP: 6/109 MP: 0/0

Strength: 9

Dexterity: 14

Constitution: 18

Intelligence: 11

Wisdom: 15

Charisma: -1862]

He grabbed his hair. “What’s with all the negative values; how are people not just attacking me in the street with that charisma?!”

Razor sighed. “You know you’re talking out loud, yes?”

Like I care! Why’s my HP so low, dammit?!

“Look, you’re nearly there: all you have to do is read the next line.”

He did, and he lost control of his facial muscles. His foot started tapping, and his jaw locked as he flared his nostrils.

[Status: Slightly Runny]

“That’s not helpful at all!”