Aric’s hand trembled as he stared at the ground where his father had fallen. The dust stirred gently in the wind, as if mocking him with its silence. The shard, the Un, his father—it was all too much to comprehend. His chest still burned where the shard had touched him, the power of his father’s Labor coursing through his veins, unfamiliar and overwhelming.

“Aric.” Tavrin’s voice broke the heavy silence. His grip on Aric’s shoulder tightened. “We need to leave. Now.”

Aric didn’t respond. His mind was a storm of conflicting emotions—grief, confusion, anger. His father had been gone for three years, lost to the Deadlands, lost to the Crater’s Miasma, to the Un. Yet here he had been, twisted into one of the very monsters they fought. And now… the shard. The power. The sacrifice.

“Aric!” Tavrin’s voice was sharper this time, urgency lacing his words. “We’re too close to the Crater. If that Un was just the beginning, we’re in more danger than you realize.”

Aric finally looked up, his gaze locking with Tavrin’s. The others in the patrol stood at a distance, unease written on their faces. None of them had moved closer, as if afraid to step near the place where the Un—where his father—had been.

“We have to report this,” Tavrin said, his tone firm. “What we saw… the shard… your father…”

The mention of his father sent another wave of pain through Aric’s chest, but it was mixed with something else—something darker. His fists clenched. His father’s last words echoed in his mind: You must survive.

“I need answers,” Aric said quietly, his voice hoarse. “What happened to him? How did he… how did any of this happen?”

Tavrin sighed, his expression softening, but only slightly. “We don’t know what the Crater is fully capable of. No one who’s gone there has come back the same. Some say the Prime Evil’s Miasma still whispers to the dead, twisting them, corrupting them.” He glanced at the place where the Un had disappeared. “Whatever the truth is, we can’t afford to linger here.”

Aric nodded slowly, but the weight of his father’s Labor pressed on him like a boulder. His father had been a master swordsman, known throughout the village for his skill and dedication. Aric had inherited his Talent for marksmanship, something that had always set him apart from his father’s path. Now, without warning, without choice, the sword was his burden too—yet it felt alien, incomplete.

As they trekked back toward the village, Aric flexed his hand absentmindedly. His Marksmanship Talent always manifested in the same way: a sleek, black rifle appearing from thin air when he called for it. Talents in this world were not just skills—they were physical manifestations of a person’s lineage and natural ability. The stronger the connection to a Talent, the more powerful the manifestation became.

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For Aric, the rifle had started out small, almost crude when he was younger. Over time, as he honed his aim and his confidence grew, the weapon evolved with him, becoming more refined, more deadly. The bond between him and his Talent was deep, a connection forged by years of practice. The rifle wasn’t just a tool—it was an extension of him, as much a part of his identity as his own hands. In battle, the rifle was quick to manifest, its barrel steady in his grip, and each shot was guided by his instinct.

But no matter how much he improved with his marksmanship, it wasn’t a sword.

The Labor his father had bestowed upon him—the mastery of swordsmanship—felt foreign, as if his body wasn’t designed to wield it. Labors were not like Talents. They were earned through grueling effort, through years of practice and discipline. Each person could only acquire two Labors in their lifetime, and while they provided immense skill, they didn’t transform the user’s body. Aric had inherited his father’s swordsmanship Labor, but his body had never been trained for it. The techniques, the knowledge—it was all there, but his muscles weren’t conditioned for the sword’s demands.

As the village came into view, Aric’s thoughts were haunted by the nagging realization that his father’s Labor felt wrong in his hands. He had the knowledge, the techniques, the muscle memory, but his body hadn’t been forged for the sword. His muscles ached in ways they hadn’t before, straining to keep up with the demands of a master swordsman’s precision.

When they reached the village gates, Tavrin gave a few quick instructions to the guards before turning back to Aric.

“We’ll debrief with the council tomorrow morning. For now, go home and rest.” His eyes narrowed slightly, a hint of concern creeping into his voice. “And be careful. That shard, your father’s Labor… there’s more going on here than we understand.”

Aric nodded but said nothing. He was too tired, too overwhelmed to respond. The patrol dispersed, leaving Aric alone with his thoughts.

Inside his home, Aric sat by the hearth, staring at his hands. He willed the sword to appear, calling forth the manifestation of his father’s Labor. For a moment, there was a flicker—a shadow of a blade—but it faded before fully forming.

His chest tightened in frustration. This isn’t working, he thought. I have the knowledge, the techniques… but my body isn’t made for this. He could feel the weight of the swordsmanship locked within him, but every attempt to summon it felt like trying to lift a boulder with bare hands.

He stood, pacing restlessly across the small room. His mind drifted to his rifle. With a simple thought, he called it forth, and immediately, it appeared in his hands—solid, reliable, a part of him. His rifle was sleek and black, its surface cool beneath his fingers, and it always felt like an extension of his will. Over the years, his Talent had grown, the rifle becoming more advanced as his marksmanship improved. He could hit a target over a mile away without hesitation. As his control over the Talent deepened, he could manifest specialized ammunition—bullets that ricocheted, pierced armor, or even tracked moving targets. It had become an art form, one he had mastered.

But he had no such mastery with the sword.

Aric swung the rifle up to his shoulder, feeling the familiar weight in his hands. He aimed at the wall, his eyes focusing on an invisible target. Even without pulling the trigger, he could feel his Talent working—his vision sharpening, his mind calculating the distance, the wind, the angle. Marksmanship was more than just shooting. It was an instinct, a way of seeing the world with clarity, of knowing where everything around you was at any given moment.

He let the rifle dissipate, the weapon vanishing into thin air, and sat back down heavily. The power of his father’s Labor still lingered inside him, but it was dormant, waiting for a body that could handle its demands. His muscles were still weak, untrained for the brutal efficiency of swordsmanship. Even if he had the skill, his body wasn’t ready for it.

His mind buzzed with unanswered questions. Why had his father been carrying the shard? What did the shard do? How could he possibly wield both his Talent and his father’s Labor when they seemed to be at odds?

A knock at the door interrupted his thoughts. He stood and opened it, surprised to see a young woman standing there, cloaked in shadow. Her eyes were sharp, focused, filled with an intensity that made Aric’s heart skip a beat.

“Aric,” she said, her voice calm but insistent. “I know what you have. And I know what’s coming next.”