Chapter 20 - Nightfall (Part 1)

Everything went wrong from the start.

After Orieke gave all of them their tasks, the [Perfumer] placed himself at the back of their little entourage, holding onto the foul vial he had threatened them with like an executioner’s axe.

There was no mercy in his eyes. Since the moment Dominic stared at those dark orbs, watching the imp impassively doom Merino to hours of cold weather and slice a limb from a Nightmare’s body, the elderly man had known the [Perfumer] was fully serious.

The threat was real. Cold. And at the same time it hung heavily in the air, it did give a spring to their step by nudging that most primal part of their brains – the one that’d do anything to see the sun another day. So, against any better judgment, they complied.

For Dominic Jones, his task was simple. He’d have to sew a paw back onto a Nightmare’s carcass and find a way to do it while moving. The problem, as Dominic soon learned after trying to walk the first steps with the body in his hands, was that he didn’t have either the limbs, the flexibility, or the strength necessary to hold a carcass, needle, and paw at the same time.

Not only that but after a couple of minutes spent huffing and puffing as he tried to follow the other two trainees, he was already feeling short of breath and had gained an eye-twitch that responded every time he ended up stabbing his fingers with the needle – which was never a good indicative of someone’s condition.

“Come on! How am I even supposed to carry all of this?”

He snapped towards Orieke, who had the audacity of smirking at him, waving that cursed bottle of his and refusing to answer.

Kurian shot him a look from his position, but he was far too preoccupied with his own problems to be of any assistance. The poor boy’s distraction earned him another failure against the shadow, making him jump high as the cold of Orieke’s spell set deep.

With a sigh, Dominic lowered his arms after another botched attempt at beginning his task. There had to be a way he could do it. Orieke was a sadistic devil out for his skin, but he had yet to pose them a challenge they couldn’t overcome – or recuperate from.

Actually… Did he even know the [Perfumer] that well? A day was not long enough to learn how someone thought of things.

Still, that didn’t mean he wouldn’t rise to the challenge proposed – that was the whole deal after all, wasn’t it? To do impressive things for levels?

So the elderly man continued to drag the heavy body and thought, taking some time before giving another attempt at it. To better aid him, Dominic even called for all the information he had.

“System? Could you show me my status, please – ah. Thank you.”

Welcome to The Universal System.

Dominic Jones, Son of Theodor Jones.

May you develop successfully.

Status

Name

Dominic Emilio Jones

Titles

Tutorial Participant

Race

Ghost

Type

Undead

Primary Class

[Death Doctor] - Level 5

Secondary Class

LOCKED

Tertiary Class

LOCKED

Skills

[Tool: Spectral Scalpel], [Undying Heart], [A Final Conversation], [Aggravate Wounds]

Grimoire

[Spare the Dying], [False Life], [Sterilize], [Appraisal]

Paths

Path of The Elder (2/3)

Path of The Manager (1/5)

Path of The Death Doctor (0/3)

Path of The Tutorial (0/3)

—

Hmmm. Things were still the same from last time, since without a level or a Path there was nothing to be gained, but Dominic still took some time to re-read things again.

It made him sigh in defeat. None of his Skills would work well right now – and unless he was willing to burn [Undying Heart] just to sew, there was nothing he could do. No, wrong thought, there was something he could do – Dominic just hadn’t found it yet.

Dominic Jones sighed and took another step forward, sending nasty looks towards Orieke while he adjusted the heavy body over his shoulders. Without any reaction from the [Perfumer], he was doomed to think.

Well… there was one ability granted by his death that wasn’t displayed on the status screen. Focusing on it, and feeling the recovering essence required for it, Dominic Jones closed his eyes and tried to possess the most logical object – after ensuring the thread would not escape by tying a knot on its end.

As usual, the [Death Doctor] tried to send his consciousness into the needle, expecting a change of perspective as easy as when he shifted himself into his cane – but after a second attempt, and a sharp headache growing behind his eyes, Dominic Jones realized it wouldn’t work. He kept hitting something, a wall, and his metaphorical forehead was already bleeding from the impact.

Why? He brought the needle closer to his face, trying to inspect anything that would ward it against his possession – but it was simply carved bone, as straight as a lance and sharp enough to set a hole in a sheet of steel. It was unnatural, yes, but that shouldn’t mean his ability wouldn’t work on it.

Well, if one way doesn’t work then it’s time to change tactics. The problem was…

The only other thing to possess was the carcass.

Dominic Jones had his reservations when it came to entering a Nightmare’s corpse. A healthy amount of hesitation rose from the fact that, despite being incarnations of all that is most dreadful, they constantly tried to kill him and eat his undead flesh. And as far as roommates go, the [Death Doctor] was not willing to share space with one of them, regardless if they were dead or not.

Beyond that – it felt like too much. Was he truly willing to… become that? How much more of his self-preserved humanity was he willing to chop and cut to fit into whatever was needed to survive this place?

But if it helped… He froze for a second, almost missing a step as his disgust and trepidation wavered in front of the most logical of arguments, his mind betraying him with another perspective.

Imagine what he could do with a body like that. Resistant to impact, filled with natural weapons, able to fight far more viciously than his puny human one. And even if he ended up spending all of his energy in five minutes, that would still be a far more fierce fight than he had ever partaken on.

Plus, no pain. There were no muscles to ache while possessing something.

Dominic opened his eyes, and they shone with longing as he looked at the corpse. He took a shaky breath, the promise of a painless existence simply too good to pass by.

“Ah, fine. Fine, fine! Just for this one task, Dominic. You just have to do it. Lord forgive me.”

With a thought, Dominic Jones called for that instinct inside his chest – that trigger itching to be pulled, pressurized by the growing essence death had granted him – and, much like a ghost, disappeared.

What he found was comfort never once felt before. The inside of the Nightmare, all those channels where once flowed dark blood and that foul flesh as black as pitch, now enveloped him, like the warmest of hugs. No, more than that – like a blanket capable of fighting against the most piercing cold, so fluffy and warm and safe that the world outside turned irrelevant.

This was a Nightmare? He couldn’t believe it. How could something so destructive and horrible feel so perfect? So… good?

God, it was better than his own bed. And he had paid a lot to get the most comfortable sleep possible. His pillows were eiderdown for heaven’s sake!

And yet, this beat it. There had to be something wrong – some type of price – but when Dominic Jones tested the lungs of the Devourer Dog and exhaled the remains of air in a sign of unholy life, no judgment from heaven descended on him. It was–

He halted the thought immediately, shaking his head as if to dispel a bad trip. That was the price. He couldn’t tell why it felt so good to be one with a Nightmare – nor what kind of twisted evolution would lead to such a characteristic – but Dominic Jones vowed to pay attention to the siren’s song that was possessing one.

Quietly, the [Death Doctor] snuggled within the creature and tried to learn what he could about the beast – not that he could infer much of anything, as anatomy was not within his knowledge – but he did take the reins of the legs. Well, all three of them.

And only that.

In his defense, it was hard to consciously move every single muscle and bone responsible for walking – and no amount of instinct granted by this capability of his was enough to bridge the gap of brain power required to do so – so it was less of a walk and more like a newborn calf testing its legs. Forever.

And yet, he’d have to do that and more. To complete the idea he had in mind, a fledgling thing that was more intent than precise planning, Dominic would have to successfully do what he had done while fighting these creatures – reach that state of half-corporeality and sew the leg from the inside. While moving.

It sounded stupid even to him, but the elderly man couldn’t think of anything else – and with Orieke pressuring them all, there had been no time to contemplate another possibility.

No. If he was going to do this, then he had to be clever about his energy and time – and that meant putting his focus only on what was necessary.

So… what was that? The [Death Doctor] spread his consciousness fully, touching upon the complete internal system of the Nightmare and serving as its final judge.

His first stop was on the bowels of the creature – and that had been the most disgusting of mistakes. He ignored it completely after that, trying not to remember the sight of its inner stomach.

Then went the heart – and the [Death Doctor] realized there was no need to pump any blood. It would be an odd silence, but he took the savings from where he could.

The lungs and the nose found the same fate – especially after Dominic tried to use the creature’s snout to inhale and was almost knocked out after the multitude of olfactory stimuli entered his brain. Like seeing new shades of color, it was a dizzying, eldritch experience that left him dizzy and winded out without ever taking a breath.

As a precaution, he locked that area away for good, putting a proverbial red sign atop it. He went back and placed one on top of the bowels as well, though that one was sharply yellow and looked too much like a radiation warning.

Now, what was left? Hmm, how about sight? The creature only had one functional eye left but it would be nice to see beyond the small radius of awareness Dominic’s possession gave him.

Then again… Orieke did say he’d protect them. Hmmm. Alright, on it is. No need to trust the imp blindly.

Alright, what else? Hearing? Yep, that’s a must. If the others were to talk with him, even if the Devourer Dog’s throat was unable to produce a response, he wanted to know what was being said.

So, that left him with one eye open, functional ears, and legs that couldn’t by the life of them work in synchronicity. The outcome… didn’t look great.

Dominic’s half attempt at controlling the Devourer Dog wasn’t a clean thing. His divided focus meant too many areas were still dead, such as most of the musculature, and he was unable to coordinate two movements at once, so the legs he didn’t focus on buckled under the weight of the body.

And he had to move. Taking control over the muzzle and neck for a second, Dominic clamped the creature’s jaw shut against the limb and the needle, dragging the spool of thread over the ground.

Slowly, then, Dominic began to put one leg in front of the other, a single eye open to see the distance created between himself and the others while he learned to use the Nightmare’s body. A distance that was too large, and when he managed to turn around – and by that, he meant completely, like a toy affixed to an axle, instead of moving only his neck – he saw that Orieke had stopped behind him, a trickster’s smile on his lips as he stared at the horizon and the others.

Not stopping didn’t mean always advancing. Dominic had forgotten that. Slowly, silently, the Nightmare began to move – one paw in front of the other. Many times it rose too much, or landed with little strength, making the limb waver and his gait turn into a broken, unnatural thing, but he was definitely getting farther away.

He took his time, a whole ten minutes, before risking losing his focus on the legs.

And meanwhile, the others faced their own hurdles.

***

To say Merino was having a hard time would be an understatement. The cold was spreading deep into his bones, and the supernatural properties of it -- derived from its Nightmarish origins -- made it have an almost physical weight to it.

This was not the absence of heat, stolen by a lower temperature. This was cold, insidious and overgrown and all too willing to pressure you into submission or turn you into an icicle, whichever came first.

Worst of all? Merino knew this wasn’t the worst they’d contend with. Star above, they weren’t even close to the true fear of the cold that was the central domain, surrounding the Frozen Gates, and he was already shivering just as hard as during the harshest winter he had ever faced.

There was no way his Tonic of Warmth could protect them in the final domain. They would hold here, where the temperatures were freezing but still natural, despite the properties of the cold – but beyond here? Where temperatures dropped until it froze the blood in your veins? They’d need a Potion of Cold Resistance or something greater to keep themselves protected.

And he was no [Alchemist]. He was an [Apothecary], a maker of medicines and remedies, the person you went to when facing a cold or had a sore back. More than that, he was an [Apothecary of Herbal Remedies], and all his knowledge involved from herbs to tree trunks. Anything that could go into a pestle and came from plants.

His master had a way of differentiating the Classes, back when she still lived. Vyraka, as a [Botanist], had her own fair share of people asking her for potions – all requests which she met with the closest thing she could use to break their backs with, usually a broom or chair – and it had made her ponder on the differences for long.

Her conclusions were simple:

[Alchemists] were givers, an additional source of magic to turn the mundane into magic.

[Apothecaries] were manipulators, responsible for dealing with the innate energies of their ingredients.

[Botanists] were scholars, knowledgeable about all plant life.

[Florists], like the only other student she had, were enhancers, providers of beauty.

And [Gardeners] were nurturers, responsible for protecting lives.

The distinctions made it clear where one stood in their path – and also revealed their shortcomings. Right now, Merino was facing one such.

He took a hand towards the bandoleer, spinning it around his chest to find the right ingredient. On his other hand, his pestle and mortar had been summoned with a quick call of the Skill – the gray stone, speckled with white, a source of familiar weight.

And yet, he hadn’t begun. Time was passing by – soon, he’d reach the first limit Orieke gave him and one of the others would have to face the cold alongside him – and Merino still didn’t move beyond adding a few herbs onto the pestle.

He stared at the ones already in with a grimace. [Focused Mind] burned on his brain, making him able to ignore the worst effects of the cold well enough so that Merino was able to think – but it also made his attention narrow in on every mistake.

And the measurements were untrustworthy. It took him almost a minute to dislodge his perception from the herbs he eyeballed into the recipe, his brain protesting the lack of precision – and that happened with every ingredient.

The anxiety made him sweat and shake even further. To deal with plants, especially magical ones like the Empress’s Nectar, an edible flower, meant knowing the dosage used in every recipe was the difference between a tasty syrup or bloating up as if stung by an entire hive of bees. Precision was key – and Merino had none.

“[Remove Impurities].”

The [Apothecary] called for one more use of his Skill, cleaning the amber drizzle from the petals until all that was left was a small, orange flower – bereft of the honeyed glaze that made it so attractive and tasty. He put it in the pestle with the others.

Fifteen minutes had passed. But he was done. Merino sighed, the worst of the tension leaving his shoulders. He’d have to repeat this same selection two other times – he couldn’t run the risk of multiplying the recipe without his tools – but it was done. All there was to do now, as [Focused Mind] ran like lightning, was to grind the plants into a paste.

Empress’s Nectar. Ashroot. Sunflower. The ingredients for the tonic were simple. Cheap, even. Their innate magic was pure heat, and as Merino ground them, even his tools began to warm up.

He took a deep breath to ground himself. That much heat meant power was leaking – a spillage that, like light, denoted a lack of control. The [Apothecary] licked his lips and began anew. His hold of the magic within the pestle – colored sparks that appeared every time his mortar hit the stone – turned tighter as he put all of his mind into it.

His legs moved automatically, guiding him forward under the aegis of the elder and allowing Merino to fully focus on unifying the energy after the plants were turned into mush. Released from within the plants and held still by the bubble protecting the mortar – a feat of basic mana manipulation he learned from his teacher – the sparks of energy still held onto the characteristics where it came from, pieces of its origin that would have to be stripped off it Merino wanted a true Tonic of Warmth.

The sunflower’s energy – that spiky, carnivorous plant that spent eternity glaring at the Scarlet Star – still had traits of its madness and confusion, properties that could turn it into a mild hallucinogenic or inefficient anesthesia and were completely useless to the [Apothecary]. So, with a pair of tweezers woven out of sheer mana and the intense knowledge granted by [Compile Botanical Properties] – a Skill he had gained after completing his apprenticeship – Merino began the hard task of cleaning the arcane mixture spark by spark.

And though his mind focused intently, ensuring the process happened as quickly as possible without any great mistakes, his heart still shrunk with a bitter truth.

He would never finish it all in time.

***

Kurian, Son of Nifestu, couldn’t stand the cold.

It was the oddest feeling, having his uncle’s perfume keeping the frost away from his body and soul, embracing his skin like a blanket, only to suddenly feel the piercing jab of an icicle drive itself onto his skin. The disharmony made his muscles twitch, and the heat turned the cold into an even more glaring issue due to their natural contrast.

A minute passed, and once more the [Shadow Servant] appeared to poke him in the ribs with its glacial finger. A single touch, a freezing connection as if a cube of ice ran through his skin, and Kurian was folding and flinching away from the touch even if he couldn’t see the creature.

And that was the main problem. Not the fact he couldn’t defeat the [Shadow Servant], bound as it was to Orieke’s mana pool, or his constantly frustrated attempts at dodging it – but the fact he never caught even a glimpse of it. Kurian looked around, having to turn his entire head to complete his field of vision, but whenever he reached his blind side the monster was already gone.

Not hidden. Gone. The boy bit his lip. Where was it? No matter how hard he tried to find it, Orieke’s summon faded exactly after touching him, and the only mercy it knew was not to focus on the same place – or Kurian was certain he’d have a nasty ice burn between his ribs.

Kurian risked a look back at the others, using the small seconds of reprieve between one [Chilling Touch] and the next.

Merino looked tired. The [Apothecary] barely blinked as he stared at his tools, turning whatever it was he used into a paste with wide eyes. His goggles, usually making them comically large, now turned the imp’s face into a rictus of overwork Kurian had only seen when his father spent days planning a new wand.

His walk was slow and steady, stomping the bare earth beneath his feet, but Merino did seem to be advancing – much unlike him.

Kurian swallowed a sigh, unwilling to express his frustration. Now, where was that monster?

He moved his head towards the left, trying to better see through his remaining eye, and soon found the limping form of the mangled Devourer Dog, head hanging limply and limbs moving like a mad drunkard was in control.

The paws rose and fell with no rhythm. Sometimes softly, sometimes hard enough to crave the claws on the earth, but the creature did move.

And all of that still couldn’t overcome how terrifying it was to see the man’s torso hang from the creature’s side like a chimera, trying to sew the paw back in place. Dominic was there – half-physical, a bit transparent, and hissing like a snake as he stabbed his thumb with the needle once again.

A jab of ice on his side made Kurian focus back on his predicament. The boy almost cursed, rubbing the new spot to try and bring back some of the heat, before truly setting his thoughts to his hurdle

How was he supposed to avoid it? His [Broken Survivor] Class didn’t grant him the dexterity or reflexes needed to flee its touch – and the couple prizes he had gained from completing the Paths weren’t enough to assist him.

Meaning that, though [Replicate Talent] was a good Skill – and being a reward from the [Path of The Apprentice], it hadn’t been lost alongside his class – it was not enough. And [Path of The Imp] had only granted him the common [Strong Wings] Skill, which was a moot point for obvious reasons.

He had to think outside the box. But the box was a tiny thing, heavily locked and the hand that held the key was separated from his torso by an axe. Kurian had no ideas.

“Argh! Madness takes you!”

The narrative has been illicitly obtained; should you discover it on Amazon, report the violation.

He raised a closed fist towards the empty air as, once again, the [Shadow Servant] left its mark. Kurian took a calming breath, emptying his lungs with a huff before narrowing his eyes. His scowl turned into a sharp grin.

Kurian’s Skills might be useless against his newest enemy, but there was another part to the System-granted powers. One that was written in sharp blue. The young imp counted the seconds, waiting, and on the cusp of another attack, Kurian called.

“[Griever’s Burden]!”

It was half a shout, one that elicited a sharp sound of disapproval from Orieke before Kurian stumbled to the floor and the ice-cold finger found a between his ribs. Gasping for air, he dismissed the spell with a thought.

Fool. Anger was getting the best of him. He should have known he wasn’t immune to the effects of his Spells. Who did he think he was? A [Cryomancer] able to survive the freezing cold butt-naked? The boy pressed a clawed hand to his face and dragged it down slowly – followed by some quick slaps to his cheeks.

Focus. That was what he needed to pass his Uncle’s trial. Focus and a way to see the thing that was striking. Damn that blind eye of his. He just had to become a handicap, didn’t–

–Wait. A way to see the [Shadow Servant]. Why? Because he had never caught even a glimpse of the creature.

And it wasn’t the fault of his blind eye, was it? It was a nuisance, yes, but Kurian’s head always darted in the general direction of the [Chilling Grasp] fast enough that he should have caught at least the blur of movement. But there was nothing.

How? It wasn’t that the spell was that strong – Kurian knew that [Shadow Servant] was far from a good summoning spell. All it did was give life to a shade, and it could stretch or bend and had – at most – the strength and capability of a pre-teen. Plus, it would only do what it was ordered and was particularly fragile.

So – just a shadow.

Just a shadow. Kurian froze. It couldn’t be – There was no way it was that simple, right? Slowly, feeling for the seconds more than counting them down, Kurian looked down at his feet. The Scarlet Star shone brightly atop his head, the Chain of Dread unable to contain its light, and its perpetual position made his shadow small. Just a pool of darkness at his feet.

One that was occupied. When the time came for another strike, there was just the faintest bubbling on his shadow before a long hand rose from it and touched the back of his thigh – as quick as a lightning strike. Kurian yelped, jumping into the air and rubbing the new cold spot while checking for any other movement from the darkness.

There was none, but he also didn’t have high expectations. Still, it was more than enough to understand how the [Shadow Servant] was going undetected. If it could stretch, hide in his shadow, and act as quickly as it did, then it was no surprise that he couldn’t catch the tail of it.

The knowledge also brought a new concern. Kurian had no idea how to remove it from there. If he knew some manner of light magic or even shadow magic it would be easier – but not even as an [Apprentice] did he have any spells beyond what the Class had granted him, much to Nifestu’s disappointment. Kurian now fully understood why his father had insisted so much.

The [Survivor] bit his inner cheek, letting the bout of pain carve another chunk of his heart, and expelled it in a long exhale. The hollowness in its wake was an awful feeling, but it paled in comparison to the impotence he felt. He could not change the past.

Continuing on the forced walk, tasting the acrid flavor of regret, he kept on devising his plan. The whole light magic notion had granted him a clue – after all, it wasn’t only through mana that one could produce light.

His immediate thoughts were concerning the Scarlet Star. Maybe there was a way of shifting its light to banish his shadow entirely, taking the spell with it, but the [Survivor] knew enough about that temperamental god to not even risk enunciating the idea.

Another way was through fire – but Kurian doubted Orieke would let them stop long enough for him to light one, and he was definitely not going to ask for one of his Uncle’s perfumes, even though he knew Orieke must have one that worked. No, what the [Survivor] needed was a source of light he could rely on and that wouldn’t demand time–

There was a shout from behind him, and the boy turned to see what had happened. Merino was kneeling on the floor, his pestle standing upright on the dirt while he cradled his slightly burnt fingers. The [Apothecary] shook with cold, eyes having lost that unwavering focus, and tried to pick up his tools again – but they slid from his shaking hands.

Kurian, however, focused on another detail as he moved to assist Merino, only stopping to spit a light curse towards the [Servant] as it touched him again. The concoction was shining. He had no idea what had happened to the [Apothecary] – but that, well, he could use that. And already he devised ways of doing it.

The price of providence, however, might have just been a bit too steep.

***

He didn’t know where things went wrong.

No. Scratch that. Merino knew where it all went south – he just didn't want to admit it due to the consequences of it.

It had been that damn Skill of his. [Focused Mind] allowed him to work with the ethics of an Abbadonian [Smith] hammering mithril, but only when Merino had the comfort of assured quantities and measurements. Right now, with his self-doubt running rampant, the young [Apothecary] couldn’t focus on a spark without losing precious seconds doubting all the others he had previously culled from the Tonic of Warmth – and when it came to carefully tending to a volatile concoction like the one he was making, a few seconds was all it took for everything to go awry.

A strand of the fire mana got entangled with a purer one, causing the mixture to burn up and emit light and heat like an open fire. Merino had been lucky to let the pestle go before it truly scorched him. Wild mana like that, especially when connected to something physical like the recipe’s ingredients, could get dangerous fast.

His hands shook, the world narrowing down into a point. His Skill blazed like his unsuccessful attempt, using all his self-confidence as fuel as it forced Merino to focus on his failure. On every wrong move and wrong approach, on the slowness of his fingers, on the wrong assumptions he had made.

All was put into question. Merino tried to breathe but all it came was a shallow, raspy inhale. He exhaled it quickly, feeling light-headed, and the [Apothecary] wondered if one could drown in dry land.

He didn’t even react when Kurian asked him something, absently agreeing to it and handing him an empty flask – though Merino couldn’t, by the life of him, recognize the words the boy was using. It felt like some foreign language, some manner of guttural sound that entered his ears and turned his world even more confusing.

Where was he again? His eyes saw the packed dirt, his skin felt cold, his breath was still shallow. He should get home; his teacher would berate him if he didn’t get in before nightfall.

But then again… where was home? His mind reeled, focus splintering into a thousand flashes. The skill burned, out of control – a wildfire that enveloped him and made his eyes ache.

Cold. It was so cold. Had winter arrived? He needed to talk to Guinnie about the harvest – some of the flowers would dry out soon with the lower temperatures and he’d need them for his concoctions. Maybe he should visit him, right?

His grave was right beside Vyraka’s after all – it wouldn’t even take that much time. There was a sound – his… voice? A yelp. He was falling now. His feet stopped answering – Merino couldn’t focus on the movement without letting the other leg go slack.

Focus. Focus. His heart cried out – lips turning blue as he dragged his body through the dirt for a second that felt like an eternity, his mind focusing on time and making him taste every millisecond of it.

Enough. Stop. He didn’t want it anymore. An infinity within a second, an eternity in the time to blink. Merino cried out without sound, air unable to leave his lungs without him losing track of his thoughts and despair. He needed it to move. He needed to…

Call off the Skill.

Time whirred back like a released bowstring, snapping him back into the present and leaving a headache that made him want to gouge out his brain. But Merino was back – and he could breathe.

The [Apothecary] did just that, clutching at his chest and tasting the dirt that now coated his tongue after the fall. He cleaned the tears staining his cheek, along with some of the dirt, with the back of his hand and looked back towards the others – worried that he had been left behind after his mistake.

Orieke was standing right behind him. The [Perfumer]’s eyes blazed, wide and intent. The smell of his skin, sweet and flowery and so distinctly Orieke’s, made Merino curl even further inward. He was going to be berated, wasn’t he?

The Elder stared briefly, looked up at the other two walking ahead of them with a frown, and spoke a single word to Merino.

“Move.”

Merino scrambled to his feet, teeth chattering as the cold possessed his body. He managed to resummon his work tools, calling them to his hands, but the shivers running down his arms made it hard to work. Above it all, the sweat of fear still clung to his skin, a clammy sensation that made the [Apothecary] wish for a shower.

He walked, slowly, shrinking his body in an attempt to protect himself from the glacial wind – and wondered if he should call for his Skill again. Merino shook his head, dispersing the thought before it could linger for too long.

Another time. Now, though, he had to work without it – and pray that the shaking of his hands and his runny nose wouldn’t destroy every attempt of his. Shivering, Merino checked his ingredients. It was enough for another five attempts.

He had to succeed on three of them. A bad ratio. Merino’s hands tightened around his tools. Was it the worst odds he had ever faced? His clear mind allowed for what was maybe delusion – or, perhaps, simply confidence – and it told the young [Apothecary] that–

No. They weren’t. To finish his apprenticeship under Vyraka he had to make a True Rashbane Elixir, a complicated remedy capable of not only soothing allergies but completely curing them forever. His master had granted him a single set of ingredients to make it – and the once [Apprentice] spent three days refining, purifying, and mixing the ingredients until the concoction was gently poured into a Rainbow Quartz Bottle.

He had succeeded. Merino hadn’t believed it at the time and had almost jumped at Vyraka when she drank the medicine without hesitation, but his master simply approved and told him to clean up everything.

That had been hard. This… this could be easier. He had more skills, more experience and though the cold was a curse and his capstone skill was a bust, he had worked uncountable hours without it before hitting Level 10.

Three times. Only three times. He’d use the first try as a test and then succeed with the rest of them.

Star above, let it not be a lie.

***

Kurian held the brilliant and hot bottle in his hand, turning his back to the others as he focused on the right timing.

He shot Merino a thankful thought, especially due to the properties of his bottles. The [Apothecary]’s vessels kept the magic in the concoction stable enough, instead of decaying due to the imbalance.

Now all he had to do was strike at the moment of inflection. He had one chance.

Kurian was going to bet all on it. There was nothing around that would let him perform the same feat. All he had to do was count.

Easy. Easy-peasy. There was just one thing.

How long ago had the [Shadow Servant] struck him?

The boy stopped – and swallowed the lump in his throat. One more touch. He’d endure one more attack from the creature and then he’d do things properly. He couldn’t wait to end th–

“Argh! Bloody sun – I hate this.”

The creature vanished again into his shadow, without mirth or any kind of response to his curses – if Kurian was right, it couldn’t even comprehend what he was saying, just follow its orders.

It’s ignorance didn’t soften the blow. In fact, the fact such a stupid magical construct turned out to be such a headache only made the [Survivor] more indignant. More embarrassed.

What if whoever sent it didn’t use such a meager cantrip or had been as light-touched as Orieke? [Chilling Grasp] could be as devastating as any other spell if used correctly. It wasn’t an army-slaying spell, of course, but Kurian had seen what frostbite could do to imps when some Rangers got lost in the wild during winter.

Now they were all dead. All Rangers had perished either to the Ashen Lungs or in that last confrontation against Sybillus. All but Elder Cariken, their leader, and Akkiria – who had the class, but not the title.

Kurian shook his head, dispelling the errant memories – ignoring the pang of guilt – and narrowed his focus back on the counting down. Later, when the dreams came carrying memories, he’d face them all again. For now, he was choosing to put the effort in ignoring it all.

Fifty-three, fifty-four, fifty-five… Just a few more seconds. Kurian had stopped in his tracks now – fingers curled around the cork while his eyes watched intently for that faint bubbling on his shadow.

Fifty-nine, sixty!

The limb appeared in a flash, a four-fingered claw stretching itself towards his skin. But Kurian had a Skill always working – so he jumped.

And [Strong Wings] made his remaining limb flap hard enough to send him a bit further up and sideways. The pulse of pain that rose from his stump trying to move along its sibling was daunting, the wound too fresh and the skin still raw from the spell used to close them – but Kurian persevered. He had gone through worse.

It was, in the end, a boost of only a few more centimeters at best, but the distance meant the shadow stretched to reach him, trying to touch him and freeze more of his skin.

The cork popped off the bottle – and as Kurian suffered the touch, he let Merino’s failure drop towards his shadow and that connection towards the [Servant] hiding within. It reached the spell before it could hide again, and the light and fire of the ingredients of the [Apothecary] exorcized it with a hiss.

Kurian felt gravity reasserting itself on his body, and he fell onto the ground in a heap of limbs, the impact on his wounded shoulder making him grunt in pain – but all of that through a smile.

A self-satisfied one, fit for someone who had come out on top of their troubles. Slowly, he got up and saw the small puddle of heated liquid rapidly losing strength under the cold of the region. He looked at his shadow beneath him, and the [Survivor] grinned.

It was gone.

“Madness takes you. Stupid spell.”

***

Dominic Jones tried hard.

Harder than he had tried to do anything in years. It reminded him of spending hours in front of an accordion, trying to learn how to play the instrument from his father – mostly because he enjoyed watching him perform serenades for his mother.

Theodor Jones, however, was not a good teacher. A talented man, he couldn’t understand why Dominic didn’t just pick up the instrument and play. Was it really so hard to coordinate your fingers? Didn’t he know not to open it so much? And his arms – that was the worst posture he had ever seen.

The worst of it, at the time, was the lack of malice in the commentaries. He wasn’t being purposefully cruel to an eight-year-old boy. Theodor Jones was simply confused. Genuinely confused as to why his only son couldn’t pick up things as fast as he wanted.

Dominic had given up on the accordion after a week of daily three-hour classes. His mother had softened the blow, taking him to her garden so they could tend to the new camellias, but the young boy still spent days after thinking of the instrument – and all that desired soured until he vowed to never again touch one.

It was a small memory – also not the only thing his father had ruined for him with his silent expectations – but Dominic couldn’t help but think of that as he hung in half-corporeality from the body of fear made manifest, controlling an alien body and trying to sew the most stupid of paws onto the body.

Why couldn’t he just get it?

It wasn’t even that hard. All he had to do was stick the needle in, pass the thread through, and repeat the same on the stump above him. It should have been done in less than an hour – but they were very close to the first of Merino’s limits and the [Doctor] had yet to reach the fifth stitch.

From his place, Dominic shot a look at the man stirring them on, and Orieke’s frown was distant and new. The [Perfumer] seemed angry, and frustrated, and at times he threw a look over his shoulder as if expecting something, and that made the ghost swallow his complaints in fear of risking that bottle of foul liquid or something worse.

That was probably the only thing stopping him from giving up altogether. He was too old to continue learning new tricks like this – and on a good day, he’d laugh and stop with this nonsense with a good glass of red wine in hand, fingers closed tight on it. Today was not a good day, so Dominic insisted.

At least he might level. That had been the promise, after all. And what he was doing did seem fitting to his class. A [Doctor] should know how to suture – and though whatever he was doing was not it, at least he could close a wound.

He just had to find a way to do it properly. So the elderly man stopped for a second, using the stump of a leg as a pincushion to his needle, and returned to the comfort of the Nightmare to think.

What was it that Dominic needed?

Talent? No, that was his father’s way. Dominic had little in that regard – and though he had grown lazy for most things, the [Doctor] also knew he wouldn’t discover himself a prodigy at his age. Plus, he had only been complimented truthfully for talent once, and it wasn’t for his sewing abilities. Or his administrative skills.

An idea sparked in the darkness, however, and the [Death Doctor] groaned. What he needed, despite how much he despised the idea of playing an instrument nowadays, was a rhythm. A way to turn at least part of the process subconscious, a tempo that he could lose his awareness to.

He had to unify the tasks in a way. Dominic had to become more than someone sewing and moving at the same time – those were two tasks that didn’t talk with each other, and whatever rhythm he could produce from it, Dominic would know it was artificial.

No, to do this he had to be… other.

He appeared again on the Nightmare’s flank, hanging from the creature in a position only possible because he had no muscles to ache, and plucked the needle from the flesh it was embedded into.

Most of the idea was ready, but he sent Orieke a glance as he hesitated for a final moment. He would have to trust him. His lips turned into a thin line, a pang of metaphysical pain coming from the situation, a sensation Dominic had forgotten about after so long.

The [Death Doctor] sighed, powerless, and closed his eyes. He raised the hand holding the needle and tried to imagine what new perspective he had to gain – and the first idea felt fresh but incomplete.

His hand moved, piercing flesh, and he was now a conductor of a great orchestra. The baton on his hand flew up and down, left to right, following a rhythm that repeated itself into dull music. The orchestra played under his command, but it was a dead thing – soulless. Fake.

Dominic Jones returned to reality with a frown. He looked at what had happened and the [Death Doctor] was surprised to see he had made another stitch – but the body hadn’t moved an inch. In fact, he had lost complete control of it and now it lay on the ground, looking truly dead once again.

Dominic held his chin in one hand, considering. He couldn’t be a person if he wanted a true rhythm. People could perform two things at once, but they did it poorly, and thinking of himself as one – even if in another role – would always put him back in place.

Hmm. Interesting. Dominic thought while the others advanced a bit more – and wondered if the solution was, in fact, in something not human. A moment of resonation between the parts. A greater-than-the-whole type of thing.

Willing to try, the elderly man raised his hand again, needle clutched between two fingers, and…

He was a flock of birds, soaring through the skies, all following a single instinct. South they went with the wind beneath their wings. They all moved in unison, like a great creature made of a dozen smaller ones – until something crashed on the first.

A plane? Small, but deadly. The explosion of the turbine scorched others, flaming meteors falling with burned feathers. Two of the flock perished, formation broken instantly, and the others scattered towards the ground, unable to continue without the whole.

Wrong one. Dominic could tell before he even opened his eyes. It didn’t matter how he followed the beating of their wings – in the end, the birds were many, but performing a single thing. They would fly like one and dive like one too.

No, he needed a union, a resonation, but between different parts. Each doing their own thing to ensure the whole worked. And he might have just the idea. Tempo, rhythm, beat, music…

The world faded, receding under his imagination.

Dominic closed his eyes, and he felt gears turning on his joints. Bronze and old, they moved each other in synchronicity, a great beast of oil, metal, wood, and glass. The inside continued its workings, but he was more than that.

He was the gears and the pointers. Each on their own speed. One for the hours, another for the minutes. Two spears moving under the orders of different metallic lords to give a single message. Time.

He was the clock, in its entirety. At the end of a corridor, old and dusty and continuing to work out of sheer stubbornness and careful manufacturing that its modern, common siblings could only envy. The pointers moved, the gears spun, and the pendulum – swung.

Left to right. Right to left. Left to right. It followed a beat – but it was old and dysregulated, lagging. It could no longer follow the movements of the seconds, so it kept its own pace.

Different from the imperial time represented above, following a rhythm that was only its own, but to the owner of the house – he who had the clock since he was a baby – the ticking was familiar and comforting. Even when it lagged a little more and changed, he grew used to it again. Again and again, in defiance of time, but also working with it.

Resonance made precious due to meaning. Familiarity turning the broken and the old into something to be loved. The certainty of the clock ensuring function remained, despite its quirks.

Left to right.

Tic-tac goes the pointers.

Spinning are the gears.

Right to left.

Tic-tac goes the pointers.

Spinning are the gears.

Left to right…

***

Orieke, [Perfumer] of Kiringar, watched with mixed feelings as the procession continued. There had been moments where he might have intervened, moments of pride – but also frustration for what they were learning from this experience.

Merino’s skill had been a worrying development. The boy lacked the confidence to use it in the way he wanted – a simple enough barrier to the Elder watching, but to someone as soft-spoken and shy as the young man it must have been a wall to rival the ones around Sibilan.

Orieke had only seen such bad outcomes out of skill usage once, back when he had been studying in Canbonia, and though it did scare him to see what could happen if misused he was still glad no one had exploded into a shower of guts and bone fragments.

[Mana Body] was a scary skill. All of them were, in their own way – but it was when someone pushed them beyond their limits, straining themselves, that they grew deadly to everything around them.

Still, all things considered, it had ended well. It was impressive that Merino managed to deactivate his Skill without intervention, which only showed that Vyraka had, indeed, seen something fascinating about the boy. Maybe Orieke should pay more attention to him as well – if his talent was carefully groomed, perhaps they would have someone new to fill in the Grey House.

Not like they lacked vacant spots. They all had lost something for either the Ashen Lungs or their confrontation against the Cult. Some more than others, like Kurian, but Orieke believed it shouldn’t stop them from focusing on the future.

They would overcome it. Imps were, after all, survivors. The world punched them and they got up to take in another blow. It was just how life went for them.

Orieke sighed, a bit tired, and restarted his vigilant watch of these new students of his. Kurian was done with his task, the first of them to overcome it, and Orieke was just a bit disappointed about how it all went down.

He was the only one not supposed to be completed by himself. It had been carefully designed to not suit Kurian’s new skills and spells – but, as with all plans, there was always the chance of things going askew. The [Perfumer] just hadn’t expected the boy to use Merino’s failure like that.

And all of that without realizing the [Apothecary]’s condition. Worrisome. Once again, Orieke sighed, and he was getting tired of how common the reaction was becoming.

It was a win for the [Survivor]. Not the one he had been expecting, and not a good one – but a win nonetheless. So Orieke called for a quick and stealthy [Message] spell, learned from his days as a not-so-good student of Canbonia’s Academy, and called the boy to stand closer to him and remain quiet.

The boy did so without question, a too-smug smile on his face that made Orieke roll his eyes, and the [Perfumer] focused on the other two, a low hiss on his tongue.

Merino was doing well for now. The boy had entered a state of focus fueled only by some regained confidence, even seemingly taking risks to be certain of how the cold affected him. He was still nervous, and his eyes were wide with fear – but he no longer looked back at Orieke.

The [Apothecary] would see it to the end. That’s what he had wanted. The tension. Orieke would have held onto his threat if he saw the young man not yet reaching such a state of concentration – but right now he doubted Merino was even aware of how much time was passing by.

That was one full success, and if the boy did it right he had a high chance of leveling. They had talked back to the Grey House, before their trip, and Vyraka’s student had been stuck on his current level for almost a year now. It wasn’t a low level, all things considered – but for the only [Apothecary] in Kiringar, especially with the Ashen Lungs around, it was a bad surprise.

Orieke looked for the last of the trio, and the shock of what the man was doing had faded only slightly since he had begun. Watching the man fight against the Devourer Dogs had been one thing – and Dominic Jones was vicious despite his lack of experience. For not a second did he aim for something less than a kill and that was a trait Orieke could respect.

But it had been gruesome. Well, fighting was always gruesome – but seeing someone gut a Nightmare from throat to bowel and then curse the wound on top? That required a type of coldness he hadn’t expected from the affable, if mildly-tempered, old man.

Then again, he had never asked anything about him, did he? He talked about living a life without the Voice and being dead, but how much did they know about Dominic Jones? Was he that private?

And how in the hells was he doing that?

The [Perfumer] felt exasperated when seeing Dominic’s actions. The man was hanging from the Nightmare’s torso like a tick, swaying with the wind and incredibly limp despite his positioning. His gaze was distant, unfocused on the leg he was sewing back on as if he was somewhere else, and bright with a grayness he had only seen when the [Death Doctor] returned from whatever he had done with Celike.

Yet, he was doing it. There was a method to it, the [Perfumer] realized. A method to the slight impossibility, a rhythm to his movements.

It was jerky at times, making the old man redo his steps as he missed the flesh or stabbed his fingers – but it was progress.

Slow, yes, but the [Death Doctor] didn’t stop or relent. Was that what Trakia called a trance? Orieke knew the [Priestess] sometimes had them as well in her attempts to commune with the Scarlet Star – though hers were far louder – but he didn’t expect Dominic to have them as well.

Interesting. Maybe it was due to his state as a dead man. It also wasn’t the answer the [Perfumer] had had in mind – and that also frustrated him just as with Kurian – but he would scold them later. Nevertheless, the human elder was succeeding – slowly, yes, but it was an improvement guided by tension. So… maybe a level for him as well.

Orieke would wait and watch. Him, Kurian, and the one committed to not interfere – hiding among the grass and camouflaged due to a perfume of his own, following a vision he did not understand, but had listened to.

Witnesses to improvement as the day reached its end.

***

Dominic Jones felt the clock tick wrongly and knew it was over. The pendulum that was him and not-him went down too fast, and the needle he held in his hand pierced flesh that was already stitched together.

The [Death Doctor] looked in astonishment at his handy work. Messy, wrong, and the thread was slacking in parts and too tight on others – but he had done it. He had emerged victorious over this stupid, asinine task.

So he left the body, staggering, and rolled on the hard-packed floor like he did back when he was a child. He laughed, proud and tired and feeling the rush of finalized hard work, and threw a fist up to the sky with his eyes closed.

He chuckled some more, relaxing, and took a second to savor the too-humid air of this new world. The [Death Doctor] stayed there until he grew tired and got up to meet the others.

As things went, his eyes opened to the night already reigning. Wild ikriats kept the wilderness around them faintly illuminated, though Dominic had not seen them during their trek towards the second domain on the way to the Frozen Gates, and the already lit campfire shed its orange glow on a wide area.

The others were sitting around it already, munching on some rations while Orieke stoked the fire. A few dry vines were placed in as fuel, sessions of the long brown-ish plant cut to fit the flames. The sight of something new like the vines made Dominic Jones do a double-take, and he suddenly became aware of where they were.

A meeting of biomes. An encounter of the In-Between’s twisted natures. Behind him, the tall red grass swayed with the night breeze like waves on a sea, hiding the starving monster that called it its hunting grounds. To his left, the mist billowed between the thick trees and sparse rock formations, allowing Dominic only to glimpse at what was hidden before it was swallowed back up again and receding to its loneliness.

The land to his right was just as maddening as the other two, though Dominic could scarcely see what existed beyond the thick veil of vines and thick trees that made it. Bulbous trees, thick and sickly-looking, littered the ground with their dead leaves, turning the ground into an uncertain terrain the [Death Doctor] knew would not hesitate to swallow him whole.

The Choking Grove. The name made sense now that he saw it. He didn’t believe there was even enough air within its limits with how thick the vegetation was. And the sounds… small gurgles and raspy breaths, sounding closer than he was comfortable with.

Dominic flopped down onto the ground beside the others without a word, eyes still locked onto the sight, until someone poked him with a stick.

“Eat, first. Then we’ll talk about what happened to you a lot and what you learned. Also, congratulations on your level up.”

Orieke spoke curtly, a cheeky smile on his face she announced Dominic’s achievements through his Skill’s insight. It soon died down from his face, as a louder cry came from the Grove, and the [Perfumer] palmed a flask before Dominic could even react, eyes flashing.

At the sight of nothing, he relaxed again and gestured for Dominic to pick something from his bag. The [Death Doctor] realized how starving he was and ate while trading congratulations with the others – enjoying the relaxing breeze coming from between the vines.

***

As they settled down, those who had been graced by the System with something new finally looked at what reward they received for their struggles.

There were only two – one that had been close to the edge for a while, and the other still so young to it all that the rising was simple.

An imp, exhausted, shaking, and constantly blowing on his hands as if the cold persisted despite the tonic within and perfume covering his body, called for the Voice.

Your Class [Apothecary of Herbal Remedies] has leveled up!

Congratulations! Your Class [Apothecary of Herbal Remedies] is now Level 18!

Congratulations! You have obtained the [Flawless Balance] Skill!

Congratulations! You have obtained the [Automatic Recipe: Tonic of Warmth] Skill!

The rewards were unexpected. Odd and unknown, but Merino closed the screen in front of him with a small smile, satisfied, and began to wonder if he was more than he had always been told.

***

An old man, tired, proud, slightly achy, and wondering about his place in all of this, touched the stubborn mark on the corner of his eyes with a strand of his mind, revealing its contents.

Your Class [Death Doctor] has leveled up!

Congratulations! Your Class [Death Doctor] is now Level 6!

Congratulations! You have obtained the [Nimble Hands] Skill!

He settled back, chewing on a piece of jerky, and enjoyed the youthful giddiness that came with such plain-written improvement. He moved his hands as he felt the change, and locked his fingers over his lap as he waited for the [Perfumer] to speak.

Dominic watched Orieke’s light frown and shrugged at Kurian when he gestured towards it, the elder imp lost in thought as they finished eating. The [Death Doctor] didn’t bother asking.

He, for once since the Tutorial began, was sure he had done a good job.

Poor thing.