Chapter 5: Lucky to Be Alive

AARIC

Aaric put down his textbook and picked up the newest wand his father had bought for him. He examined it, noting where its form differed from the illustrations in the text. Minor discrepancies shouldn’t change a wand’s use too much, right? He hoped not. Then he’d either need another book or a different wand. And that would likely take days, no matter who he paid.

He’d been advised countless times that he had to get accustomed to his new interface, his new skills, and his new Class’s expectations. Apparently what most people considered “leveling quickly” after Awakening he found simply too slow. He’d been told that his progress was actually fast compared to most people.

But Aaric Longbloom was not most people.

Firstly, he had a powerful Core that synergized incredibly well with his Path. Secondly, he had access to (and knew how to spend) his father’s money. Finally--and perhaps most importantly--by all measurable standards he was ridiculously brilliant.

With every passing day, his brains and his father’s coin made problem after problem disappear, yet he was still only level 3 despite Awakening a week ago! He knew of people reaching level 4 in that time. In his mind, that put him a level behind, not ahead.

Maybe I shouldn’t have turned down that tutor, Aaric considered. But the very thought of taking lessons from someone dressed like that was intolerable. If he was such a great mage, he should look the part.

...Maybe I can lure him back with the promise of a new wardrobe.

It had never even occurred to Aaric that the man might have put his wealth into other, less-visible expenses. Appearances mattered.

He picked up the wand and followed the indicated motions. He practiced it until it looked exactly as the book had shown. Then he got to work on the incantations, which were always harder. He tried reading the words as he thought they should be said, based on their spellings, but then he remembered that the book was written decades ago, and he adapted to how the phonemes had changed in that time.

Of course, he eventually got it. He was just annoyed that it had taken so long. If he could've seen it performed once, instead of just reading about it, he would’ve been done days ago. Once he’d seen something done properly, he could always replicate it. That was what his Core was all about.

Yet even when all of it was put together, his flawless somatic control, his perfect pronunciation, and his amazing Core... it still didn’t work the way he wanted.

He could cast [Frost Nova] using the wand’s charges, sure, but that wasn’t the same as learning it. He went back to the book, trying to see if there were any flaws in his technique. As he read the paragraphs again and again, he couldn’t find a single one. Despite this he kept practicing, his frustrations only growing with the wand’s depleting charges.

He soon emptied the wand without a breakthrough.

Well, shit, he thought, surprising himself with his own crassness. His lack of progress was aggravating. He didn’t want to learn [Nova] first and then upgrade it to [Frost Nova]. With his Core, he should be able to skip the first step entirely. But apparently the only way he had to see [Frost Nova] was with wands, and that clearly wasn’t working for him. I already attuned to frost. What more must I do? And why doesn’t anyone around here know such an important skill?

He could not afford to fall behind. What if someone else should Awaken and surpass him? Neither the new healer boy nor the hunter girl stood a chance. They didn’t have Aaric’s drive. But he’d heard from the Scout that the Hammerson boy was getting close to Awakening.

Aaric refused to lose the advantage he’d already built up.

“Father! I need another wand!” he yelled before checking the clock on his desk. Another day with nothing new to show. He needed to learn and then master [Frost Nova] quickly. Integrating a new skill on his own at level 3 would firmly cement him as a prodigy, and everyone knew [Frost Nova] was one of the best entry points to cryomancy. Even more than that, it would help him keep his distance from melee attackers. Yesterday, one of the level 4 boys had almost managed to strike him with a practice blade.

Aaric shuddered at the thought. He had to get better to become a cryomancer. A melee fighter should never touch a cryomancer. In fact, no one should touch a cryomancer!

Aaric tossed the now-useless wand into the waste bin by his desk and walked to his wardrobe. He had to consider which shoes would complete his attire for the sparring. Appearances mattered, but so did effects. He quickly settled on the white ones that slightly buffed his movement speed. It didn’t exactly match his pale blue, mana-boosting robes, but it was close enough, and he was due at the practice grounds. He had to train and grind levels.

More importantly, he needed to make sure his record remained flawless.

- - - - -

TRISTAN

Tristan gasped, waking with a start. Something had changed. The world all around him felt different, and not just because he’d Awakened.

It sent a shiver down his spine.

He tried to open his eyes but found that he couldn't. He was surrounded by pressure, like he’d been rolled up in a blanket of magic. It was almost as dark as the explosion that had rushed toward him in the forest, but also very different. While that had been the crushing depths of an ocean, sinking his whole spirit, this was the soft tickle of spiderwebs.

The last thing he remembered was the incoming rush of darkness. And then...? What happened to the Brightshield?

Tristan tried to will his arms to rise, but they wouldn't. He tried to force his eyes open, but they refused. Every inch of him ached. Even his bones shouted out from a misery that was like no pain he’d ever known. His breathing grew ragged and worried. It felt like his body had been switched off somehow.

A new notification was blinking in the corner of his vision, just like the one before. The one whose words were still burned into his memory.

Item usage blocked. You may only use Soulbound items.

It was his Core that had stopped whatever the Brightshield had done to help him. Though, if there was an upside, it was nice to know there had been a notification for him at least. It also proved that tier and level didn’t matter to his Core: he couldn’t use any item unless it was Soulbound.

But that brought him back to the new notification.

You have gained the Soulscarred Achievement!

You have taken near-lethal damage, and you survived. You will forever bear the mark as a reminder to appreciate this day and all the days that follow, as you very well might not have lived to see them.

You have gained the title: {Soulscarred}.

Oh gods, he thought, pulling up his Status.

Name: Tristan Hammerson

Race: Human

Level: 1

Class: Blacksmith

Statistics,

Strength: 11 (+2/level)

Agility: 6 (+1/level)

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Endurance: 10 (+2/level)

Intelligence: 5 (+0.5/level)

Wisdom: 7 (+0.5/level)

Will: 8 (+1/level)

Core: [Self-Forged] Items you craft replace a portion of the required materials with soul and become Soulbound. You may only use Soulbound items.

Titles: {Awakened}, {Soulscarred}

Skills: [Gather Ore], [Work Metal]

And there it was under titles: {Soulscarred}, marking him forever. Where the scar was and what it looked like were both problems for him to worry about later. Just like testing Soulbound further. But that was impossible until he could move again.

It was also mildly reassuring to see his Class there, again. Further proof I’m not dead, he mused.

The rest of his Status display looked the same. Which is to say, it looked basic, boring, and clunky. It didn’t really feel like the time to tweak it now, but Tristan had always had a problem with postponing projects that he could easily fix. Since he currently couldn’t move or open his eyes, he decided to embrace his curiosity.

Maybe just streamline some of the clutter, or, I don’t know, abbreviate the stats...

The moment he thought it, the display of his Status changed before his eyes, embodying each idea in turn. “Stats” replaced “Statistics.” The repetitive level gains were also removed. He could always add them back if he wanted to. He then abbreviated each stat to only three letters: STR, AGI, END, INT, WIS. When he got to Will, he paused. If he followed his own pattern, it would be WIL. But did he want the similarity of WIS and WIL, especially side by side? He changed it to WLL instead, then back to WIL. Then WLL again. Back and forth.

Does it even really matter? No one else will ever know.

In the end, he decided that he could break whatever rules he wanted. He could even call it WILL. But that ruined the look of the whole display. So WLL it became.

For a literal second he condensed all the stats into one long horizontal line, letting commas separate them--before immediately reverting to the vertical stat stack.

Never again, he thought through the pain of revulsion.

His next thought was to reprioritize the displayed order, specifically for his Core. He wondered if he could move it up, preferably to right below his Class. But try as he might, Tristan could not get his Core to budge. It felt like it was permanently anchored below his stats.

Other than that, he was generally happy with his tweaked Status display, at least enough to satisfy his craftsman’s pride. That brought him back to the larger problem.

His body STILL was not moving.

He tried to focus his mind with a technique his mom had called “finding the pond with no ripples”. But that had never really worked for him. Maybe something more my style would, he thought.

He’d often found peace in working metals, so he began visualizing the next steps in crafting his sword. As he began the rhythmic chorus of hammer meeting metal, he felt calmer and more relaxed. He began working the smooth and lengthy blade in his mind, increasing its sharpness by making it thinner and thinner. It was in that direction he found some focus, which he realized he could redirect to the force binding him. His senses expanded a little, and he began to trace the magical shape enveloping him. What he found didn’t seem malicious.

So then why won’t it let me move?

The confining magic actually felt warm and nurturing, almost like his mother’s hugs after exhausting days in the forge.

Is it helping me heal? He’d never really been trained in magic, and barely knew how to recognize what it was trying to do -- something he immediately resolved to hammer out someday.

He went back to visualizing the magic surrounding him, tracing the effects’ edges. He almost thought of them as vines or chains suppressing him. Holding him down.

If only, Tristan thought. I know how to handle chains.

He took a moment to consider. Well, why not try to deal with these the same way?

With some effort, he changed his visualization slightly, taking the image of his new hammer and tapping it lightly against the “chains” that bound him. Nothing forceful, just testing the material. Feeling it out. Listening to it. Until the sound dulled, and he found the weakest point.

Surprisingly, it was slightly to the right of his heart. Or maybe that’s my strongest point, he thought with a little pride.

He began pounding in earnest now, using his will like a hammer synced to the rhythm of his heartbeat. Boom! BOOM! BOOM! It took only a few strikes before he broke through.

Tristan’s body was released at last. His eyes flew open as his arms finally broke free of their intangible bonds. A deep yell of triumph broke free from his lungs.

Slivers of daylight filtered into the room through slats of a nearby window.

A window? Somehow, He wasn't in the forest, and there were no broken trees or branches underfoot. No scorched grass. Just the small, soft green blanket that he’d thrown to the floor in his excitement.

In the rising light, Tristan found himself lying on a bed in a small bedroom. Wood walls and rafters, one window, one door. It was sparsely furnished, with just a single bedside table and an armoire across the way. It felt so simple, so normal.

This wasn’t how he imagined the Brightshield would live. Looking around, reflecting on his situation, he wasn’t sure where he was. The healing spell hadn’t felt like the Brightshield’s light magic, though it certainly had been powerful.

At first, all he heard was his own wheezing as he struggled to find breath. His hands shook as he raised them to massage the deep pain in his ribs and right side of his shirtless chest. His heart pounded in his ears.

But quickly those sounds were joined by the patter of feet rushing down the hallway just beyond the door, which swung open immediately.

A slim woman cloaked in the browns and greens of the forest stepped into the room. The blacksmith in Tristan couldn’t help but notice not an ounce of metal on her. Her attire seemed like simple cloth, yet every crease and shadow appeared deeper and darker. Above it all, her golden eyes were slitted just like a cat’s.

Tristan felt as though they saw straight into his very soul.

He had never seen this woman before in his life, yet something about her felt familiar. It was her magic holding me down, he knew immediately. Then where’s the Brightshield?

The woman regarded him cautiously. Tristan felt like her actions were tight, almost rigid, maybe even nervous.

“You're awake,” she said with none of the excitement Tristan felt. “I wasn't sure you'd ever see daylight again. You’re lucky to be alive. You were hovering in the critical range for a while before I found you.”

If Tristan believed anything, it was that he'd been lucky. “Where’s the Brightshield?” he asked.

The catlike eyes regarded him warily while her face gave nothing away. “There was no other life in the area. Not even wildlife. The whole clearing was ruined.”

Tristan shook his head. Somehow, the world felt a little bit darker. His head sank into hands.

“Your shirt is on the table there; you should cover your scar. Best not to give unkind eyes reasons to pry. And, now that you're awake, I will need to update your father. He will be glad to know you've recovered, and his hands will feel less full from keeping your mother away.”

My scar? He looked down and noticed the blackened patch of skin in the dead center of his chest. Shaped like a starburst and almost as long as his hand, it was proof of his closeness to death. His hand went to it immediately. It felt cool to the touch, but deadened, as though he was touching someone else. He looked back at the woman, whose eyes seemed to catch everything, perhaps even his thoughts. His mouth felt dry as he thought to ask a different question: “You need to update my father?”

The woman’s unblinking gaze was her only reply.

“...So he already knows...”

The woman was staring into space blankly, which told Tristan she was using her interface. “Of course,” she quickly said. “One does not lie to Marrik Hammerson, even by omission.” She gave a mischievous smile, “Though he can be made to wait, when his only child’s health is threatened by his own stubbornness.”

Tristan didn't know what to think of that, except the truth that his father was stubborn. And, apparently, this woman had methods for dealing with him.

“Thanks..." Tristan began, not sure what else to say. “So, you are a healer?”

“No, and yes,” the woman said with a slight uptick to the left side of her lips. “Rarely for the living anyways.”

Tristan gulped. “Are you a necromancer?”

“No, boy, no. Nothing so plain any more.” A large, gap-toothed grin spread across her face. “I’m a domain preserver now.”

Tristan had never heard of that Class, but it had to be at least third tier. He tried not to be too intimidated, turning his attention to the side table where he noticed his green shirt was in tatters.

Mom loved this shirt, he despaired, picking it up.

Something fell out of it with a thud. Tristan immediately recognized the object as whatever the Brightshield had hurled at him. The man’s last words echoed in Tristan’s memory: “Use the talisman.”

A talisman? Tristan felt the slight warmth of the strangely solid piece of magiccraft. But why is it still here?

“I figured that was yours,” the woman said, walking toward the door. “It’s rare to find a high-tier talisman around here. Your father will no doubt appreciate its return.”

Tristan nodded, reluctant to engage with the accuracy of that as he tried to put his mess of a shirt on. Seeing the woman was about to leave, he asked. “So who are you? Why haven't I seen you around town?”

The cat-eyed woman wetted her lips and cast her eyes toward a wall, staring briefly as though she could see through it. “Ask your father.” Her voice lowered to a growl. “Apparently, he’s already here. Gods, did he somehow learn [Sprint] and use it the whole way?”

She turned and walked out, where Tristan heard her say, “There was no need to--" before Marrik Hammerson barreled past her and appeared in the doorway.

“You have no idea how lucky you are,” the massive man whispered, obviously crying as he pulled Tristan into the fiercest hug he could ever survive.

Tristan checked his hit points. “Ow, Dad! Are you trying to finish me off?”