Rem woke with his back tight from the boards, the cold set into him. He didn’t wait for his body to get the message—he pushed himself upright, breath caught somewhere between a shiver and a sigh. His mouth tasted stale. Morning heat pressed into him, warming him, reminding him that time was ticking away.
Mist lifted off the water in thin threads. He almost paused to watch it. Almost. His shoulders rolled once, a half-hearted attempt at loosening the stiffness, and he pushed himself into motion.
He listened.
Nothing.
No boots on the planks. No cooks banging pans in the kitchen. No horses stamping irritably because someone fed them late. The kind of silence that didn’t belong in a lived place. It didn’t settle over the outpost so much as expose the shape of everything missing.
He stepped off the dock. The quiet followed.
He checked the kitchen—empty.
Stables—empty.
Bunkhouse—beds cold, blankets undisturbed.
A sweep of doors, rooms, corners. The same answer in every one: no breath, no movement, not even a lazy draft to pretend someone had passed through recently.
Everyone was gone.
Not evacuated. Gone.
Something tightened behind his ribs, not fear exactly, not grief, but the sudden absence of noise he hadn’t realized he relied on. He swallowed it. He had other things to think about.
Amber text broke across his vision.
Congratulations. You have completed a hidden objective.
You have defended the people of the Madarox Outpost from corruption by giving them a moment’s rest.
Reward: Impersonal Relay Unit, Level 5
He stared at the words long enough for the edges to dim. Hidden objectives—real. Finn was going to be impossible about this; Rem could already hear the smug inhale. The reward meant nothing to him yet. Add it to the pile of things he didn’t know but needed to figure out faster than he usually did.
His gaze drifted toward the glyph stone despite himself. Level four sat on the other side. He ran the math again, quickly this time, checking his certainty: he was only a sliver from leveling already. If the extra essence rolled over, he’d start four with a cushion. If it didn’t… well, wasted experience was wasted time, but he’d know and that was worth something.
His eyes swept the yard, slow enough that he felt the shape of each empty space. He wasn’t coming back. That truth settled differently than he expected—heavier, not colder. And Noah—
That thought hit fast and low, sharper than he wanted. He stopped. Not long. Just enough for the ache to finish its arc through him. Then he pushed a breath out through his teeth. Forward mattered. Forward was the point. Standing still wasn’t an option anymore.
He set his jaw and walked toward the glyph stone.
He stepped into his locker and saw the new loot on the bench, but the surge hit before he could reach for anything. Pressure crowded into his chest first, then drove down his arms and legs as if the space inside him wasn’t enough to hold what poured in. His joints tightened. His breath caught and stayed caught.
The pressure climbed until something in him finally gave way. Cold dropped through him fast, straight to the bone. His fingers tingled. His knees dipped once before he held himself steady. Then the force eased, leaving him sharper, steadier. His breaths came clean and even.
His vision swam, edges blurring. When it cleared, the items on the bench came back into shape.
Cryptomancer’s Journal (Level 3)
Grade: Rare
Body Foundation Pill (Level 3)
Grade: Rare
Impersonal Relay Unit (Level 5)
Grade: Growth
Rem took in the three items. His hand went to the journal first. The cover felt dry under his thumb. He opened it. Line after line of dense marks filled the pages, tight and unreadable. At the back, a small run of blank sheets waited. He counted twelve, shut the book, and set it aside.
He picked up the pill next. The glass felt cold against his fingers. The green bead at the bottom didn’t shift. When he pulled the stopper, a sharp medicinal scent rose. He closed it again and put the bottle down.
The relay unit waited beside it. A small brass box, just wide enough for his palm. The metal cooled his grip. For its size, it carried more weight than he expected; his fingers tightened to keep hold of it. Smooth faces. No markings except a single black button. He pressed it. The click snapped through the locker.
Amber light rose from the top surface. A tight field formed, and a sphere lifted inside it. A bright point on the sphere fixed on him and held steady.
“Ah. There we are. Level four at last. Better late than never, I should say.”
The sphere turned in small, precise movements. The bright point tracked him. The voice carried a crisp, pleasant tone. The cube tremored lightly in his hand.
“Now then. Scanning.” A short pause. “Yes. I see the issue. You do require my assistance.”
“Wait, what?” Rem tightened his grip on the box.
“Your status data,” the sphere replied, as though nothing else could make sense.
Rem’s vision filled with his status screen. The relay’s eye drifted over the display, tilting in small, deliberate angles, reading each line as if comparing them to some internal ledger.
Unauthorized duplication: this tale has been taken without consent. Report sightings.
Rembrandt de Vries
Race: Human (Enhanced)
License: Merit
Level: 4?Experience: 0 / 800
Class: Error. Not Available.
Challenge Passes: 2
Status
Health: 1344 / 1344 (Stable)
Energy: 146 / 146 (Normal)
Focus: 180 / 180 (Clear)
Attributes
Strength: 10
Agility: 13
Vitality: 10
Intelligence: 12
Perception: 12
Essence Control: 12
Class Skills and Abilities
Error. Not Available.
General Skills and Abilities
Inspect: View system-registered item details (interface only, Thrive-enabled regions).
Titles and Achievements
Passwright: Doubles the population-standard challenge pass allocation.
Record Holder: Union Record acknowledged; citizenship license upgraded to Merit.
Alchemical Prodigy: Awarded for achieving Journeyman or higher rank before Level 10. +15% Alchemy progression.
Challenge Records
Level 1: 17 minutes (World Record)
Level 2: 4 minutes (Union Record)
Level 3: Completed Hidden Objective
“Goodness,” the box murmured. “A very unconventional build. A broken class, no class skills to speak of. Your attributes lean toward academic work, which suits an alchemist, though they sit rather low for level four. And this race designation—Human, advanced—quite rare, yet apparently without racial stat bonuses? How unfortunate. Without class support, you will fall behind. And… oh my.”
The cube shuddered sharply. Rem tightened his grip until his fingers steadied it.
“Yes, thank you,” it continued. “Your largest concern is your level-three challenge record.”
Rem scanned the screen again. His health had doubled at least; the number pulled at him. But the real weight landed on the last line: Completed Hidden Objective
The relay brightened once, a clean pulse.
“Your leaderboard name,” it said. “Are you publicly known?”
“No. Only my family.”
“I see. Then the situation is somewhat less severe than I feared. Still, work remains. I stand ready. Give the word, and I shall assist as best I can.”
“Hold on,” Rem said. “You didn’t come with a manual. I don’t know what you actually do.”
“Oh, of course. Quite right.”
The eye fixed on him, steady and composed.
“I am an Impersonal Relay Unit, designation I.R.U. You may call me Iru. I observe your actions, remove any identifying detail, and present your accomplishments to interested parties. I serve as an anonymous advocate. In return, those parties may offer aid when they approve of your choices or wish to guide them.”
Rem blinked. “Huh.” It sounded like work the system should already do. Why fold all of it into a brass box?
“And by assistance,” he said, “you mean what exactly?”
“Boons. Rewards. Skills,” Iru answered, each word clipped and certain. “Granted by higher-level individuals who take an interest in the progress of lower ascenders.”
Rem nodded once. “So what’s my biggest problem, and how would you argue for me? I want to know what I’m saying yes to.”
“A sound precaution.” Iru paused.
“Your greatest risk is the public note that you completed a hidden objective. Such a record draws individuals who prefer to silence potential threats, as well as those determined to uncover what you discovered. I would appeal to the Keluthan and the Shurathi. They are reliable in matters of concealment and secrecy.”
That pulled Rem’s attention tight. If he could hide the record, half the trouble evaporated.
“And this is anonymous? Nothing about me leaks?”
“Only your level,” Iru said. “A detail shared by trillions. Quite safe.” The eye twitched, then steadied. “Shall I proceed and seek aid on your behalf?”
“Sure,” Rem said. “I want to see what you can do.”
“Excellent. A moment, please.”
Iru’s iris dipped as if studying its own box. The voice faded.
Rem set the unit on a shelf and finished putting away his new rewards.
He looked over the shelves again. All the rares he’d scraped together, stacked and waiting. The sight pulled a breath out of him, thin and tight. He thought of the passes he’d burned chasing elixirs that never existed, the hours he’d thrown at guesses instead of work. Waste he couldn’t afford. Not anymore.
His hand found the edge of the bench. He pressed his fingers into the wood until they steadied. Enough of that. No more half-steps. No more waiting for the system to hand him direction. He would use everything he had and push until something gave. Even if it was him.
He drew a slow breath, set his jaw, and reached for the next piece of work.
He picked up Iru and glyphed to the lab. The eye stayed dim as he set the cube on his workstation.
“Let’s see if this works,” he said, pulling the custom wooden box toward him.
Small Wooden Box (Level 3)
A custom box made of higher-essence wood.
He summoned his merge domain for the first time. A blue square tightened around the box, edges exact. The craftsman had promised two hundred three millimeters; the box hit the mark. Inside, level-three duplication cores filled the lower third.
He fixed the box as primary and duplication as secondary. The merge struck with a short snap. When the light fell away, the box sat empty. He checked the new listing.
Small Wooden Box of Duplication (Level 3)
Contents duplicate when agitated.
Good. Room to copy bottles, small weapons, cores. Enough to start.
He reached up and took down the beaker.
Amber Glass Beaker of Duplication (Level 3)
Duplicates its contents when agitated.
He wrapped the beaker in linen and set it inside the box. A few short shakes. He turned his head away in case the reaction hit harder than expected. When he looked again, four wrapped shapes waited inside.
He unwrapped each one and lined the beakers on the bench. Four in a row. He summoned his merge domain and brought them together in quick snaps of energy until only one remained.
Amber Glass Beaker of Duplication (Level 4)
Duplicates its contents when agitated.
Four into one. Stronger. Now he could push higher-level cores.
He pulled a stack of duplication cores close and merged them one by one. The strain gathered in his chest, then burned its way down his arms. By the last merge, his breath had thinned and his body felt scraped clean.
Slime Core (Level 4)
He set the core into the upgraded beaker and gave it a few steady shakes. When he checked, a dozen level-four cores waited inside. Simple. Direct. More room to move now.
Merging low cores no longer made sense. High-level duplication would push him farther. The question was how to turn that flood into personal strength. Selling them would paint a target on him. The elixir had been a dead end.
Another idea tightened in his mind.
He reached across the bench and lifted the illusion wand. He pressed a level-four core into the base. The wand pulled the essence down in a clean draw. When the drain stopped, he checked both items.
Wand of Illusion
Level 3, Rank Uncommon
Slime Core (Level 2)
Two levels gone to fill the wand. Clear enough.
He set it aside and pulled the duplication box close. He dropped the charged wand inside and gave the box a hard shake. When he checked, a dozen charged wands sat in a pile. Not enough. He shook the box again. And again. When it filled, he lifted the extras out, stacking them in tight bundles along the bench. Then he went back to work.
He needed hundreds. His success rate sat around five percent; most attempts would fail. But the system tracked every try. With enough repetition, the skill would rise. Duplication gave him the volume he needed.
A growing pile of charged wands spread across the bench. With enough of them, he could grind through the failures and take the skill for himself.
Iru’s eye lifted, its light steady on him.
“Mission complete,” Iru said. “Stand ready. Your negotiated rewards are incoming.”
