"LFP! Need tank for deep run! We have healer!"
"WTS [Goblin-Stained Greaves]! 2 Silver, DM!"
A player with mismatched armor and a frantic look in his eyes stood perched on a small boulder, trying to make his voice heard above the din. "LFP DPS for a quick run to the Taskmaster! Just need one more! We know the route!"
It was a perfect snapshot of the early-game struggle: the endless hunt for gear, for party members, for any small advantage that could smooth out the vertical climb of levelling. Kage had been there. He remembered the feeling intimately—the quiet desperation of being under-levelled and under-geared.
A recruiter's eyes scanned the crowd, dismissing a player with a wooden club, skipping over a duo who were clearly already grouped. Then his gaze landed on Kage. He took in the dull gleam of the misshapen crown on Kage's sword hilt, the uncommon quality of his trousers, and the confident, unhurried way he moved through the crowd. Most importantly, he saw the number floating above Kage’s head. Level 6. Respectable.
"Hey, you! Sword guy!" the player shouted, pointing. "You look like you know what you're doing. Taskmaster run! Quick in and out. You in?"
The question hung in the air. A simple invitation. The kind of offer he would have clung to just hours ago. Kage’s path didn't even waver. He met the player's hopeful gaze for a fraction of a second, gave a single, almost imperceptible shake of his head, and continued his stride.
He walked straight past the recruiter, past the desperate cries and the frantic energy, and into the dark, welcoming cool of the Goblin Mines. Alone.
The recruiter was left staring, his mouth slightly agape, at the spot where Kage had been. He’d been dismissed so utterly, so completely, that it felt less like a rejection and more like he hadn't existed at all.
The familiar stench of damp earth and goblin musk filled Kage's senses. The first patrol was exactly where he remembered it.
Last time, this encounter had been solved by his party while he gathered the Gloomweed. Now, it was a testbed.
Kage’s mind assembled the verse with the speed of a practiced command line entry. A willed quick-cast. Quick, silent, efficient.
Title: A curse upon the creature.
Poem: "This goblin target I now see, / let all its strength weaken and flee."
He barely had to think the words. The concept formed, and a pulse of faint purple energy, almost invisible in the gloom, shot from his outstretched hand and washed over the Shaman. The creature flinched, looking around in confusion, its magical crackling dimming for a moment.
[Weaken applied. Target's Attribute Output reduced by 30%.]
The melees, oblivious, spotted him and charged. Kage met them head-on. The Blade of the Self-Styled King hummed as he drew it.
His first strike was a clean, diagonal slash across the lead goblin’s chest.
[-58 HP]
[Fury (Stack 1/5)]
The number was satisfyingly inflated by the debuff on the Shaman, which likely provided a small area-of-effect defensive aura. The goblin stumbled. Kage didn’t give it a chance to recover. His kendo footwork carried him in a fluid pivot around its clumsy swing. His blade became a blur.
[-59 HP]
[Fury (Stack 2/5)]
His action speed visibly increased. The world seemed to slow just a fraction as his mind and body synched with the weapon's rage. The second melee swung its club. Kage parried, and his riposte was immediate.
[-61 HP]
[Fury (Stack 3/5)]
He was a machine of optimized violence. The Shaman finally managed to launch a bolt of sputtering green energy. Kage sidestepped it without looking, his eyes locked on the two warriors. A spin, a slash, another parry.
In under ten seconds, both dissolved into particles of light.
[You have defeated Goblin Grunt!]
[EXP Gained: 40]
[You have defeated Goblin Grunt!]
[EXP Gained: 40]
The Shaman gibbered in terror, its confidence shattered. Kage closed the distance in two long strides, his sword a silver streak in the darkness.
[-116 HP] - [Critical Hit!]
The Shaman evaporated.
[You have defeated Goblin Shaman!]
[EXP Gained: 45]
[Loot Acquired]
-
[Cracked Goblin Trinket] x 1
-
[Torn Hide Scraps] x 3
-
8 Copper
Kage stood in the sudden silence, the last stack of Fury expiring. The entire encounter had taken less than fifteen seconds. No wasted movement, no unnecessary risk. He deliberately suppressed the Tyrant's Strike a half-dozen times, the glowing icon for the skill pulsing angrily on his interface before he forced it down. The utility was good, but the cost to his dignity was too high. He would save it for emergencies.
This hybrid style worked. It worked beautifully. But the Operator's mind was already churning, moving on to the next problem.
After clearing a small, fungus-lit side cavern, Kage paused. He had a surplus of Awen and a head full of data. He leaned against a cool rock wall, his eyes unfocused as he ran the calculations.
My verses can target objects, like with the Dwarven machine. The keyword for that seems to be contextual, but [Shape] is the direct tool. They can target enemies, like the goblin, using [Target] and [Weaken]. Logically, the system differentiates between OBJECT and HOSTILE_NPC target types.
He already knew that he could target himself. His very first attempt at Verse-Crafting had defaulted to the caster, dealing him a pathetic 2 damage.
The system viewed him as a valid target. That was a confirmed fact.
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The real question was about intent.
If the system allowed him to inflict damage on himself through incompetence, would it allow him to bestow benefits through precision? Could he turn that targeting default into a self-buffing loop?
He scanned his lexicon. The keyword [Self] was sitting there, its resonance a pitiful 1%. He’d never touched it, assuming it was useless for one-word poems. He decided to run a test. He needed a safe, non-combat keyword to pair it with. [Strengthen] was the obvious choice, its resonance a paltry 6% after a dozen usages, but its function was clear.
He took a breath, feeling the familiar hint of self-consciousness that came with crafting verse. This felt less like commanding reality and more like writing painfully earnest fanfiction about himself.
He composed the rhyming couplet in his mind, focusing the intent inward.
Title: A boon upon the architect.
Poem: "Upon my self, a boon I strengthen, / let my weary limbs begin to lengthen."
The rhyme was clunky, the verse graceless.
A warm, golden light descended over his body, feeling like a splash of sunlight in the cold mine. It lingered for a moment before fading, leaving a faint tingling sensation in his muscles.
A notification chimed.
[You have cast a beneficial verse. Strength +6 for 30 seconds.]
Kage’s eyes snapped open. He clenched his fist. The feeling of power was subtle but undeniable. His total Strength was now 21. A significant, if temporary, boost to his damage output.
It worked.
The Operator’s mind extrapolated.
[Self] is a valid target. The implications were staggering. If buffs worked, what else worked? He scanned his lexicon again, his gaze snapping to one keyword.
[Growth].
Resonance: 7%. He’d acquired it through a moment of pure, desperate frustration while trying to pick a flower. Its function was life, vitality, flourishing. He'd used it to harvest more plants. But he was a living thing. The system recognized him as a valid target. What if…
He needed a control group. He needed to take damage.
He scanned the cavern and found what he was looking for: a crudely made pressure plate trap, barely concealed beneath a dusting of loose dirt. A tripwire connected to a set of rusty spikes. Amateurish. Easy to spot. Perfect.
He walked over and deliberately stepped on it.
Click-thwump.
A trio of spikes shot out from the wall, striking him in the thigh. The Unyielding Will effect from his ring flared, negating one spike entirely, but the other two found their mark.
[-15 HP]
[-15 HP]
A sharp, real pain lanced through his leg. A debuff icon appeared: [Bleeding] -1 HP/s.
His health bar now sat at 150/180.
Now for the test. He ignored the bleeding debuff. He closed his eyes, focusing his entire intent on the very cells of his own body. On the wound. On the concept of mending. He didn't need a couplet for this. He needed a command. Pure, direct, and absolute.
Title: My body must mend.
Poem: Growth.
The verse, a single potent word, cost him 50 Awen. A soft, vital green energy, far more intense than the golden light of the [Strengthen] buff, enveloped his body. It was the color of new leaves in spring, a pure, life-affirming glow. He felt a soothing warmth spread through his thigh, knitting torn flesh and sealing broken capillaries. The pain vanished.
Two notifications appeared, one after the other.
[Your verse has purged the [Bleeding] effect.]
[You have gained [Rapid Mending]. HP recovery +15 per second for 5 seconds.]
He watched his health bar.
+15… +15… +15… +15… +15…
In five seconds, he had recovered 75 HP. His health was back to full.
HP: 180/180
Kage let out a breath he didn't realize he'd been holding.
It was a paradigm shift.
He had self-sustain.
The cost-benefit analysis of every engagement he would ever take just fundamentally changed. His survivability, his ability to grind for hours on end without returning to town, his capacity to take risks—it had all just skyrocketed.
The Operator recalibrated every future risk assessment. The game had changed.
With a new, unshakeable confidence, Kage pushed deeper into the mines. He followed the quest marker for [The Stone Remembers]. From his position, he could follow the same path that he had taken the first time with the party. But he saw that there was a faster, shorter path, which led him away from the main thoroughfares and into less-travelled side tunnels.
The choice was obvious. Every second counts. Every second wasted is a gamble on my primary objective.
The goblins in the side-tunnels were tougher. Level 8 and 9 Goblin Pillagers, clad in scavenged pieces of iron plate and wielding cruel, barbed spears. They moved in coordinated packs, flanking and using nets to try and immobilize him.
They stood no chance.
Kage’s combat became a deadly dance. A willed [Weaken] verse to soften the pack’s elite leader, then a charge into the fray. The Blade of the Self-Styled King was in constant motion, its [Fury] stacks rarely dropping below five. He flowed between targets, his Rhythmic Flow passive activating as he perfectly dodged a spear thrust while casting a one-word [Bind] verse to momentarily freeze a net-thrower's arm.
[Gained Rhythmic Flow (Stack 5/10)]
[Current Bonus: +10 Base Physical Damage, +10% Action Speed]
His damage output soared. His base of 48 became 58. Every swing was faster, every hit harder. The Pillagers, with nearly 450 HP each, fell one by one.
He took a heavy hit from a Goblin Ravager, an elite with a massive two-handed axe. The blow sent him staggering back, his health dropping by a third.
He didn't panic. He retreated, creating space, and spoke the command. Growth. Green light washed over him, his health bar surging upwards. The Ravager roared and charged, only to be met by a spoken charged-cast.
"Let earthen arms from the ground take shape, / and bind this brute with no escape!"
[-100 AWN]
Slabs of rock erupted from the floor, clamping around the Ravager's legs, rooting it in place for a precious few seconds. It was long enough. Kage descended on it, his fully-stacked blade a whirlwind of vengeful steel.
The EXP flowed in a steady, satisfying stream. With every kill, the bar crept closer to Level 7.
His path eventually took him past the wide, circular chamber where his party had fought the Goblin Taskmaster. Kage paused in the shadows of the entrance. Another party was there, engaged with the boss, and they were losing badly.
"Hold aggro, noob!" a mage shrieked, her voice cracking with panic as she dodged the Taskmaster's whip. "What are you even doing?!"
"I'm trying!" a younger, earnest voice shot back. "It keeps resetting!"
Kage watched, his face a mask of neutrality. It was a classic scene: a disorganized party falling apart at the seams, their communication devolving into panicked accusations. The tank, a warrior with a mismatched set of armor and a basic round, wooden shield, was at the center of their ire. A nameplate, 'Valdrias', hovered above his head. The player's movements were clumsy, his expression a mix of wide-eyed eagerness and mounting frustration. His gear was vendor-trash. Definitely his first VRMMO.
Kage was about to turn away—another data point in a sea of incompetence—when something made him pause. The tank's feet. The first time the Taskmaster used its heavy swing, the player had tried to block and was sent staggering. The second time, he tried to dodge backward and was still clipped. But this time, Kage saw it. A tiny, almost imperceptible shift in his stance. He was learning. He was calculating.
As the boss wound up for another heavy swing, Valdrias took a single, precise step diagonally forward, into the attack's blind spot. The club whistled past him. He had identified the safe zone in real-time, under pressure, while his own party screamed at him.
A flicker of genuine surprise, a microscopic twitch of an eyebrow, broke Kage's neutral expression. The eagerness was a mask. Beneath it was a cold, calculating mind processing data, refining its methods with every failure. While his party was panicking, Valdrias was running a diagnostic. And he was probably not aware of it himself.
Kage saw a flash of his younger self in the player's desperate, focused eyes—the same relentless drive to deconstruct the system, to find the perfect answer, to win through superior understanding.
The moment passed. Valdrias’s party was doomed, their healer out of mana. It wasn't his problem. But as Kage turned and slipped into a narrow side passage, bypassing the unfolding tragedy, he logged the name Valdrias in his mind. An interesting variable. A ghost of a thought, one that felt like it came from Master Jin himself, whispered in his memory:
'Talent can be found in the most unpolished stone.'
He turned and walked away without a sound, bypassing the chamber through a narrow side passage. A ghost moving through a battle that wasn't his concern.
The main tunnels of the goblin warren eventually gave way to a tight, oppressive fissure in the rock, a passage so narrow his shoulders almost brushed the sides. He navigated it from memory, the rough stone scraping against his leather gloves.
Then, the tunnel opened up.
He stepped out onto a familiar stone precipice, and the sight stole his breath, just as it had the first time.
Before him lay the vast, cathedral-like cavern. The abyss of pure blackness still yawned below, a void so deep it seemed to drink the light. Above, strange, phosphorescent flora cast a ghostly blue-green glow across the cavern, illuminating the architecture of the broken sky-road—a series of massive, suspended stone platforms hanging motionless in the dead air.
And in the distance, on the farthest platform, sat the colossal, dormant Dwarven mechanism. He could see it clearly: the house-sized gear, the empty slot where a smaller cog was meant to be, and the massive, rusted lever.
He had been here before.
He remembered standing on this very ledge with Zara, Jax, Lily, and Finn. He remembered their awe, their confusion. He remembered being the quiet strategist, the conductor hiding in the orchestra, using his strange powers in subtle ways to guide them to a solution.
Now, he was alone. His companions were his newfound understanding of his class and the sword at his hip. He looked across the chasm at the puzzle he had solved once through a clever combination of his verses.
He stood at the edge, staring across the abyss at the silent, broken machine.
The path was the same, the method, different.
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