Alph turned down the quieter side street, his boots finding the familiar path to Wincott's Wares. The shop sat on a respectable corner, its well-carved wooden sign depicting a bushel of mountain herbs and a string of polished stones swaying gently in the morning breeze. He pushed through the front door, the soft chime announcing his arrival.

  Fifty paces behind, the figure melted into the morning crowd with practiced ease.

  A bun shop occupied a strategic position with clear sightlines down the side street. The rogue approached the vendor's stall with the casual gait of a traveler, letting fatigue show in his posture—a merchant guard perhaps, or a courier finishing a long journey.

  "What's your price for the sweet rolls?" he asked, gesturing at the displayed goods while his eyes tracked the shop entrance in his peripheral vision.

  The vendor named a figure. The rogue made a show of counting coins with deliberate slowness, offering a counter-price that would keep the negotiation going. The vendor protested. Back and forth they went, the familiar dance of haggling providing perfect cover.

  All the while, his attention never left Wincott's Wares, where Alph had disappeared.

  The shadow paused at the edge of the alley, its unnatural darkness pooling as if observing the shop's carved sign. The entity within stirred—a ripple of recognition passing through the void like a stone dropped in still water.

  For a long moment, the shadow remained motionless. Then, as if reaching some internal decision, it receded. The unnatural darkness withdrew into itself, melting back into the ordinary shadows cast by buildings and awnings until no trace of wrongness remained.

  Hours crawled past. The morning sun climbed to its zenith and began its descent. The rogue maintained his vigil through it all, watching the shop's entrance with professional patience. When Alph failed to emerge by afternoon, the conclusion formed naturally: this was his dwelling.

  The rogue departed.

  Night fell over Stoneford, bringing with it the deep quiet of sleeping streets. The figure returned, transformed. Black leather armor hugged his frame, designed for silence and shadow. Dark cloth concealed his features completely.

  He stood atop a neighboring rooftop, perfectly still, his eyes fixed on Wincott's Wares below. The casual observer from morning had vanished. What remained was a predator, and his gaze carried murder.

  Alph stared at the ceiling beams, sleep refusing to come. The entire day had been spent resting—Geoffrey and Thalia both insisting he recover properly after his ordeal. But now, with the house silent and both of them long since retired, restlessness gnawed at him.

  He rose from the bed, his movements careful and quiet. His footsteps made no sound against the wooden floorboards as he navigated through the darkened shop, the natural nimbleness of his thief training guiding each step. Even the hinges of the back door made no protest as he slipped into the yard.

  The night air carried a coolness that felt welcome against his skin. Above, stars scattered across the void in countless pinpricks of light—so different from the cosmic expanse of his Mind Garden, yet still vast and incomprehensible.

  Alph stood there in the darkness, gazing upward. The weight of recent days pressed down on him. Sal's final stand. The screams. The faces of those who hadn't made it. Hero of Stoneford, they called him.

  The stars offered no answers, only their cold, distant light.

  He'd spent the entire day thinking about what came next. A rough outline had formed in his mind, shaped by both necessity and opportunity.

  First: training in equivalent Tier 1 professions. The Hunter node's merger with Scout had proven the concept worked. If he could replicate that process—find the Fighter profession to merge with Recruit, the Rogue profession to merge with Thief—each merger would grant him substantial strength increases without requiring a full tier advancement.

  Second: establish a second constellation. With new Tier 0 professions as base nodes, he could begin building another foundation entirely. The Shaper had confirmed it was possible, even if unprecedented.

  If everything proceeded according to plan, he would possess unprecedented strength while still only Tier 1. Power that clearly rivaled a peak Tier 2 professional, maybe even Tier 3.

  The path was clear. The execution would be the challenge—finding the right professions, triggering the mergers, managing the resources and time required. But it was possible.

  Alph's gaze remained fixed on the stars above, his mind already calculating the steps ahead.

  Then his entire body screamed warning.

  Alph moved on pure instinct, twisting sideways. A dagger punched through empty air where his spine had been a heartbeat before, the blade passing close enough that he felt the displaced air against his neck.

  The attacker didn't hesitate. The blade reversed in a tight arc, slashing toward Alph's throat. He jerked backward, boots scraping against packed earth. Another thrust came low, aimed at his kidney. Alph threw himself aside, his movements desperate and graceless.

  Thrust. Slash. Thrust again. Each attack flowed into the next with professional precision, forcing Alph to give ground with each awkward evasion. His body moved on reflex born from training, but without room to think, without space to properly respond.

  The assassin's eyes narrowed behind the cloth mask, frustration creeping into his movements as each strike found only air.

  "Slippery little bastard," he hissed through clenched teeth, adjusting his grip on the dagger.

  Alph's mind raced even as his body moved. No weapons. No armor. Nothing but his clothes and the skills burned into muscle memory.

  The gap in strength was obvious—this assassin operated at Tier 2 minimum, every movement carrying power and speed that exceeded Alph's capabilities. A war of attrition meant death. His stamina would fail first, and the moment his reflexes slowed, that dagger would find its mark.

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  Running wasn't an option either. The way this man moved, the silent precision of each strike—clearly a Rogue profession. Movement speed and stealth were his advantages. Alph would be cut down from behind before making it to the door.

  Which left only one choice: counterattack.

  But how? He had no reach, no weapon to create distance or leverage. His Hunter skills were ranged—useless without a bow. His Fighter training gave him unarmed techniques, but closing with a blade meant accepting wounds he couldn't afford.

  The dagger came again, a horizontal slash at gut level. Alph sucked in his stomach and backpedaled, his thoughts spinning through options, discarding each as quickly as they formed.

  Then Alph remembered—the essence from the abomination. Still stored, still waiting to be absorbed through Grim Harvest. He didn't know what it would grant him, but anything was better than dying empty-handed.

  Gritting his teeth, he willed the skill to activate.

  The dark grey essence dissolved under Grim Harvest's guidance, flooding into him. Vitality and willpower surged through his body in a violent rush, the power of a Tier 3 creature pouring into his Tier 1 frame.

  But the absorption demanded his focus. For a single heartbeat, his body stiffened.

  The assassin saw it. His dagger thrust forward with lethal precision, the blade coated in something that gleamed wetly even in starlight. It punched into Alph's shoulder, sinking halfway to the hilt.

  The expected agony didn't come.

  Alph staggered backward from the momentum, and the assassin released his grip rather than be pulled forward. The dagger lodged—Alph fell down, his hands clutching the hilt that the assailant let go of.

  Instead, Alph felt only pressure. No pain. No burning poison spreading through his veins, he didn't even grunt.

  Just the raw, overwhelming power still flooding his system.

  The assassin's posture relaxed, confidence returning to his stance. The poison was potent—paralytic venom that would lock muscles and still breath within moments. This was already over.

  He didn't notice the unusual steadiness in Alph's bearing, mistaking it for the trembling rigidity of dying nerves.

  "Country pleb should have known your place," the assassin sneered, his tone dripping with derision. "What 'Hero of Stoneford'? Just a Tier 1 rookie, killed in seconds like a chicken."

  He stepped forward leisurely, approaching Alph who had staggered back against the wall. The assassin leaned in close, savoring the moment—taking pleasure in the hatred burning in his victim's eyes. That defiant glare, still present even as the poison should be stealing his last breaths.

  It was a professional's small indulgence, watching the light fade from someone who'd thought themselves special.

  The assassin's face came within a foot of Alph's, close enough to see every detail of impending death.

  Alph's hands clenched around the dagger's hilt, feeling the blood-slick grip beneath his fingers. The assassin's eyes gleamed with satisfaction behind his mask, savoring what he believed were his victim's final moments.

  "Should have stayed in your village, boy," the assassin whispered, his face inches away.

  With a sharp exhale, Alph wrenched the blade free from his shoulder. Blood gushed from the wound, spattering across the packed earth between them. The assassin's expression shifted from triumph to confusion as Alph's movements remained steady, controlled—none of the trembling paralysis the poison should have induced.

  Before the assassin could process this impossibility, Alph reversed his grip and thrust the dagger toward the man's chest with vicious speed. The crimson-stained blade carved through the air, aimed directly at the heart.

  The assassin's trained reflexes kicked in despite his shock. He threw himself backward in a desperate roll, the poisoned steel missing his torso by mere inches. The blade sliced through his dark leathers instead, parting the material like silk.

  He came up in a crouch several paces away, his confident demeanor completely shattered. Dark eyes darted between the steadily bleeding wound on Alph's shoulder and the young man's unnaturally steady stance.

  "Impossible," the assassin breathed. "That poison would drop a horse in seconds."

  Alph said nothing, blood dripping from both the dagger and his wound. The essence of the Tier 3 abomination coursed through his veins like liquid fire, overwhelming any toxin with raw, unfiltered power. His amber eyes gleamed in the starlight as he shifted into a combat stance.

  The assassin's hand moved to his belt, fingers closing around the hilt of a second blade. Whatever drug resistance this country boy possessed, steel would still cut him down.

  "No more games," the assassin snarled, drawing his backup weapon. "You die tonight."

  Alph shifted the dagger to a backhand grip, lowering his stance as he felt the overwhelming power of the abomination's essence coursing through his veins. Where the assassin's blade had pierced his shoulder moments before, the wound sealed itself with unnatural speed. The bleeding stopped entirely, leaving only torn fabric as evidence of the strike.

  The assassin's eyes widened behind his mask as he watched the impossible healing unfold. But he was a professional—surprise couldn't paralyze him for long.

  Without giving Alph time to fully process his restored condition, the assassin charged forward with his backup blade gleaming in the starlight. His movements carried the fluid precision of years spent killing in shadows, each strike aimed at vital points with lethal intent.

  Alph met the assault with the stolen dagger, deflecting the first thrust with a ringing clash of steel. The second strike came immediately—a vicious slash toward his throat that he barely turned aside. A third attack, then a fourth, each one flowing seamlessly into the next as the assassin pressed his advantage.

  Despite the essence flooding his system with power, Alph found himself constantly on the defensive. The assassin's skill surpassed his own by a substantial margin, years of experience evident in every feint and counter. Each deflection sent vibrations up Alph's arm, each parry arrived just in time to prevent lethal damage.

  He understood that continuing this way meant certain defeat.

  The assassin's blade carved through the air in a vicious arc, aimed at Alph's exposed ribs. Alph twisted sideways, the steel missing by inches, when suddenly the shadows around them writhed to life.

  Tendrils of darkness erupted from every corner of the yard, wrapping around the assassin's arms, legs, and torso with serpentine fluidity. The man's eyes widened in terror as the bindings tightened, his confident stance crumbling into panicked struggle.

  "What—no! This isn't possible!" Fear cracked his voice as he fought against the supernatural restraints.

  Alph didn't pause to question the source. His teeth clenched as he channeled every drop of willpower into the dagger, just as he had with the crossbow bolt. The blade ignited with crimson intent, pulsing with deadly purpose.

  The assassin's struggles ceased as Alph drove the weapon deep into his throat. Blood gurgled from the man's lips as his body convulsed once, then went limp. The shadow bindings released their hold, letting the corpse crumple to the packed earth.

  Breathing heavily, Alph turned toward his left where movement caught his eye. On the neighboring rooftop sat a figure cloaked in darkness—robes billowing in non-existent wind, face hidden in shadow. Even from this distance, Alph recognized the malevolent presence.

  The same Necromancer from the forest.

  A chill spread down Alph's spine as realization crashed over him. Out of the frying pan, into the fire.