“The system doesn’t care about fairness. It cares about balance. Sometimes those are the same thing. Usually, they’re not.”

  — Overheard at Najjar Academy cafeteria

  I stared at the skill window, my frustration mounting with each passing second.

  [You can obtain two skills.]

  That was it. That was the entire explanation the system deigned to provide. Not which two skills, or how to “obtain” them. Not even a hint about what categories of skills existed or where I should start looking.

  Just a simple declaration that I can obtain two skills, as if that was helpful information in any conceivable way.

  “System,” I whispered with my hands clenched into fists at my sides. “Why do you care about me? Why not Omar, or someone else?” I tried not to raise my voice. Failed. “Can you bother anyone else?”

  The response appeared instantly.

  [Minor system detected! Count of minor systems in Sol: 1]

  One.

  One minor system in the entire Sol Alliance, out of billions of people, and I was the only one with it.

  “Wait...” I said. “So because I was the first minor system in Sol, some mysterious system’s eye took interest in me... and now annoys me specifically?” My voice rose slightly with each word. “If I get a normal system, will you stop?”

  [System is eternal.]

  The notification hung in my vision, completely unhelpful and somehow condescending despite being just three words.

  I groaned, a sound that came from somewhere deep in my chest, and shifted forcefully with a jump. My chair squeaked in protest as I crashed into it, the ergonomic cushioning compressing under my weight.

  “Fine,” I said, slumping back and staring at the ceiling. The overhead lights flickered slightly, probably needing maintenance that would never happen because serv-bots didn’t come down here. “Throw skills my way. Show me what I can get. Give me literally any useful information.”

  Silence.

  No new notifications, or helpful skill catalogue materializing in my vision, just the same useless window floating there.

  [You can obtain two skills.]

  I closed my eyes, counting to ten in my head. Then twenty. Then gave up and opened them again, because clearly patience wasn’t going to make the system less annoying.

  “Okay,” I said aloud, because talking to myself had become a coping mechanism. “Let’s think about this logically. Omar mentioned skill catalogues. Plural. Which means there are multiple sources of skills, probably organized by subsystem or category or whatever.”

  I pulled up my full system interface, expanding each section methodically.

  [Sol Minor System]

  [Personal Trait: Hoqalo]

  [Level]

  [Attributes: DISABLED]

  [Skills]

  [Magic]

  [Plugins]

  I focused on the skills section, trying to will it to expand, to show me more information, to do literally anything beyond its current useless state.

  [Skills: You can obtain two skills]

  Nothing changed.

  “Define skills,” I tried, using the same command that had worked for pp.

  [Skills are abilities granted by the system to enhance user capability across combat, utility, and specialized domains.]

  “Show skill catalogue.”

  [Access denied. Catalogue not available.]

  “Why not?”

  [Users need to gain access to a catalogue first.]

  I let out another groan, longer this time, and let my head fall back against the chair’s headrest with a soft thump. “Of course the system doesn’t come with basic functionality like, I don’t know, the ability to see what skills exist.”

  [Correct assessment.]

  “That wasn’t a compliment!”

  [Hoqalo trait grants two skills]

  I stopped mid-groan, my head snapping up from the chair’s headrest. “Please tell me I can see them?”

  A new window materialized, expanding across my vision with more detail than any system notification I’d received so far.

  [Hoqalo: Soulwright’s Engraving]

  Rarity: — (Trait-based)

  Description:

  After completing the creation of an object, you may bind it to your very essence, engraving your soul into its existence. The object becomes permanently linked to you, drawing strength and identity from your being.

  This bond cannot be transferred. Only the object’s destruction, or the deliberate renunciation of your essence, reversing the imprint, will sever the connection.

  Activation:

  Whisper “Hoqalo” with focused intent while touching the object with your dominant hand.

  Cooldown: None.

  Warning: The binding process places strain upon the soul. Excessive use may result in spiritual damage.

  I read it once. Then twice. Then a third time, my brain struggling to process what I was seeing.

  Soul binding.

  The skill let me bind objects to my soul… like permanently. Making them... what? Part of me? Extensions of my soul? “What does that even mean?” I muttered, staring at the description. “Drawing strength and identity from my being. What strength? What identity?”

  The system, predictably, didn’t elaborate.

  I focused on the warning at the bottom. Spiritual damage. That sounded... bad. Worse than bad. The kind of thing that didn’t heal with bandages or stims or even high-level healing magic.

  But the cooldown was… none. I could theoretically bind as many objects as I made, limited only by however much strain my soul could take at the moment before breaking. Hopefully, it could heal on its own.

  Probably shouldn’t use an unknown skill, but that never stopped me.

  “Okay,” I said slowly, leaning back in my chair. “So I can bind things I make to my soul. And then... what happens? They get stronger? I get stronger? Both?”

  No response.

  “Show me the second skill,” I said, because clearly the system wasn’t going to volunteer information.

  The window shifted, the first skill sliding away as a new one appeared.

  [Continue with second skill?]

  “Please, system.”

  [Hoqalo: Echo of Excellence]

  Rarity: — (Trait-based)

  Description:

  When examining an object created by your own hand, this skill reveals the item’s effective rarity within an unlocked appraisal area (Tago). The revealed rarity is determined by comparing the object’s overall performance, durability, and function against similar objects of the same category recognized by the System.

  This evaluation reflects relative quality rather than absolute value and may change as the standards of comparison expand.

  Activation:

  Passive upon inspection of a self-created item.

  Cooldown:

  None.

  I read through the description, my frustration shifting to confusion.

  “Unlocked appraisal area?” I said aloud. “What does that mean? Is Tago locked? Do I need to unlock other cities? How?”

  [Insufficient intelligence for additional information.]

  Of course.

  I focused on the rest of the description, parsing it slowly. The skill would tell me the rarity of things I made, but only things I made and only in Tago…and only by comparing them to similar items the system already knew about.

  “So it’s useless for anything I didn’t build myself,” I muttered, slumping back in my chair. “Can’t appraise loot and can’t appraise gear I buy. Just... my own stuff.” I stared at the description for another long moment; the limitations piling up in my mind.

  Then something clicked, and I sat up straight.

  “Wait,” I blurted. “This tells me if what I’m making is actually good or just garbage compared to real gear.”

  The implications cascaded through my thoughts like dominoes falling.

  I could build something. Check its quality with Echo of Excellence. If it was good enough, I could bind it to my soul with Soulwright’s Engraving. And if it wasn’t good enough? I could iterate.

  Redesign.

  Improve.

  Check again.

  A quality control feedback loop built directly into my trait. “Okay,” I admitted grudgingly, a small smile tugging at my lips despite myself. “That’s... actually useful. Annoyingly limited, but useful.”

  I glanced at the TABLO, where the Erika figurine sat waiting. The golden rune mark pulsed faintly on its base. Could I check the figurine’s rarity? It was technically something I’d created, or at least, something I’d enchanted. The rune work was mine, even if the base object had been system-generated.

  Only one way to find out.

  I stood up and walked over to the TABLO, picking up the figurine carefully. The wood was warm under my fingers, and the rune mark gleamed in the workshop lights.

  I focused on it, really looking at it, examining it with intent.

  Nothing happened.

  No new window or rarity notification. Just a wooden figurine with a practice rune carved into its base. “Define ‘created by your own hand,’” I muttered. “Does enchanting count? Or does it have to be built from scratch?”

  [Objects must be crafted, assembled, or forged by the user to qualify for appraisal. Enchantment alone is insufficient.]

  Reading on Amazon or a pirate site? This novel is from Royal Road. Support the author by reading it there.

  I set the figurine back down, processing that limitation.

  So enchanting didn’t count as “creating.” I needed to actually build something. Which made sense, in a frustrating sort of way… the skill was called Echo of Excellence, not Echo of Magical Modifications.

  My eyes drifted to the Orbital, still humming in standby mode. To the pants design I’d spent two hours perfecting, with its twelve projectors arranged in a hexagonal pattern and sixteen micro-cameras and enough conductive threading to make Professor Michalski proud.

  Once I actually fabricated those pants, once they existed as physical objects instead of holographic blueprints...

  Then I could check their quality.

  Then I’d know if all that careful design work had actually resulted in something worthwhile, or if I’d just made expensive garbage.

  “Alright,” I said, looking back at the system notification still floating in my vision. “I’ll admit it. These skills are actually pretty perfect for a tinkerer.”

  [Trait synergy detected. Optimal skill allocation confirmed.]

  “Don’t get smug about it,” I muttered, but there was no real heat in my voice. For once, the system had actually given me something useful. Now I just had to finish the pants so I could start building things worth binding to my soul.

  I turned away from the system notifications, dismissing them with a mental swipe, and surveyed the workshop with fresh eyes. The crates lined against the walls suddenly looked less like organizational problems and more like unopened presents.

  “Right,” I muttered, walking over to the nearest stack. “Time to see what else Asti ordered.”

  I started reading labels systematically, looking for anything that screamed “fabrication equipment” beyond the crafting bench I’d spotted earlier.

  KALLUM TABLO SERIES - check, already assembled.

  ORBITAL - HOLOGRAPHIC DESIGN SYSTEM - check, set up and running.

  EXOTIC ALLOYS - materials, not equipment.

  Then I found it.

  KALLUM ACCIW FABRICATION SUITE - COMPLETE SYSTEM

  My breath caught.

  ACCIW. Automated Cutting, Component Integration, and Welder system. The fabrication suite I’d been reading about on forums for years. Yes, it was entry-level in its category, but it was way beyond what I could access. The machine that could take a design from the Orbital and turn it into physical gear with precision I could never do by hand.

  I’d seen videos of it working. Watched professional fabricators use it to build tactical gear in hours instead of days. Dreamed about owning one while I hand-stitched armor repairs in Eddy’s back room.

  And now I had one.

  I grabbed the crate’s mag-locks, my fingers actually trembling slightly as I entered the release sequence.

  1-2-3.

  The locks disengaged with satisfying clicks, and the crate’s side panel swung open. Inside, packed in anti-shock foam, was the most beautiful piece of equipment I’d ever seen.

  The primary unit was surprisingly compact, maybe a meter and a half long, half a meter wide, but dense. Brushed steel housing with the Kallum logo etched into the side. Control panel on the front, currently dark. Multiple input ports along the top for material feeds.

  I pulled out the instruction holo-card and activated it by pressing left corner.

  The ACCIW materialized in holographic glory above the card, rotating slowly as text scrolled past listing capabilities that made my heart race.

  

  
• 
  
    Precision laser cutting (0.01mm tolerance)
  
    


  
• 
  
    Automated component embedding
  
    


  
• 
  
    Conductive thread routing
  
    


  
• 
  
    Impact foam lamination
  
    


  
• 
  
    Fabric welding (molecular bond)
  
    


  
• 
  
    Armor plate integration
  
    


  
• 
  
    (…)
  
    


  

  Everything. The ACCIW could do everything I needed for building my gear in one machine.

  I started unpacking components with the careful reverence usually reserved for Aurelia’s religious artifacts. The cutting head came out first, wrapped in protective film. Then the component embedder array, a series of precision manipulators that could place electronics without damaging them. The thread router assembly. The welding module.

  Each piece was individually calibrated and perfect. By the time I had everything unpacked and laid out on the floor, I was grinning like an idiot.

  “Okay,” I said, looking at the pile of components. “Time to put this together.”

  The assembly process was like the TABLO: color-coded connections, precise tolerances, components that fit together with satisfying clicks. But where the TABLO had been furniture, this was precision manufacturing equipment.

  I worked slowly, checking each connection twice. Red to red, blue to blue, green to green. The cutting head was mounted to the main housing with four bolts that required exact torque settings. The embedder array slid into guide rails and locked with magnetic clamps.

  An hour later, the ACCIW stood assembled on the workshop floor. It looked even better in person than in the holos.

  Now I needed to connect it to the Orbital.

  I found the data cable in the accessories crate, a fiber-optic line rated for high-bandwidth system communication. One end plugged into the ACCIW’s control panel. The other connected to the Orbital’s base unit.

  One day I’ll rout the cables properly, temporary they’ll go… onto the floor.

  The moment I seated the connection, both machines hummed to life. The ACCIW’s control panel lit up, displaying boot sequences and diagnostic checks. The Orbital’s projection field flickered, expanding to include the new equipment in its network.

  Then a window appeared in the holographic space, large and impossible to miss.

  KALLUM PREMIUM FABRICATION SUITE

  Welcome to advanced manufacturing! For optimal performance and ease of use, consider upgrading to Kallum Premium Service:

  * Automated calibration protocols

  * Pre-loaded material databases

  * One-click fabrication workflows

  * 24/7 technical support

  * Guaranteed compatibility updates

  Special Introductory Rate: Only ￠10,000/month

  [Subscribe Now] / [Continue Without Premium]

  I stared at the subscription offer, my eye twitching.

  Ten thousand credits per month. For features that should probably just be included with equipment I’d already spent tens of thousands on.

  “Continue without premium,” I said, reaching into the holographic space to tap the button.

  A new prompt appeared.

  **Are you sure?**

  Manual calibration requires technical knowledge and may result in equipment damage or material waste if performed incorrectly.

  Kallum Inc. is not responsible for user error during unsupported operation.

  [Subscribe To Premium] / [I Accept The Risk]

  “I accept the risk,” I muttered, jabbing the button harder.

  The subscription prompts finally dismissed, replaced by the actual control interface. It was immediately clear why they pushed the premium service so hard… the manual interface was complex.

  Multiple configuration screens appeared in the holographic space. Material feed settings. Cutting parameters. Thread tension values. Welding temperature curves. Each one had dozens of adjustable values with no helpful tooltips or recommended settings.

  “Right,” I said, pulling up my holoband to reference the instruction manual. “So I need to calibrate everything myself. Fine. I have Hoqalo, I should be good with this shit.”

  I started with the cutting head, following the manual’s step-by-step process. Load a test material sample. Run diagnostic cut, then measure results and adjust laser intensity.

  Repeat until the tolerance was within spec.

  It took twenty minutes just to get the cutting head properly calibrated for the Series-7 combat fiber.

  The embedder array was worse. Each manipulator arm needed individual calibration, pressure settings, positioning accuracy, and component recognition parameters. I spent another thirty minutes making sure it could pick up and place the tiny micro-cameras without crushing them.

  Thread routing required tension testing. Too loose and the conductive pathways wouldn’t maintain proper contact. Too tight and the fabric would pucker or the thread would snap during wear.

  The welding module needed temperature profiles for different material combinations. Combat fiber to combat fiber used different settings than combat fiber to impact foam.

  By the time I’d calibrated everything I was pushing over midnight, and my back ached from hunching over the control interface.

  Magic? I glanced back at the table, but… the ACCIW was ready.

  I pulled up my pants design in the Orbital, the holographic garment rotating slowly in the projection field. Now came the part the premium service would have automated… telling the ACCIW exactly what to do and in what order.

  I started building the fabrication sequence manually. Each step required detailed parameters like which material feed to use, what cutting pattern, and how much pressure for embedding, and what temperature for welding.

  I cross-referenced everything with public info I found randomly on the holo, making sure the projector placements were exactly right, the threading routes matched the power distribution network, and the cameras had proper orientation for the MIRAGE system.

  One of Pulse chatters said they sets the temperature just a few degrees lower, because it helps with… something. I didn’t know what, because the rest was behind paywall.

  I’ll just lower the temperature.

  The sequence ate more time to program.

  Finally, I had it complete. Every step defined, every parameter set, every material feed loaded with the correct components.

  “Okay,” I said, taking a deep breath. “Let’s run it.”

  I initiated the fabrication sequence.

  The ACCIW came to life with a soft hum that quickly built to a purposeful mechanical symphony. The cutting head descended, laser firing with precision that left perfectly clean edges on the combat fiber. Material advanced through guides, and each cut piece was deposited onto the assembly platform in exact positions.

  The embedder array moved next, manipulator arms dancing with robotic grace. Micro-cameras were placed with submillimeter accuracy, each one oriented according to my specifications. The shield projectors followed, settling into their positions.

  Then came the thread routing.

  The specialized head descended, feeding conductive thread through pre-cut channels in the fabric. It moved fast, following the complex path I’d programmed, creating the distributed power network that would feed all twelve projectors and sixteen cameras.

  I watched, mesmerized, as the machine worked. This was what proper equipment could do and what I’d been missing all those months of hand-building everything in Eddy’s shop.

  The thread router finished the first major pathway and moved to the second and… then it sparked. Bright, wrong, the smell of burning electronics hitting my nose instantly. “Shit!” I lunged for the emergency stop, slapping the big red button on the control panel.

  The ACCIW ground to a halt, and smoke curled up from the assembly platform. The conductive thread had melted, fused to the fabric in a blackened mess that definitely wasn’t supposed to happen.

  Footsteps clattered down the stairs behind me.

  “Dash?” Comma’s voice echoed through the workshop. “What was that smell? Are you—oh wow, is that smoke?”

  I turned to find my sister standing at the bottom of the stairs, eyes wide as she took in the scene. The smoking ACCIW, the melted thread and my frustrated expression. “Nothing,” I blurted, waving my hand to disperse the smoke. “Just a routing error. It’s fine.”

  She crossed her arms, leaning against the doorframe with that knowing look only younger sisters could pull off. “And mom’s gonna kill you if you burn down great-grandpa’s house.”

  “I’m not burning anything down. It’s under control.”

  “Uh-huh.” She stepped closer, peering at the machine with open curiosity. “What is that thing anyway? It looks expensive.”

  “It is. And you should be sleeping, it’s too late, you’ll be pain in the morning again. Also shouldn’t be down here. ”

  “I won’t go to school tomorrow. Why not? You’re down here all the time.” She grinned, clearly enjoying my discomfort. “Besides, I heard the noise. Thought maybe you’d finally blown yourself up.”

  “Comma—”

  “Relax, I’m not gonna tell Mom.” She stuck her tongue out at me, already backing toward the stairs. “I should be sleeping, yeah, but you owe me. I’m thinking... ice cream. The good kind, not that synth stuff.”

  “Fine. Whatever. Just go back upstairs and sleep.”

  She giggled and bounded up the stairs, her footsteps fading as she disappeared back into the house.

  I let out a long breath and turned back to the machine, pulled up the error log, my stomach sinking as I read through it.

  ROUTING CONFLICT DETECTED

  Thread path intersected with embedded component at coordinates [247, 156]

  Attempted automatic correction failed

  Thermal overload in routing head

  I stared at the coordinates, then pulled up my design schematic…there.

  I’d routed a thread path directly through where one of the micro-cameras sat. The router had tried to go through the same space, hit the camera’s housing, and the friction had generated enough heat to melt the thread and probably damage the routing head.

  “Damn it,” I muttered, examining the ruined work. The outer shell was fine. The liner was fine. But the entire conductive threading system was trash, melted and fused in ways I couldn’t salvage.

  I walked up to my material inventory. Still had plenty of conductive thread, but I’d wasted time, wasted materials, and now I needed to recalibrate the routing head to make sure it wasn’t damaged.

  “Right,” I said, pulling the ruined assembly out of the ACCIW and setting it aside. “Lesson learned. Check for spatial conflicts before running the sequence.”

  I pulled up the design in the Orbital and started examining it more carefully, looking for other places where components and thread paths might intersect, and found three more potential conflicts I’d missed in my rush to get fabricating.

  Fixed them.

  Then I adjusted the routing paths to go around the cameras instead of through them and double-checked every intersection point. After that I recalibrated the routing head, thankfully not damaged, just needed a cleaning cycle and loaded fresh materials.

  “Take two,” I muttered, starting the sequence again.

  This time, the ACCIW ran smoothly. Cutting, embedding, routing, laminating, welding. Each step executed perfectly, the machine working with the precision I could never achieve by hand. My fingers lingered over the big red button the entire time.

  But… forty minutes later, the main assembly was complete.

  The ACCIW’s platform raised, presenting the partially finished pants for manual assembly. Everything automated was done, all the precise, technical work that required sub-millimeter accuracy.

  Now came the part I had to do myself.

  I moved to the Integration Station I’d set up earlier, basically a sturdy frame that held garments while you worked on them. I mounted the pants carefully, spreading them out so I could access all the attachment points.

  The pockets came first.

  I’d pre-cut them using the ACCIW, but they required hand-stitching to maintain the fabric’s flexibility at stress points. I worked, using techniques I’d learned from modifying my old armor, making sure each pocket could actually hold weight without tearing.

  The shield matrix mounting point went on the belt line. A reinforced section with conductive contacts that would connect to the projector network. I tested the connections three times, making sure the contact points aligned properly.

  Final assembly took another hour and I was pushing into two-thirty, yawning trying to send me to bed.

  Adding the specialized closures, reinforcing stress points the ACCIW couldn’t reach, routing the final power connections from the belt mount to the distributed network.

  I paused, looking at the nest of carefully routed cables and conductive thread I’d woven through the pants’ interior. The pathways were functional, sure, but they looked like... well, like someone had let a drunk spider loose inside the fabric.

  Erika would laugh her ass off if she saw this cable management.

  The thought made me grin despite myself. She’d probably pull out one of her perfectly organized gear layouts from IC training and show me how “real professionals” did it. Then she’d offer to help fix it despite knowing nothing about it, because that’s just how she was.

  I gave the connections one final check, then stepped back to admire my handiwork.

  They looked... professional. Like something you’d buy from a real tactical outfitter, not cobble together in a basement workshop. The Series-7 combat fiber had a subtle sheen under the lights. The pockets were perfectly positioned, and the seams were molecular-welded to perfection.

  I lifted them off the frame, feeling the weight. Heavier than normal pants, but not uncomfortably so. The impact foam added bulk at the knees and hips, but the design distributed it well.

  Time to see if all that work had actually produced something worthwhile.

  I focused on the pants, really examining them with intent, the way I’d done with the figurine.

  A new window materialized.

  TODAY’S CHAPTER IS BROUGHT TO YOU BY You owe me Ice cream!

  Join me on or

  On Patreon you can read 2 months ahead (~200 pages)