Day 5, L3 Challenge

  I keep telling myself it isn’t a game.

  I keep playing it like one.

  Yesterday I almost murdered a man for essence.

  The math made sense. In a game it still makes sense.

  I’ve been trying to understand why. Why my hand wouldn’t move.

  I’ve done combat sims. I never had a problem killing before.

  After yesterday I couldn’t concentrate. Couldn’t think about anything else. It chewed at me until dawn.

  It’s real. Writing it down makes that clear – crazy, impossible, but true.

  The blue whistle sits on my desk at home. Fitz’s whistle. Fitz is real. Smart kid.

  I don’t understand. How can thousands run Challenge Three at once and still meet the same people?

  It sounds impossible. But my hand wouldn’t move because part of me knew it was wrong. Really wrong. Not hypothetically.

  The only way it’s really wrong is if they’re real somehow.

  I just don’t understand how.

  CHALLENGE THREE

  Skills, traits, and class abilities unlocked.

  Objective: Help defend the people of Madarox Outpost.

  Reward: Variable.

  Rem shouldered through the low-beamed door of a shop he hadn’t yet marked. The air struck him heavy: pine resin, feather dust, the faint animal tang of sinew. Shafts leaned in bundles against a timber wall, all headless and waiting. Behind the counter, a fletcher hunched over his bench, cord biting under his fingers, binding with neat, vicious turns.

  Two finished bundles rested by the door, lashed tight. The man didn’t glance up. “You there. Fetch some runners. Tower archers been bellyaching so loud I can’t hear myself curse.”

  Rem bent, tested the weight. Sharp steel tips. A careless slip could open his palm. Not toys. Weapons meant to kill.

  He stepped back out into the rutted path, grass trampled to dirt. Rough sheds leaned like tired men against each other, smoke from cookfires drifting crooked into the blue sky. He drew the blue whistle from his pocket, thumb finding the familiar groove, and blew a quick, cutting note.

  Fitz appeared at a trot from behind a stack of timber, freckles bright under the grime, grin wide as ever. “Rem! You found my whistle!”

  He tossed it to the boy.

  “So what’s today? More sketches? More names?”

  “I need these at the towers.” Rem drew two oranges from his satchel — their brightness almost obscene. “Fast.”

  Fitz’s eyes widened, but only for a breath. He plucked the fruit, then spun, whistling three sharp bleats and a drawn-out trill. Two ragged boys came skidding into view, colliding in their hurry, rolling over each other like wild pups before they scrambled upright.

  “Listen.” Fitz shoved a bundle into each of their arms, near toppling them. “Take these to the archers. First one back with empty hands gets an orange. Loser eats dust.”

  The brothers crouched, backs bent under the burden, eyes flashing with the hunger of the game. Fitz’s shrill blast sent them charging down the lane, their hoots echoing.

  Rem raised a brow. “You could have given them each one.”

  “And spend twice as much for half as fast?” Fitz slipped the second orange into his pocket with a smirk.

  Rem shook his head, leaving him behind to enjoy his orange, and made his way to the storage.

  Inside it smelled of lamp oil, burlap, and mouse droppings. He moved shelf to shelf with the precision of a ledger. Just a bit here, a vial there. A flask of oil with a sweat-ring. Three stubby candles with bent wicks. He straightened the row before he left, neat as before.

  SURGE ONE: Repelled.

  Exit now to receive your rewards (common, 30 XP).

  Warning: Failure later will forfeit all rewards.

  The letters carved themselves across his vision, white and merciless against the dim wood. Heat bloomed in his chest. He caught himself laughing — not loud, not careless, but sharp and private. XP. Finally.

  His workbench was a battlefield of scraps and failures. Pages curled with ink blots, bits of glass, dried clumps of powder that smelled faintly sour. Rem swept them into the bucket with the side of his hand, the scrape against wood oddly final. A few stubborn stains clung, but he scrubbed until the surface gleamed. Clean slate. His chest loosened at the sight of bare wood.

  He reached for one of his earliest notebooks, its leather spine cracked and stained with the ghosts of spills. The paper rasped under his thumb as he flipped through, eyes settling on the old list — his first attempt at cataloguing the world’s materials.

  Cotton…comfort

  Iron…strength

  Sand…permanence

  Salt…preservation

  Ice…stillness

  Wood…growth

  Salt. He underlined it, the pen pushing lines into the paper. Ordinary. Cheap. Boring. That was the disguise he needed.

  He gathered the standard draught ingredients: silver water like jarred moonlight, reed milk thick as sap, anise root that stung the nose. He chose the reed milk for the merge. It sloshed heavy into the cube of his domain, suspended there like a pearl. When he dropped in a fistful of coarse salt, he felt the grit bite his palm before it vanished in a blink of pale light. Merge. His essence drained, leaving behind a liquid that looked nearly unchanged — but steadier, calmer, as though it had learned to breathe.

  If you come across this story on Amazon, be aware that it has been stolen from Royal Road. Please report it.

  Stabilized Reed Milk (level 2).

  The words burned across his vision, and he exhaled. Perfectly dull.

  He tried the brew as usual, but the silver water rejected the milk, droplets clumping like oil on the surface. He frowned, jaw tight. Boiling didn’t help either. The reed milk collapsed into a film, lifeless as ash. He marked the failures, each stroke of ink harder than the last, the weight of wasted time pressing against his ribs.

  Then a thought cut through: salt. Didn’t it raise boiling points? His pulse quickened. He tried again. Heated silver water laced with salt this time, steam carrying a sharp brine tang. He stirred in the stabilized reed milk. At first it resisted, but then — slowly, silkily — it folded into the water, making a pale, living swirl. When at last the texture felt right, he dropped in the night lily nectar, its glow catching in the liquid like trapped starlight, and finished with a dusting of anise.

  The potion deepened into crimson, glowing faintly, steadily.

  You have discovered a new alchemical formula.

  Restoration Potion

  Uncommon

  Heal 1% of health every minute for 20 minutes.

  You have marginally advanced your understanding of alchemical formula: restoration potion.

  The words flashed. A warm pulse in his chest, like a second heartbeat. He let out a long breath and filled a vial.

  Not brilliant. Not dangerous. Just a potion anyone could make. Perfect camouflage. Enough to open the guild’s door.

  Rem’s mood was lighter than it had been in weeks. He’d finally made headway in Challenge Three, finally pulled essence into his veins. An alchemical breakthrough, too — a formula that looked safe, ordinary. Nothing strange enough to draw questions. It had been a long day, exhausting, but one that left him with the rare feeling of progress.

  That’s why he noticed the difference the moment he stepped through the door. The house was too quiet. Conversations that should have carried from the kitchen cut off sharp. The smell of stew lingered, cooling, but no spoons clinked against bowls. His boots thumped against the floorboards louder than they ought to.

  He rounded the corner. His parents and siblings were seated around the table, the lamplight pulling sharp shadows across their faces. His father — broad-shouldered, brown curls pressed flat on one side, blue eyes steady — sat at the head with his arms crossed like a barricade. Beside him, his mother’s wiry frame looked drawn tight, blonde hair pulled into a knot, grey eyes sharp. The pot in the center was still steaming faintly, lid askew, and beside it lay a small book with a hand-drawn cover, pages splayed like it had just been set down.

  The Children’s Guide to Soloing Challenge One.

  Rem’s throat went dry.

  “So I guess we’re doing this now.” He shrugged off his satchel and let it drop; the dull weight of glass vials clinked inside. He pulled out a chair, the wood legs scraping against the floor, and sank into it, the seat creaking under his slight frame.

  “Rem,” his father started. His jaw set. “First—” he paused, flexed his jaw, then tried again, “First, we can’t verify your claim. That you hold the record for Challenge One. No one can. And we can’t—” his hand twitched toward the book, “—we can’t go back and verify this… method works.”

  “You think I’m lying?” Rem blinked at him, stunned. “Why would I make something like that up? When it could be— no— it is verifiable—”

  “No, son, no,” his mother cut in, quick, almost over him. Her wiry arms folded tight. “We’re not saying you’re lying. Just… we’ve got concerns.” She shot his father a glare, sharp as a pin.

  “This is going to get people killed,” Tomas burst out, leaning forward so hard the table rattled. Blond hair fell into his eyes, blue eyes blazing, his broad shoulders mirroring their father’s. “It’s childish, and careless, and—” he jabbed a finger at Rem, “—just like you, always pulling schemes like this.”

  “That’s not fair,” Saskia grimaced. Dark hair fell loose around her wiry frame, green eyes flashing. She twisted a napkin in her hands until it frayed. “He’s just—he’s following his own path, okay? Same as us. It’s not your path, Tomas, it’s not mine. It’s his. So what if—”

  “Path? Path?” Tomas barked a laugh that wasn’t a laugh. “These aren’t paths, they’re survival challenges. You cut corners, you cheat, you skip chances to get stronger—what do you think happens? You die. That’s what. You’ll be weak when it gets harder.” His voice cracked sharp on that last word.

  “Tomas—” Rem tried, but his father cut in.

  “He has a point,” his father said heavily. He nudged the book with one thick finger, then pushed it away. “When you hit Challenge Three, what’s a bucket and shovel gonna do for you?”

  Rem’s hands curled against the table edge. His voice tightened. “It’s not the bucket and shovel. It’s the way you approach a challenge. If all you do is what the system tells you, if you only tick off the objectives and never look past them, then you’re missing the real lesson. That’s not real strength. That’s just compliance.”

  “That is how the system works!” Tomas roared, half-standing. His blond hair fell in his face, blue eyes wild. “Follow the rules, get stronger. You need that strength to—”

  “To survive? To keep swinging harder until something finally breaks you?” Rem snapped back, green eyes burning. “That’s not enough.”

  They stared across the table, fists balled, shoulders squared. The silence between them throbbed. A drip from the stew pot pattered on the wood.

  “Maybe…” Saskia ventured, quiet, trying to step into the gap.

  But Rem surged forward, voice trembling but steady. “On other Union worlds, kids start at six. Six years old. These aren’t combat trials — they’re kindergarten classes. That’s what they’re meant to be. Lessons. Foundations. And sure, maybe an adult can walk in and smash through the tutorial, but that isn’t the point. You’re not learning what it’s trying to teach you. All you’re learning is that a bigger hammer solves everything.”

  He shoved back his chair, legs screeching, his slight frame shaking now. “And what happens when your hammer isn’t big enough? When the system tests the skills you skipped? You’ll drop out. Wash out. You’ll quit.”

  “That’s enough,” his father growled, rubbing his temple, curls glinting in the lamplight.

  But Rem wasn’t finished. The words burned on his tongue—how many of them had ever soloed level one? Level two? How many held records, citizenship upgrades? He swallowed them when his father’s blue eyes met his. His defiance collapsed into his chair.

  His father sighed. “That’s not even what I wanted to talk about. We can’t verify this, but let’s assume it’s true.” His fingers pressed to his brow again. “What should we do about it? Your sister told us your plan.”

  For the first time, his mother leaned forward, pushing her plate aside, grey eyes softened. “Tell us about these professions.”

  Rem blew out his anger in a long breath, shaking his head. He tried to clear the tightness in his chest. Looked at Tomas out of habit. Tomas didn’t look back.

  Saskia started explaining the professions.

  Rem tried to listen. Truly. But his mind kept drifting, sliding off the words. Agent, Broker… they brushed past him without catching. The argument kept looping in the back of his skull, broken pieces bumping into each other.

  Tomas shifted. The scrape of his chair shot through Rem, sharper than it should’ve been. For a second Rem braced, thinking Tomas might start up again. But Tomas only frowned at the table. A tense, thoughtful frown. Like he was replaying the whole thing too.

  Rem’s thoughts snagged on that. On Tomas’s jaw working. His father’s thumb still circling his temple. His mother’s eyes — soft now, but too late, far too late.

  Saskia kept talking. Something about inverting classing. Long-term growth. Rem nodded, though he wasn’t sure at what. His eyes had already drifted to the book he’d made. The hand-drawn cover. The pencil smudge he’d meant to fix. Strange that he noticed it now of all times.

  He folded his hands beneath the table. Held them still so no one would see the small tremor in his fingers.

  Then he sat there, quiet, and waited for the conversation to end.

  Citizens of Earth, your constellation grows. Thirty five new heroes have joined the STAR CORPS, rating Thrive: Unseen! Your courage flares bright across the void and empowers us to reach the distant horizon.

  followers have aligned their approach with ours, forming an elite squadron. Their presence steadies the line. Their faith fuels the engines.

  By proclamation of the High Command, the Field Medal of the First Order is awarded to

  reviewcraft. Their words sharpen our trajectory. Their insights steady the course. Such pioneers carve a path others may follow.