“I can do this,” Rem told himself, pacing the uneven cobbles of Oldetown. The light felt thinner today, sharpened through smoke or mist or some high dust that made every surface look slightly unreal.
For the third time he stopped, tugged the flap of his satchel open, and inventoried. Two oranges, round and bright against the gloom. A level three healing potion, glass cool against his fingers. A pair of stiff leather gloves. A canteen of water.
I have everything. What am I missing?
The question nagged, sharp as a pebble in his shoe. He whispered the plan under his breath, each step like a charm against failure. Oranges for Fitz and the brothers, keep the archers steady. Spears from the smithy, carried to the gates. Gloves for the well, only if he fell short again. The potion for just-in-case. The canteen because his mother’s voice still lived in his head: never leave home without water.
Everything accounted for, yet the weight of absence pressed on him. It took half the walk back toward the arch before he realized what it was: his satchel felt wrong without the weight of his journal, the quill and ink rattling.
He lingered under the shadow of the arch, fingers tightening around the strap until his knuckles hurt. His chest knotted.
His heart hammered as he burst through the sheets. Sunlight bore down, hot and heavy. The air felt too bright, exactly like the day it all went wrong before.
He bent low, snatched up the whistle, and sent a single shrill note into the street before sprinting toward the smithy. The sound clawed at his nerves—last time, the wolves had drowned that same call with screams.
“Rem! What’s the rush?” Fitz came running.
Rem tossed the whistle back. Fitz caught it in one hand.
“The fletcher has two bundles ready. Archers need them now.” He held the tempting oranges out, masking the tremor in his voice. “Think you can manage?”
“Sure.” The boy deftly swiped the fruit.
“I’ll leave it to you.”
The system message blinked into view.
CHALLENGE THREE Skills, traits, and class abilities unlocked.
Objective: Defend the people of Madarox Outpost.
Reward: Variable.
Rem sprinted into the smithy. The stone forge roared. Heat pressed into his skin, iron thick in the air. Spears leaned in neat rows. He forced himself not to picture blood slicking their shafts.
“I’m taking these to the captain,” he said, already bundling them. His tone sharper than it needed to be—hoping Voss might hear of it, hoping this time he’d notice.
The blacksmith grunted, hammer striking again and again, sweat running down his head to the towel that draped his neck.
Rem hauled the spears onto his shoulders and staggered into the yard. The alarm sounded—a shrill blast that jolted memory. For a heartbeat he saw again the gate torn wide, wolves pouring through, his own body prone, still, while the village died. His stomach turned.
Not again.
He ran harder.
The gates slammed shut. Scouts wheeled past, horses slick with foam, their hides steaming in the sun. The reek hit him—salt and musk, the hot tang of beast-sweat—and beneath it the iron stink of the severed wolf’s head dangling from the scout’s grip. He had seen this before, but was never close enough to smell it.
He hurried, dropping the spears in a standing stack. “Spears!” Rem’s voice cracked. He turned to the timbers.
The gate shuddered. Growls bled through the gaps. Teeth and fur showed in flashes. His legs wanted to fold, to flee—but he shoved timber into timber, locking wood against wood, forcing strength through trembling arms.
He dragged another beam, wedging it against the frame, bracing the crossbar. Each one tore at his balance, boots grinding trenches into the dirt.
Spearmen closed in around him, points leveled at the cracks.
“Hold the line!” Captain Voss stood with one arm in a sling, the other pointing. His eyes cut to Rem, hard with doubt, as if weighing whether the boy was hero or coward.
Rem met his gaze and didn’t look away, “Spears forward! Help him brace it!”
The gate bucked. The wall shook. Men and beasts roared into each other.
Rem pushed himself, dodging in between spearmen, their spears slick with blood - lifting timbers into place. Dropping back, doing it again. The gates held and for a wild, hot beat the outpost was all arms and order and noise: cheers, a rough whoop, a boy pounding a palm on a barrel to drum the victory into being.
SURGE ONE: Repelled.
Exit now to receive your rewards (common, 60 XP).
Warning: Failure later will forfeit all rewards.
“One minute,” Captain Voss barked. Laughter and whoops filled the air. Men clapped shoulders. Rem was among them this time.
Pride swelled in him, chest rising, shoulders straightening as if the weight of doubt had finally slipped free. For a heartbeat he stood taller among them, heat rushing in his veins. Then memory bit down, cold and merciless, and the swell collapsed inside him. His chest sank, his breath caught, and the laughter around him turned brittle, echoing like ghosts.
Stolen from its rightful place, this narrative is not meant to be on Amazon; report any sightings.
He stepped back. The last time he stayed past the first surge everyone died. He took a deep shuddering breath and looked back at the glyph stone.
It stood there silent, calling to him.
Rem’s shaky hand spun the top free from his canteen and he gulped some down steadying himself. People were still celebrating when he stowed his canteen and set to work with the timbers again.
“Replace your fallen. Rotate the tired. Whoever’s spent — down the ladders, now!”
Rem glanced back, sweating men slid down as fresher ones shoved forward, spears raised. Rem lifted the last of the timbers, wedging it in place.
Growls swelled again, louder. More insistent. Closer. Rem turned and watched the towers - arrows flew, the rhythm steady.
Rem pulled a bloody spear from the hands of a man too tired to lift it again. The wood was rough, tacky in his grip, heavier than he expected. He shoved forward, wedging into the line.
His first thrust jammed into the gate itself, point stuck in splintered timber until he wrenched it free with both hands. The second slid wide, useless, through claw and shadow. A curse spat at him from the spearman beside.
Heat crawled up his neck. His chest tightened with shame. But he planted his boots, dragged in breath, and drove the weapon on.
This time he struck. The spear shuddered against flesh. A yelp burst through the gap and hot spray ran across his knuckles. His stomach lurched. He wanted to drop it, to turn away. Instead he shoved again, harder, then again.
“Hold the line!” the captain barked.
Rem held. His arms trembled, lungs burning, sweat stinging his eyes. The world shrank to the gate in front of him and the steady pounding of claws outside. He jabbed, pulled back, jabbed again—until his knees gave and he collapsed into the mud, gasping.
SURGE TWO: Repelled.
Exit now to receive your rewards (uncommon, 120 XP).
Warning: Failure later will forfeit all rewards.
He had done it. He clawed himself out of the mud, chest heaving, throat raw from shouting. The men roared around him, staggering, grinning through blood and dirt. Spears were lifted, voices carried.
Rem turned—and found Captain Voss’s eye. For a moment the world narrowed to that gaze. Doubt weighed against him, then lifted, just a fraction. A nod. Small, but real. Heat surged through his chest. Pride. Relief.
Then the memory struck: what came next.
The cheers around him rang hollow.
He stumbled back a step, then another, then turned to run. When his hand reached for the glyph stone, it shook, mud streaking its surface. The stone pulsed faintly beneath his palm, the destination menu appeared.
He looked back. Men were still laughing, some leaning on each other, some bleeding, most too tired to stand straight.
Rem made his selection.
He stumbled into his locker, filthy and blood-streaked, but lighter for it. He’d beaten his record. More than that — he’d put much of the shame of his first run behind him. Fear had risen like a tide and he’d stood against it.
Essence flowed into him as the system dispensed his reward. The hollow ache he’d carried so long lessened.
On the stone bench, his uncommon prize waited.
Corrupted Wolf Core
Rank: Uncommon
A monster core.
Better than nothing. Better than the pile of trash-tier drops stacked in the corner, scraps of hide, useless gear, the sort of junk that mocked him every time he looked at it.
He lifted the core. At once the wrongness bled into his skin — cold, sour, like a stain he couldn’t wash away. His pulse stuttered. With a breath he pulled up his merge domain, pinned the truth to words: Corruption.
Not surprising.
He set it on a shelf, away from anything. His gaze slid back to the locker’s interior: scraps, dirt, failed experiments.
He had a way forward now. He could grind Challenge Three four more times, take the levels, stand taller than Noah, even Mara — only Eva would outpace him. The thought tempted. Sweet and sharp.
But no.
Now that he had essence, he needed to wring Challenge Three dry. Not rush. Build. He would use this time to pull ahead for good.
He bundled up the worst of the commons, glyphed to his workshop and scrubbed himself clean. By the time he returned to Oldetown the stink of blood was gone.
A quick stop at and one trade later he had a good broom, dustpan and all the cleaning supplies he needed. An hour later his locker and workshop gleamed like new.
He lined the shelves with order at last: jars of herbs, bundles of timber, ropes, scraps, tools. The slime and umbral cores gleamed faintly in their glass along the top. The corrupted wolf core he sealed alone, its jar fogging for an instant as if it exhaled against the glass before falling still.
Last of all, he took out his hero card. Plain, unimpressive. Yet when he set it in a frame and hung it on the back wall, the space shifted. No longer just a locker. Proof, however small, that he had stood, endured, made it farther than others thought he might.
He stepped back, the smell of cleaning oils still sharp in the air. For the first time, the place looked less like a dumping ground and more like a beginning.
Rem set the vials down one by one. Six glass throats clicked softly against the wood, each brimming with red liquid that caught the lantern light and cast a faint crimson wash across the counter.
Mistress Vetra Kessel tilted her head, spectacles slipping from her crown of hair to the bridge of her nose. The faint lines at her brow deepened as she leaned closer.
“Level two Restoration Potion, Uncommon,” she murmured, reading as much from the system flare as from the vials themselves.
Rem straightened. For once, the words didn’t feel like an accusation.
“I’m glad you brewed these. Even at reduced potency they’ll fetch a fair price.”
“Reduced potency?”
Her gaze stayed on the liquid, as if she could divine its worth straight through the glass. “The best market for these are those on level three users. One level down, and they’ll only draw a half of the healing effect. Still enough to matter.”
His fingers drummed once on the counter, a restless rhythm. The numbers teased at him, slipping behind his teeth. Stronger batches meant stronger margins. The thought left a metallic tang at the back of his tongue.
“And how much could I—”
“Not so fast.” Vetra leaned back, formality stiffening her shoulders. “Your badge, de Vries. We only buy from guild alchemists.”
He let the thought rise, and the badge shimmered into being. Bronze light, solid, undeniable.
Her brows climbed. They didn’t come down. She blinked once, twice, spectacles slipping low until she caught them with a finger. Her lips parted, then pressed shut again, the words stalling. Her eyes fixed on the badge—and on him—as though the air between had shifted.
Rem looked down too, half expecting the seal to sprout teeth and bite him. But it only burned steady in the lantern light, steady and strange, no trick revealing itself.
“Contributor de Vries,” she managed, the syllables uneven. “So the Headmaster’s message wasn't an exaggeration.”
“Is it enough to pay what I owe you?”
“It’s enough,” she said at last, voice clipped, like she was shoving it back into place. “More than enough. Do you want the rest held as credit?”
Rem’s eyes drifted higher, past the vials, past the brass fittings that caught the lantern light, to the shelves stacked with scrolls waiting like secrets rolled tight.
“Actually,” he said, and the words held steady in his chest, heavier than coin, “I was hoping to learn something new.”
