Color dream again. One color for each faction. Frustrating. can never remember the details.

  Today stole Tiny’s flask before waking him, but he had another one. Tried again, rolled him over, got the second one. He had a third stashed in the barracks, he just goes right for it.

  Will try again tomorrow, but don’t want to be stuck here for weeks. Will burn extra passes if needed.

  Today it’s Amsterdam.

  Rem waved through the glass — a reflection of his own face floating over his mother’s smile and Saskia’s quick, nervous wave. The railcar shuddered forward, the platform sliding away into the shimmer of the Amsterdam hub. The world outside blurred to color and motion.

  The private cabin was warm and still, trimmed in polished wood that caught the amber glow from the ceiling strip. Two benches faced each other, fabric worn smooth at the edges where countless travelers had leaned or dozed. The air carried a hint of antiseptic citrus and ions. Beyond the window, the city’s spires folded into distance, their reflections ghosting across the glass.

  His father stood beside him, immaculate as ever — the uniform cutting hard, precise lines against all that softness: Commander de Vries of the Zwolle Collective.

  The “respec” had gone cleanly — of course it had. His father’s influence cleared the path, polished every protocol until it gleamed.

  Rem sat down. The seat flexed under his weight, releasing a dry whisper from the fabric. He opened his banking interface.

  ASCENDIA FINANCE DIRECTORATE

  Access Node:Account Holder:Guild ID:Verification Hash:

  Total System Balance:Guild Subsidy Rate:Withdrawal Limit:

  The cost still stung. His father hadn’t lifted the fees. Typical.

  “Your mother and sister will take a few days to set things up,” his father said, voice even. “Thanks to you, they’ll thrive now.” His mouth tightened before the next word. “I’m… grateful.”

  Grateful. The word hung in the air like static. Rem tried to remember the last time he’d heard it from him. Nothing came.

  His father sat down across from him. “We need to have an honest talk about your situation.”

  “My situation,” Rem echoed, watching the countryside slide past in bands of green.

  “If I had the— wait.” His father’s eyes flicked up answering a call. “Redstrem, report.”

  Rem turned toward the window. The grass blurred, lush and too bright. His reflection waned beside it — thinner somehow.

  “Good. Expected,” his father said. “And Leiden? Dordrecht?”

  Rem’s thoughts drifted. My situation. They hadn’t spoken like that since before Zwolle. Silence had settled over those memories — heavy, deliberate. Maybe his father blamed himself.

  “I’m not pleased about that, Redstrem. We can do better,” his father said sharply, then steadied. “We will do better.”

  Or maybe it wasn’t blame at all. Maybe it was disappointment. The trials, Noah’s death, the pace of his advancement — take your pick.

  “I’ll send it within the hour,” his father said, closing the channel.

  He looked across the narrow space between them. “Your situation,” he repeated. “First place on two leaderboards. Your name’s all over the public forums, yet you insist on staying anonymous. Interesting approach. Not what I would do. It got me thinking.”

  Rem frowned, but his father raised a hand for silence.

  “I asked myself, why hide? Then I looked closer. You never use the starter gear. You sold your weapon for tools — yes, we found out about that. I think your class punishes you for using anything you didn’t craft yourself.”

  He leaned forward, voice taking on that calm, deductive tone he used in briefings. “As a crafter, most of your power’s in your gear. Which you have to make ahead of time, and which weakens every time you level up. Normally you’d sell old stock and fund your next set, but if you can’t do that, then your power peaks late and crashes early. You hide because your strength, when stripped bare, isn’t much. You’re clever. Maybe even brilliant. Strength isn’t where you win. Is that right?”

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  Rem said nothing. His father’s reasoning was wrong, but not entirely. He wasn’t strong — not like the others. He’d always been a small fish in a deep ocean, surviving by slipping through currents unseen.

  “Close enough,” he said quietly.

  “I knew it.” His father settled back, satisfied. “Partly my fault. I did encourage you toward crafting. What are you going to do about it?”

  “Do?”

  “Someone will challenge you eventually. A duel. It’s inevitable once your name gets out.”

  “A duel.” Rem’s gaze dropped to the floor. Duels were for grievances, disputes. He hadn’t done anything to offend anyone.

  His father studied him, then reached for his tablet. “I need to record the daily report. One minute.”

  He spoke with the crisp cadence of command, every word measured and deliberate.

  “Citizens of Zwolle. The latest Thrive rankings are in. We now stand sixth in the Netherlands — trailing Leiden and Dordrecht, but rising fast. We’ve pulled ahead of Rotterdam, Utrecht, and The Hague. That means something. It means Zwolle is fighting back.

  Our adaptation rate is climbing, survivability steady, morale the highest since induction. You’ve earned this. But we’re not done. Every clear, every assist, every coordinated run pushes us forward. Leiden’s lead is slim; Dordrecht’s, a single percentile. Close that gap before the next report.

  Remember what sets Zwolle apart: discipline, unity, quiet resolve. We don’t need fanfare. We just need results.

  Stay alert. Stay proud. Keep climbing.”

  The cabin whispered with the train’s motion, the steady vibration underscoring every word of his broadcast. He ended the recording with a practiced smile — flawless, impersonal. One take. Rem exhaled. It was hard to impress a man who demanded perfection of himself.

  “Anyone can challenge anyone their rank or higher,” his father said, returning to the earlier thread. “Plenty of ambitious types out there will come for you. So what’s your plan? Ignore them all?”

  “Well, yeah,” Rem said. “I’ve no interest in broadcasting my build to every spectator with a stream token.”

  “That’ll disappoint your fans.” His father’s expression cooled. “Stay anonymous if you must, but prepare for the day you’re found out.”

  “Disappoint you, you mean.”

  “No. You’re holding things together. That’s enough. After Noah died, your mother was afraid you’d… struggle.”

  “I hate how everyone expects me to fail.”

  “I don’t.”

  “You haven’t expected from me in a long time,” Rem said. “I hate that more.”

  “Hate’s strong. Powerful. It takes strength to hate.”

  “I don’t want to argue. It’s pointless.”

  Rem stared at the glass until his reflection blurred into the landscape.

  “I’m trying. Is it too much to be acknowledged once in a while?”

  “I’m paying attention,” his father said. “I see you.”

  “What do you see? Because it’s not your son. You never call me that.”

  “You’re your mother’s son. That’s enough.” The railcar tilted through a turn. A thin band of sunlight swept across the cabin, flaring against the polished wood, gone again.

  Rem’s hand, resting on his knee, trembled once before he caught it in his other. The motion was small, almost imperceptible, but he felt the heat of it crawl up his neck. He stared at his father’s reflection in the glass instead of his face, willing the muscles of his jaw to still.

  The hum of the rails filled the silence between them.

  They kept moving toward Zwolle. Neither of them spoke. Rem rested his head against the glass; outside, the world rushed past — bright and indifferent.

  

  

  “Got your message. You okay?”

  He picked up the menu, scanning it. He’d never been to this place — a quiet little sushi stall tucked into the market strip. Finn looked worse than he remembered: dark circles, rumpled clothes, nails bitten raw.

  “Objectively? No.” Finn dropped his tablet onto the table. “I haven’t gone back into Challenge Three since Noah… which means I’m behind everyone but you.”

  “Huh. What about destabilization?”

  “Not a problem if you’re willing to use the stone of shame.”

  An elderly man in a white headband stopped to take their order. Finn only asked for miso and a single roll. Rem ordered two specials, mostly to fill the silence.

  “You can’t keep that up,” Rem said, twirling the chopsticks between his fingers. “Listen. This is going to be hard, considering what happened to Noah—but the challenge shouldn’t pose any real risk for you.”

  He pulled out a notebook, flipped to a blank page, and began sketching quick maps and notes.

  “No risk,” Finn repeated, flat.

  “Noah dying was a result of his own choices,” Rem said. “Not the challenge itself. Just don’t make the same mistakes.”

  Finn’s eyes lifted and locked on him, sharp enough to make Rem’s stomach tighten. The air between them stretched taut before Finn finally looked away.

  “We were doing fine,” Finn murmured. “Until we weren’t.”

  The food came. Rem finished his scribbles, tore the page free, and folded it once. The silence between them deepened as they ate.

  Steam drifted from their tea, faint and white dissolving in the lamplight. The quiet pressed close — almost gentle. For a moment, Rem thought maybe that was all Finn wanted: company, not answers.

  “I didn’t call you about that.” Finn hesitated. “Are you Zelfstryt?”

  Rem froze mid-sip. The tea went down wrong and came back up in a half-cough, half-laugh — too fast, too loud. He wiped his mouth with his sleeve, pulse hammering.

  Careful. Not too defensive. Play it off.

  “Hah. What makes you ask that?”

  Finn leaned forward, elbows on the table. “I reviewed the logs. The night of the party — the day you cleared Level One solo — was the same night Zelfstryt set the world record. Then you hit Level Three about the same time he set the Level Two record. The timing lines up. Odds of that being coincidence are... low.”

  Rem forced a smile, steady but brittle around the edges. Of course Finn would notice the timeline. He’d been sloppy — basic mistake. What else had he missed?

  He shifted slightly in his seat, leaning back, making the motion casual, harmless.

  “Huh.” A thin laugh. “As far as I know he or she wants to be anonymous. So what was your plan here? Confront them? For what purpose? What were you hoping to gain?”

  Finn studied him, eyes searching for cracks. Rem kept his expression loose, his breathing even. Don’t look away. Don’t overexplain. Just hold the mask.

  Finn raked his fingers through his hair, a faint tremor betraying him.

  “I don’t know. I just thought maybe… I could group up with you. I need a team.”

  Rem sighed, the old weight of performance settling on him again. They were all starting to see through the cracks. Deceiving them would take effort now.

  He didn’t answer at once. Finn’s honesty landed heavier than expected — soft, unguarded. Then he exhaled.

  “I’m staying on three until I can level up my alchemical formulas. Follow these notes,” Rem slid the folded page across the table. “You can level solo. Stay near the glyph stone.”

  He hesitated. Finn’s eyes lingered, still searching. For a heartbeat, Rem thought the boy might press again. Instead, Finn opened the page, eyes scanning over what was written. Confusion crossed his face, then relief — a small spark of confidence flickering back to life.

  “As for grouping, let’s plan to group on four,” Rem said. “I’m a crafter, so who knows how that’ll go. But if you’re fine with just me… not the mysterious Zelfstryt, then I’d like that.”

  He left it there — neither lie nor truth — and let the silence take the final word.

  Rem set the crate on his workshop table and pulled out the smallest of the three commissioned pieces. The glassware was wrapped in paper; it crinkled softly as he unwrapped it.

  Amber Glass Beaker (Level 3)

  Crafter: Corin Redalen

  He summoned his merge domain around it. The beaker hovered within the cube, edges nearly brushing all sides. Perfect.

  From the bench beside him, Rem gathered the product of his past week—seven level-three slime cores, each one painstakingly merged and measured by weight. He’d balanced them so their total mass matched, proportionally, the ratio he’d used for the flask experiment.

  He dropped the cores into the beaker. They struck the glass with a delicate clink, faintly musical.

  Now came the gamble. He’d discovered something curious: when he thought of the cores as , he could merge only one at a time. When he thought of them as , the result was the same. But when he conceived of them as —not many, not one—then they could all merge together, as they had when he fused salt into reed milk.

  Selecting the glass beaker as his primary and as his secondary, Rem began the merge. Sparks leapt from the domain—small, erratic fits of light, snapping and hissing. Then, with a final, satisfying crack, the transformation settled.

  Amber Glass Beaker of Duplication (Level 3)

  Crafter: Corin Redalen

  Everything thus far had gone exactly as planned.

  Rem’s eyes flicked to the single remaining level-three slime core on the table.

  Now for the real test.