Warning: Failure later will forfeit all rewards.
There was a lull. Even the flies moved slow.
The heat sat on the yard like a weight. It pressed into the stones, into skin. Men slumped in the shadow of the wall, celebrating the victory. The air shimmered above the ramparts, thick enough to see.
Rem wiped his palms on his trousers. They were damp. The smell of mud and wood filled his nose.
He moved. Fast.
The wheelbarrow’s iron rim shrieked as he shoved it across the yard. Each bump rattled through his arms. Barrels, bottles—anything he could find. He filled the cart, took the wrapped pie from Mrs. Voss, crammed it into his satchel, ignored her side-eye at his raiding.
The outpost fought him at every turn. Mud sucked at his boots. The wheelbarrow caught in a rut, and he had to wrench it free, the handle biting into his palm.
The chapel loomed cool and dim. He pushed through the door and rolled the load behind the altar, the echo of each barrel thudding like a heartbeat. “Sorry,” he muttered to the god carved in the wall. Tiny never looked here.
Next: the tent. Two flasks lifted from Tiny. Grab the bloody pail.
Across the yard, the barracks—third flask, half bottle.
Back to the well—fast, before the next horn. The rope burned against his palms as he yanked the bucket skyward.
Water into the pail. Liquor into the bucket. Lower the rope again. Done.
SURGE THREE: Repelled
Warning: Failure later will forfeit all rewards.
Cheers rose from the wall.
Rem lifted the pail, staggered toward the tent.
Splash.
Cold water hit Tiny full in the face.
He jerked upright with a strangled gasp, beard dripping, eyes wide. “Seven hells and a barrel of piss,” he wheezed, wiping his face.
“Get up,” Rem said. “Wolves hit the outpost. Stole the liquor.”
Tiny blinked. Once. Twice. Then his hand went to his vest. Empty. Back pocket—empty. The confusion hardened. “No,” he muttered. “No, that ain’t right.”
He swung his legs off the cot, boots squelching, muttering as he stumbled out.
Rem let him go. His pulse thudded in his ears. The air outside felt too bright, too close.
From across the yard came the scrape of wheels, the groan of the war wagon shifting. Men shouted orders up to the wall. Somewhere behind him, Tiny’s voice rose and fell in curses, a storm gathering by degrees.
Rem pushed toward the gate. Captain Voss was there, shouting about archers, his face streaked with dust and sweat. Rem handed him the carefully wrapped pie—Voss took it without question, already barking orders at the ramparts.
Rem turned back, crossing the yard through the smell of pitch and iron. The noise of Tiny’s search carried from the storehouse now—drawers slamming, crates overturning.
He reached the well. His arms trembled faintly from the strain, or maybe from the heat. His shirt clung to his back.
SURGE FOUR: Repelled
Warning: Failure later will forfeit all rewards.
The crowd’s roar rolled across the yard. This was it. The farthest he’d ever made it. The men at the gate were spent, but Voss had them retreat—clearing it for the next surge.
Behind him: a crash. Splintering wood. Tiny’s voice again, louder now, shaking with fury.
“WHO TOOK IT?”
Rem didn’t turn. His jaw clenched; the muscles in his neck felt strung tight.
A stillness fell—the caw of the birds, the thundering steps of the mad drunk.
Then the gate exploded. The wagon flipped, iron screaming.
Dust swallowed the light.
Something moved within it.
A wolf—but wrong. Massive as a draft horse, fur matted grey streaked with white, jaws wet and shining. Each breath steamed black in the heat. Its eyes burned white-red, too bright to look at for long.
Men fell back. Arrows clattered uselessly from its hide. The ground shook when it landed.
Rem’s mouth went dry.
Tiny walked past him—deliberate, bare-armed, soaked, eyes hollow. He looked smaller than the thing, but as he stepped forward the air bent around him, red and shimmering.
The wolf lunged.
Tiny didn’t move until it was almost on him. Then—just a step. A swing.
The punch landed under its jaw. Bone went with it. The sound of a timber snapping. The beast’s head twisted, jaw torn clean, teeth spraying into the mud.
It tried to snarl and managed a wet hiss. Tiny hit it again. And again.
Each blow sank deeper—shoulder, skull, ribs—breaking whatever it touched. The noise was wet, rhythmic. The wolf’s legs folded. It tried to crawl, dragging itself backward, whining like a beaten dog.
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Rem flinched at the sound. His fingers dug into the well’s rim.
Tiny caught it by the throat. Lifted. For a moment, the whole yard went silent but for the scrape of his breath. Then he drove it down—hard enough that the body ruptured against the packed ground.
When it stopped moving, he stood over it, breathing like a bellows, blood painting his arms to the elbow. The light around him flickered, then went out.
He looked at the carcass for a long moment. His lip twitched, not a smile—just disgust.
“I need a drink,” he muttered.
The system chimed, thin and unreal against the heat and silence.
FINAL SURGE: Repelled
For a breath, no one moved. The words hung in the air like a trick.
Then someone laughed—short, disbelieving—and the sound spread. The archers on the wall cheered. A smith threw his hammer into the air. The cook ran from her shed, apron still smoking from the ovens. Children poured from their hiding places, blinking in the light, faces streaked with soot and wonder.
They’d done it. They’d lived through the final surge.
Men clapped each other’s backs, shouting until their voices cracked. Someone started a song—off-key, broken—and others joined until the yard was full of noise and wild relief. Pie crusts and ration bread appeared from nowhere. Bottles passed from hand to hand. Even the flies seemed to dance in the heat.
Rem stayed where he was, taking it in. The corners of his mouth twitched—half a smile, half disbelief. His hands wouldn’t quite stop shaking.
Tiny stood in the middle of it all, staring at the carcass, blood drying on his arms. A child tugged at his sleeve and he blinked down at her like he’d forgotten how to look at anything small. She offered him a cup of water. He took it without a word.
Captain Voss laughed until he couldn’t breathe, finding his wife in the crowd—one arm wrapping around her, pulling her close.
Rem exhaled slowly. The sound trembled in his throat before it left him.
The laughter rolled on, raw and uneven, spilling through the yard.
He turned toward the glyph stone, breath steadying, shoulders still tight. He dug out some cores from his bag, merged them quickly, until he felt completely spent. Depleted he set his hand on the stone and returned to his locker.
He stepped into the cool air, excitement rising with each breath. Essence moved through him, filling him close to full. Finally—he had a repeatable way to charge it. He’d burned through three passes chasing Tiny from one hideout to the next, but as he stood at the low bench and looked over his challenge rewards, it felt worth it.
Rustborn Cleaver (Level 3)
Rank: Rare A single-edged blade forged from corroded carbon steel. Each strike leaves a faint orange shimmer on wounds, slowing regeneration and armor repair.
Antique Hearthstone (Level 3)
Rank: Rare Absorbs heat before radiating it back for up to eight hours.
The cleaver’s blade was thick and pitted, its leather-wrapped handle worn smooth from years of use. The hearthstone looked like a river stone polished by centuries of water, flecks of fire moving faintly within.
Rem pulled his journal and drew a table for his challenge rewards. He listed each one and set its category. They were fine. Good, even. Still not what he wanted. The real value was in items he could exploit, things that bent the rules. Consumables. Limited-use items. Those were how he could push his duplication to its limit.
He stored the rewards and crossed to his workshop. The table was cluttered—notes, jars, and the beaker that had changed everything. A clear jar of level-3 slime cores sat beside the Amber Glass Beaker of Duplication. The experiment had worked.
He flipped through his notes:
He’d stopped at a hundred. Any more felt pointless. The concept was proven; further tests would only waste essence.
He sat back on the bench and let the quiet settle. The room smelled faintly of night lily and slime essence. His hands were steady, but his pulse wasn’t. The beaker was a success. A perfect loop. Infinite value from nothing.
But nothing was free. If duplication cost nothing, then the cost was hidden. Energy moved. Essence powered everything. If his duplications drew from that same pool, someone would notice—eventually.
The other commissioned pieces waited near the wall: two wooden boxes, level-three hardwood. One tall and narrow, the other wide and deep, near the limit of what he guessed a level-four merge domain could hold. They were ready for the next test.
The plan was simple.
Create a duplicating beaker.
Use it to multiply cores.
Use the cores to build a duplicating box.
Duplicate the beaker.
Merge. Level. Repeat.
An endless chain, if it worked. He just needed to level once more to test it.
At what point would his duplications trigger an investigation into where all the essence was going? He didn’t know. But it would happen. Nothing stayed free.
Which meant he couldn’t exploit the infinite money glitch—not completely, not without drawing every eye in the Union.
That didn’t mean he’d ignore it. He reached for a jar of corrupted wolf cores—the highest-grade cores he could earn legitimately at this level. Those he could spend without raising questions.
Back in Oldtowne, he stopped first at the Authorized Retort, selling off a couple of days worth of potions. Then to the alchemy quarter to restock alchemical ingredients. From there he crossed to Tessel’s to see if any new wands had come in—nothing worth the cost.
Outside, the air was thick with cooking smoke, so he bought a skewer of roasted meat and vegetables from a street vendor and found a seat near the main arch. As he ate, he opened his interface and reviewed his stats.
Rembrandt de Vries Race: Human (Enhanced)
License: Merit
Level: 3?Experience: 0 / 400
Class: Error. Not Available.
Challenge Passes: 24
Status
Energy: 140 / 140 (Normal)
Focus: 180 / 180 (Clear)
Attributes
Agility: 10
Vitality: 10
Intelligence: 12
Perception: 12
Essence Control: 12
Class Skills and Abilities
General Skills and Abilities
Titles and Achievements
Record Holder: Union Record acknowledged; citizenship license upgraded to Merit.
Alchemical Prodigy: Awarded for achieving Journeyman or higher rank before Level 10. +15% Alchemy progression.
Profession: Alchemy
- Rank I · Apprentice
- Alchemy XP: 24 / 100
- Trait: Alchemy Prodigy (+15% growth)
- Tracked Formulas: 3 / 5
Formulas
- Health Potion · Lv 2 (30 / 200)
- Restoration Potion · Lv 1 (79 / 100)
- Recovery Potion · Lv 1 (30 / 100)
Challenge Records
Level 2: 4 minutes (Union Record)
Level 3: 5 Surges (World Record)
Notes
Tonal modifiers: Concise, neutral, non-intrusive.
System notifications: Reduced-verbiage format.
His new world record would hit tonight. He couldn’t wait to hear how the experts explained a solo clear of five surges.
He could level at any time now, but he wanted to push challenge three – extract as many rare drops as he could. Farm until he found something like a wand, or scroll, or something.
Whatever he couldn’t use he could trade at Tessel’s. There was magic to be learned and his curiosity demanded satisfaction.