The Arch shimmered, and Rem stepped through. The school courtyard snapped back around him. Heat and noise pressed in all at once.

  He felt the glares before he saw them. Groups of students clustered near the gymnasium wall, voices edged with irritation. The morning chill had long since burned away; faces shone red with sunburn, hair plastered damp to foreheads. Some slumped against the stone rail, shirts sticking to their backs.

  Rem had changed before returning. His clothes were clean, his hair dry, his stride measured. It should have made him look composed. Instead, the contrast made him a target. He rolled his shoulders, but the motion felt stiff, a rehearsed swagger that didn’t reach his gut.

  “You’ve got to be kidding,” someone muttered.

  “Took your sweet time,” another snapped.

  Static rippled across Eva as she straightened, her body outlined in pale glow before the light sank into her. The crowd shifted, and the board came into view. Trial ranks scrolled, then froze.

  Thames. Eva. Mara. Bright at the top.

  Rem’s gaze raked downward—faster, faster—until the names ran out. His own blinked at the bottom.

  A shadow fell across his shoulder. Thames leaned in, grin broad enough for everyone to see. “Last place,” he said, voice pitched to carry. “Guess I shouldn’t have expected more from a level two.”

  Laughter cracked open around him, sharp and cruel.

  “Trash-tier,” someone called, and the insult spread like rot, whispered, repeated, hurled.

  Rem forced his eyes past them, jaw tight. He told himself not to care, that none of it mattered—but the words burrowed anyway, barbs he couldn’t pull free. His stride faltered before he caught it.

  Noah edged through the crowd, pale and sweating, his name only a few slots higher. “Hey, we made it, right? That counts for something.” His smile wavered before it even formed.

  Eva’s gaze lingered on Rem, troubled. She muttered and stomped off.

  Mara stayed longer, arms folded. Her eyes narrowed, studying him like an equation that refused to balance.

  Rem’s shrug came late, his voice stretched thin. “Guess I walked too far. Kept looking for a place to build a shelter. Should’ve dug a hole.”

  Even as he said it, he felt the weight of how flimsy it sounded.

  The excuse drew sharper glares. Noah winced. Mara shook her head once, sharp with anger, before she too turned away.

  The board flickered again, but the crowd was already dispersing, leaving Rem alone in the hollow space their scorn had carved around him. His chest ached with words unsaid. He rolled his shoulders once more, pretending it didn’t matter, and hated how much it did.

  Rem lay back on his bed, notebook open across his chest. The house was quiet, shadows stretched long across the walls. He flicked his pencil into the air, caught the eraser in his domain, flipped it once, then snapped it neatly back into his palm. Over and over. A rhythm to drown out the memory of laughter. Whenever his thoughts drifted to the courtyard, he shoved them back into numbers, plans, angles for the next run.

  Heavy footsteps broke the silence. Tomas filled the doorway, shoulders squared, clothes still damp with sweat and streaked with dust. His satchel hung low at his side, straps dark with grime. He looked like he hadn’t stopped moving since the challenge.

  “I heard you had an easy day.”

  His voice rasped like sandpaper, low, dangerous.

  Rem didn’t move. “What?”

  “Rumors.” Tomas stepped in, the air following him. “You walked out of the Trials clean. Not a scratch. Last place, yeah, but clean. While the rest of us were bleeding.”

  He laughed once, the sound more breath than humor. “The de Vries name—trash-tier. That’s what they’re calling us now.”

  Rem sat up slowly, setting the notebook aside. “Bad matchup.”

  “Don’t.” The word cracked. “Don’t shrug it off like that.”

  Tomas’s hands were fists. He wasn’t even looking at him now, just staring at the wall, jaw working.

  “Do you know what it’s like keeping a team alive? Patching up kids who can barely stand, dragging them back so they don’t get marked for destabilization?” His voice shook, then steadied. “We’re out there grinding, Rem. Father just got promoted, and still manages a run with Mom every day. We’re bleeding for this family, for the name—and you stroll through like it’s a school project you forgot about.”

  Rem’s throat went tight. He tried to sound calm. “What do you want me to say? That I’m sorry? I didn’t ask for this. I didn’t ask for any of it.”

  He kept his eyes on the floor. “It’ll blow over. A year from now, no one will care what rank I pulled.”

  “That’s not the point.” Tomas stepped closer, close enough that Rem could smell smoke on his clothes, the metal tang of blood and mud. “You don’t care. That’s the point.”

  Rem wanted to tell him he cared too much. That he’d built every lie to protect everyone. But his voice came out flat, thin. “Maybe I just see it differently.”

  Tomas’s jaw clenched until it looked carved. For a second Rem thought he might say something true—something that would break them both—but he only shook his head, trembling with the weight of it.

  “You don’t deserve what you’ve been given.”

  Then he turned and slammed the door.

  The sound carried through the house like a final sentence.

  Rem lay back slowly, shadows pressing closer in the quiet room. His chest still felt tight from Tomas’s words. He flipped the pencil into the air, caught it with his domain, snapped it back into his palm. Again. Again. Each motion meant to be clean, controlled.

  Then he missed. The pencil shot past his hand, clattered against the wall, and dropped beside his head. For a moment he just stared at it, stunned. He never missed.

  The silence pressed harder. He snatched the pencil up and hurled it across the room. It struck the far wall and spun to the floor. His breath came ragged. He shook, the anger spilling through the cracks he’d sworn to keep sealed.

  Tomas’s voice replayed, raw and merciless. You don’t deserve what you’ve been given.

  Rem curled onto his side, fists tight against his chest, and let the rhythm of his own trembling carry him down into an uneasy sleep.

  Royal Road is the home of this novel. Visit there to read the original and support the author.

  The trip to the square the next day felt different.

  The leaderboard in the transport hub mocked him: Zelfstryt sat at the top of the level one challenge list – proudly declaring him king of the underachievers.

  Maybe he was imagining it, but as Rem stepped off the lift and waited for the railcar he felt eyes on him, whispers curling just out of reach. His reflection in the glass caught him, clean and unmarked, while the boy two seats over had a scab across his cheek and a shirt stained with dirt. The contrast prickled his skin.

  He tried to focus on his plan, to walk through the math in his head, but Tomas’s voice replayed instead: You do not deserve what you have been given. The words carried heavier than the laughter in the courtyard.

  His family was grinding, every one of them, and he knew it. His father was thriving – as though purpose-built for this new world. They were all following their paths the way the Union demanded. If they had been his level, he would have joined them. He told himself that again and again. Maybe once I reach three I can help Mom and Dad. Fake being a crafter, clear level three with them. It was almost convincing.

  The railcar beeped its closing warning. Rem jolted upright and slipped through the door just before it shut, nearly missing his stop.

  The plaza was already thick with noise. It was an off day, no classes, no Trials. Tomorrow the Union instructors would have them back in their seats, then another free day, and on Friday the next Trial. The rhythm had already settled in: study on the Union’s schedule, scramble on the rest. The students who were not flat on their backs from bruises were here, buying gear, swapping cores, rushing back into the Arch to grind.

  He was not looking forward to Friday.

  Rem ducked into Groale’s, bartered quickly, and walked out with planks and nails bundled under one arm, a hammer and saw balanced awkwardly against his chest. The boards dug into his forearms as he waited in line at the checkpoint.

  “What’s all that for?” a Union guard asked, giving him a bored glance.

  “Just building a desk in my locker,” Rem said lightly. “Need somewhere to work.”

  The guard waved him through as if brushing away an annoyance.

  He was almost to the Arch when a voice cut over the noise.

  “First a bucket and shovel, now this?” Thames’s laugh carried clear, sharp. He had stepped away from his usual crew just far enough to make sure the whole crowd caught it. “Building yourself a house so you can run away from home?”

  The joke spread quickly, laughter swelling around him.

  “And to think I was worried about you,” Thames called, loud and easy, before turning his back as if Rem was not worth another thought.

  Rem kept his head down and stepped into the Arch. The laughter cut off as the light swallowed him.

  Back inside his storage locker, Rem paused in the doorway. The stone chamber smelled different. Fresher. Two blooming night lilies glowed faintly where he had left them, pale petals spreading in a slow rhythm, their scent cool and sweet like air after rainfall. Against bare stone walls, they looked almost miraculous.

  A smile tugged at him before he could stop it. It worked.

  Leveling the slime core to two, merging it with level two umbral water, had left him with something more potent still. He pulled a vial of inky liquid from his satchel, the label scribbled in his cramped hand: Level 2 Duplicating Umbral Water, Rank: Uncommon. When he tipped it, the liquid sloshed thick as oil, then refilled itself with a soft shimmer.

  This was what the lilies needed. Practically unlimited.

  With farming now possible, he set to work. He laid planks across the floor, hammering them into makeshift frames. Nails squealed in the stone as he braced the corners. The sound echoed harshly in the confined space, louder than he liked. Sweat prickled at his hairline, but he kept driving nails until a row of crude planters lined the wall.

  He wiped his forehead, studying the crooked frames. They would hold. Maybe.

  As he pressed soil into the first box, another thought edged in. Night lilies—rare, powerful, the kind of thing Arbrios kept muttering about in his wagon. Rem had seen the old man lean over bubbling vials, coaxing fumes that curled like spirits. What if he didn’t just grow lilies? What if he learned what could be done with them?

  The thought startled him. He almost laughed aloud at himself. Alchemists don’t share, do they? Do they have guilds or something, keeping secrets locked away? He shook his head, trying to dismiss it, but the idea clung stubbornly, humming under his skin.

  He muttered his numbers under his breath, trying to drown it out. “Five passes, plus one. Eighteen plants, two a day… nine days. Three more Trials to fail in front of everyone.” He groaned, pressing his forehead briefly to the wall.

  Did I mention your plan really sucks?

  Still, the question refused to leave him. What if there was a way?

  When he was done, he wiped his forehead and studied the work. Crooked, uneven, more like boxes than beds. Still, they would hold.

  For a moment he considered abandoning the plan. Trapping a hundred shrills, leveling fast, proving Tomas wrong. But the thought rang hollow. Every other path seemed wasteful. I’m not even sure this will work. But if it does…

  He carefully transferred the lilies from their buckets into the new beds, pressing soil tight around the roots. Their glow brightened the room just enough to cast faint shadows against the walls.

  One bucket emptied. One still held his shrill trap. With the shovel strapped across his back, his hand made for the glyph wall and he stepped into the challenge.

  The campfires around the wagon burned low, smoke curling into the damp air. Arbrios sat hunched at his counter, beard tangled, robe stiff with stains the color of rust. His one good eye gleamed as Rem approached.

  “Ah, Rem returns,” Arbrios rasped, chuckling low in his throat. “And yet not a single lily for me. Curious, curious. What else would an old alchemist want in this swamp but lilies?” His thick fingers pinched up a crumble of leaf and tamped it into his pipe. “Did I speak in riddles? Three blooms of midnight for one draught to mend the flesh. Plain enough, I thought.”

  Rem set his buckets down, pulse quickening. The thought he’d carried since the locker pressed forward, dangerous as fire. He almost swallowed it, but the words came anyway. “So… if I give you lilies, I get a potion. But what good is one? What if I wanted to learn to make it myself? Would an alchemist ever share how?”

  Arbrios froze, pipe stem hanging loose from his lips. Then he barked a laugh that rattled in his chest, shaking his beard. “Share? Boy, do I look like a charity hall? Alchemy isn’t stew you pass around a table. It’s blood-earned. Hard-guarded.” He leaned forward, eye narrowing. “Have you bled for it? Burned your skin? Seen your hands blacken to the bone? No? Then what makes you think you deserve it?”

  Rem’s cheeks flamed. He wanted to drop his gaze but forced himself to hold steady. “I only meant—there must be a way. Someone willing to teach.”

  Arbrios’s chuckle slowed, softened, grew sly. He packed the pipe, struck a taper, drew fire into the leaf until it glowed. Smoke curled between them. “A way, eh? There is always a way. Just not the one you’re hoping for. Guild secrets are locked tighter than coin chests. The Al’Ravaan name has stood on the rolls for generations. Break that oath, and even an old husk like me would be dragged under for it.”

  He exhaled, the ember painting his teeth in a crooked grin. “Still… clever eyes see more than they’re meant to. A sharp ear may hear what it should not. Should a lad place lilies on my counter and rent a bench nearby, and should I happen to mutter too loudly, or leave a vial uncorked…” He shrugged, smoke spilling from his nose. “Well. I could hardly be blamed for another’s cleverness.”

  Rem let out a slow breath he hadn’t known he was holding. He lifted his hands in mock surrender. “I’d never cause you trouble, Master Arbrios. But renting a bench—that has to cost extra. How many cores?”

  Arbrios’s beard split in a wide grin, pipe ember flaring. “Ah. Now we’re speaking the same tongue.”

  They haggled back and forth, Arbrios savoring each concession. By the time Rem left he knew he would overpay. Yet he also knew he would give twice as much for the chance to learn how to craft anything.

  The marsh was heavy with damp air, gnats swarming near his ears. He found the first bloom quickly, its faint glow visible through the reeds. With practiced care he set his trap, harvested the lily, dropped bait, and waited.

  The first shrill darted in, wings slicing the air like razors. Rem froze it in place and with a thought twisted its beak. A sharp snap and the bird fell limp.

  He did not stop. Another came, then another. Soon a pile grew at his feet: black feathers, limp wings, faint trails of shadow leaking into the soil. The marsh stank of iron and rot.

  He worked without pause, movements clean and efficient, the rhythm so easy it unsettled him. Too easy.

  When the weight inside him began to swell, a fullness that pressed against the edges of his domain, he stopped and merged cores. The release bled the pressure off, just enough to keep from tipping higher. Just enough to keep the lie hidden.

  An hour passed before the shrills stopped coming. He crouched, breathing steady, staring at the heap of corpses. No thrill. No triumph. Only the rhythm. Only the grind. And the shame of how little it had cost him.

  He sluiced himself with duplicating water, shadows and feathers sliding away until his hands were pale again. Pale, but under his nails dark stains clung. He scrubbed harder, but they remained—small proofs of what he’d done, of what he was hiding.

  He turned toward the gloom. There in the darkness two lilies waited to be stolen. And if he came across an extra, maybe another hour of shrills, if his strength held.

  Trash-Tier OP got its second and third ratings! The recruitment drive’s working — welcome to the Star Corps, brave readers lighting the void!