The thought came from somewhere above the shivering wreck of his body—an observation rather than a feeling.
Rem huddled against the stone wall of the cave, knees pulled to his chest, arms wrapped tight around them. His cloak was a heavy, useless weight. The cold didn’t care about wool or leather. It soaked through them in seconds, finding skin, then muscle, then bone.
He had eaten. He had dried himself. He had found the most sheltered corner of the shallow cave.
It wasn’t enough.
The wind didn’t blow past the cave mouth; it curled inside. Every few seconds, a gust stripped away the fragile layer of warmth trapped between his clothes and his skin, resetting the clock on his hypothermia.
He looked at the darkness beyond the ledge.
He needed heat.
The sweet roll and the meat skewers were gone, burned up by a metabolism fighting a losing war. A quick check of his status showed his energy reserves—the actual system resource—sat full, but he had no way to convert that into body heat. Not without a wand he could work. Or maybe a potion he didn’t have the formula for.
"Fuel," he whispered. The word puffed white and vanished.
He had checked the immediate slope. Grass. Rock. Dust.
The treeline was a black smudge in the moonlight, kilometers away. Even if he could survive the climb down, he’d never haul a load of wood back up before freezing. The energy cost of the expedition exceeded the potential caloric return.
He stumbled from the cave to look out at the world.
From this height, he could see the entire valley floor. The lake, which had been a dark mirror when he arrived, was changing. Sheets of ice were creeping out from the shoreline, jagged white teeth closing over the black water. He could hear it happening—a low, grinding groan that echoed off the cliffs, the sound of the world locking itself away.
The wind howled across the tundra below, picking up plumes of snow and driving them like ghosts against the treeline.
It wasn't just cold. It was hostile. This wasn’t passive. It was winning.
Rem watched the ice advance for a long minute.
He felt the numbness creeping past his wrists, past his ankles. He felt the sluggishness in his thoughts, the way the concept of "moving" felt heavier than the act itself.
He ran the simulation in his head.
There was no winning move.
He could fight it. He could scrabble in the dirt, wreck his fingers, burn his remaining stamina, and suffer for another hour just to prove he tried. He could let pride drive him until his body simply shut off.
Or he could accept the data.
"You win," he whispered.
It was a bitter pill, dry and scraping in his throat. But refusing to swallow it would only cost him more. He didn't scream. He didn't thrash. He simply let go of the tension in his shoulders.
He turned away from the freezing world.
He pressed his palm against the flat surface of the challenge glyph carved into the cave wall.
Select Location
- Storage Locker
- Alchemy Laboratory
- Oldetown (origin)
- Babylon
Rem didn't hesitate, mentally selecting his storage locker.
One second, the wind was screaming in his ears, stripping the heat from his bones.
The next, silence.
His hand was still pressed against a glyph, but the stone under it was warm, polished wood. The air smelled of dried herbs and sawdust.
Rem collapsed.
He didn't crawl out of a portal; he just slumped forward where he sat, his forehead hitting the floorboards of his storage locker.
The silence was instant. The wind was gone. The cold was gone.
Rem rolled onto his back on the wooden floor of his storage space. He lay there, staring at the familiar ceiling, the grain of the wood sharp and clear in the unnatural light of the space.
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The shivering finally, truly took hold, shaking him apart as his body realized it was safe enough to fall apart. His teeth chattered so hard his jaw ached. He curled into a ball on the floor, clutching his sides, letting the tremors wreck him.
It took a long time to stop. Minutes. Maybe an hour.
Eventually, the warmth of the space soaked into him. The wood beneath him was solid, dry, and heated by whatever kept this space like this. It was the most comfortable thing he had ever felt.
Rem sat up slowly. His body felt bruised, beaten, but the numbness was receding, replaced by the stinging prickle of returning circulation.
He looked around the small, cluttered room. The shelves of wands. The boxes of cores. The duplicating gear, moved here because he didn’t trust the Alchemist Guild not to spy on him.
It was safe here. But safety wasn't the goal. Progress was.
Rem dragged himself into a sitting position, his back against the rough wood of the wall. His fingers were swollen sausages, clumsy and throbbing as the blood forced its way back into the capillaries. The pain was nauseating. A deep, sick ache in the marrow that made him want to curl up and vomit.
He didn't. He reached for his satchel.
His hands fumbled with the buckles, slipping twice before he managed to tear the flap open. He pulled out his notebook.
If he didn't write it down now, while the sensation was fresh, he would forget the specifics. The brain liked to gloss over trauma. It would smooth out the edges of the cold, make it seem manageable in retrospect.
He couldn't afford that. He needed to remember exactly how impossible it was.
He opened the book to a fresh page, his handwriting was a jagged scrawl, barely legible.
He stared at the numbers. They were just estimates, but they felt heavy on the page.
He tapped the graphite against the paper. The tip snapped. He stared at the broken shard.
"Gear check," he muttered, swapping the pencil for a fresh one.
He drew a hard line under the list.
He looked over at the lantern he snagged from Madarox’s Storehouse, the clay jugs of oil that fueled it.
He looked at the duplicating gear in the corner. His level three box, unassuming, sitting next to a stack of wands.
"Duplication," he whispered.
The box had limits. But he could work around that. It could even stick out over the box a bit. He stared at it, the cogs in his frozen brain finally grinding into gear.
He didn't need to craft a masterpiece cloak. He didn't need to brew a legendary potion.
He needed mass.
He tapped the notebook again.
He could build a wall. Not of stones, but of a million sticks stacked tight. He could build a windbreak that was also a stockpile. He could burn it, stack it, insulate with it.
"A wood brick," he muttered. "I need a wood brick."
If he brought one dense, high-burn brick of hardwood… he could turn it into a wall, use it for fuel, create a platform to insulate him against the cold of the stone, even build furniture with it: tables, chairs, anything he needed.
Rem sketched out a small wood brick that could interlock with itself. He could have something like that made quickly.
Rem let his head thud back against the wall. His internal desire to maximize his growth was pleased with the idea because of how impossible it would be for anyone else to achieve. He thought back to the rolled-up bedrolls and oil-lantern Eva and Mara used, no wonder they looked exhausted every time he saw them, the nights were brutal.
He had a plan.
He forced himself to stand. His knees popped. His head swam, the room tilting dangerously. He stumbled over to his collection of challenge three spoils and looked through it once more, looking for anything that might help. Weapons, useless. Most of the stuff was useless. Three Alpha Wolf’s Hide, bedding? Void resin for binding the wood?
The only other item that seemed remotely useful was the Antique Hearthstone. Absorbs and radiates heat for eight hours. He had two of them in his haul, but with a little duplication he could have more. Build a fire outside, absorb the heat, bring the hearthstone inside.
Rem picked up the smooth whitestone from the shelf. It was irregularly shaped and glowed with a circular blue glyph. It felt oddly familiar, like home. He set it back.
Satisfied with his plan to stay warm and fed, he moved onto the more important part. What was he going to do inside all night? Sleep sure. But too much sleeping was a waste of good time dilation.
"Wand mastery," he mumbled. "Practice. I can practice."
If he couldn't be outside, he would be productive inside. He would grind. And no better time than now to get started. Rem picked up one of his charged illusion wands and assumed a casual stance. Feet shoulder-width. Elbow tucked. Writer's grip.
There wasn’t much to using a wand, by his research. Just point and focus your intent and the wand. His hand came up, the wand tip wavered, he held it still. Willed it to work.
"Nothing."
He tried again.
The wand snapped. He dropped the pieces, they clattered loudly on the floor, scattering on the locker floor.
Rem stared at his empty hand. That wasn’t too bad. He imagined a critical failure might be more explosive had he been using a wand of fireball, but illusion wands just shattered.
He tried for an hour, really tried. The motion, the will. It drained his focus. That was at least confirmable by checking his stats. It took mental focus to use a wand? That wasn’t in his research.
He looked at the piles of scrap wands and discarded duds.
He sank back down, sliding against the wall until he hit the floor. The ambition evaporated, leaving only a hollow, crushing fatigue. He wasn't going to grind. He wasn't going to master anything tonight. He was going to pass out.
He leaned his head on his knees.
"Tomorrow," he whispered.
He had lost the night. The challenge outside would continue—weather cycles, celestial movements, whatever timed events governed it—but he wasn't there to see them. He was blind.
And by leaving, he had accepted the efficiency hit. Eighteen hours of outside time that he wasn't spending inside. He had paid a massive cost just to survive his first six hours.
"One strike," he said to the empty room.
He didn't know if there was a literal penalty, but the math didn't forgive. He had traded a potential eighteen hours of progress for a warm bed. To catch up, he would have to be perfect tomorrow.
He had bought survival with time he couldn't afford to lose.
Rem leaned back against the wall and closed his eyes.
"Tomorrow," he whispered. "Let’s try again."