The next morning, Blake woke up as the sun rose, like he was used to in the mists. It wasn’t a very restful sleep. Every few hours, he’d woken up. Without Ethbin there to wake him up if needed, every little noise sounded like a threat.

  Not to mention, the bed was too comfortable. The sheets were too soft, the bed too spongey. It didn’t feel like it belonged to him, and really, it didn’t. It belonged to the sect. He wasn’t going to be here forever.

  But no one had come into his room. The door was shut, the window was intact, and no one had messed with him.

  He rolled off the bed, pulled on his vambraces and belt, then stepped out of the housing hall into the main pavilion. It was colder than he was used to, and a thick layer of dew covered everything. The trees, previously red, were now turning yellow at their bottoms as the season latened.

  Blake took a long breath, tasting the clean air, then set off toward the technique library.

  The others were already waiting for him out front, evidently excited about what he’d pick out. All three: the frog-blend, the black-haired boy, and the blond boy.

  “Mornin’, senior brothers,” Blake said as he walked past, delivering a nod.

  “Good morning, Junior Brother Bjarke,” the Blended frog boy said. Blake learned last night that his name was Froskur.

  Blake entered the technique library with an entourage behind him. The guards looked out to see who it was, but when they saw Blake and the other sect members, they let them through.

  The technique library was a hall much like the dining hall, but with shelves lining its floor and upper loft. Instead of books, the shelves held an assortment of stone slates. Each slate was about as wide as a finger, and the shelves were labelled by category. Of the four main classes, there were the most Smite techniques, then Augmentation techniques, then Shaping techniques, then Harvesting techniques. Within their sections, they were sorted by aspect and price.

  The weakest were worth ten contribution points, some were worth twenty, some forty, and many much higher than that. The more expensive they were, the more specific they became. Blake was pretty sure that anything above a hundred points worth would be completely incompatible with Honour.

  But the four main categories of combat techniques weren’t the only techniques available. There were also less common slates that might also be useful—sorted into a category for ‘cycling techniques’ and a category for ‘miscellaneous.’

  The cycling techniques were what Blake needed. He made a beeline toward them.

  If he understood, most proper techniques, even in the main four categories, required cycling of some kind. But a cycling technique was specifically one that you used to gather ambient mana, draw it into your body, and infuse your mana sea with, storing it for your own use later.

  In Blake’s case, he was going to use it to gather Honour, but the point remained the same.

  “Do you already have a Smite technique, Junior Brother?” asked the black-haired boy. His name was Konuth. “Was that how you beat the fogterror? Can I see it?”

  “I don’t,” Blake replied.

  “Shouldn’t you seek out a Smite technique first?” Froskur asked.

  “What good is a Smite technique without energy to fuel it?” Blake tilted his head.

  “You don’t know a basic cycling technique?” Konuth inquired.

  The third boy, the one with blonde hair, named Iver, said, “When Junior Brother Bjarke reaches Condensation seven, he’ll be able to use Harvesting techniques. He can harvest the mana of the beasts he hunts. The choice to go for the cycling techniques is simply unheard of. The Fates weep from the impropriety…”

  “Thank you for the advice, senior brothers,” Blake said. “But I think I’ll stick with a cycling technique. I’d like to replenish my mana quickly.”

  The others glanced at each other, before finally, Froskur asked, “What techniques did you use to kill the fogterror?”

  Blake shrugged. “Nothing, really.” He couldn’t exactly tell them he had a very basic…partial body Augmentation technique already. Even if he did, they wouldn’t believe him.

  The three boys glanced at each other curiously. Froskur stuck out his long tongue and used it to scratch the side of his head.

  The tale has been taken without authorization; if you see it on Amazon, report the incident.

  Finally, before setting off down the aisle of the cycling techniques, Blake turned to Froskur and asked, “Wait, doesn’t your name just mean ‘frog’ in the Nords’ language?”

  Froskur looked down sheepishly. “Yes, junior brother. When I was about seven years old, I was Blended with one of the creatures from your world, and my parents cast me out. The Hunters Sect took me in for my deep-ish connection to mana soon after.”

  Blake stopped, then turned around. “Wait, where’re you guys from?”

  Froskur said, “I’m from Alumere—what this slice of the world was called before the Integration. I was a normal boy before, born not ten miles from here.”

  Konuth adjusted his ponytail, then said, “My family were artisans who travelled to this planet—they call it Shell in the outer worlds—to sell and craft goods. Too boring for me. Had to join the sect and see how others did it.”

  Finally, there was Iver. He said, “My family has been with the Hunters as long as we know. We travelled to this planet with the outer court, and I got placed at this pavilion to learn to cultivate. They are awfully relaxed about decorum in the outer court, and I endeavour to fix that!”

  “Huh…” Blake said. He wasn’t sure how to process all that, so he kept his mouth shut. “I see.”

  “What about you, Junior Brother?” Konuth asked, his eyes alight with innocent curiosity. “Where are you from?”

  “You guys know I’m from the city across the merge-mists, right?” Blake asked.

  Froskur said, “Oh yes, your three-part name was indicative enough of that—the Green Bears insist on them.”

  At the mention of the Green Bears, the three began grumbling to themselves, and at the same time, mumbling about various injustices the Green Bears had inflicted upon the Hunters.

  “I was a regular guy,” Blake said. “Well, kid.” He also wasn’t sure if that was entirely true, given his rough track record in school, but hey, he was close enough. “Then the Integration happened. Got Blended with a fiend.”

  “Rough,” Konuth muttered.

  “Tough,” Iver added.

  “Ah, well.” Blake set off down the aisle, glancing side-to-side at all the slates. “We do what we can.”

  The slates were all labelled on their spine, like a book would be, but it was in the Nords’ language, and it took him a little longer to decipher it.

  “Apologies,” Blake said. “I’m…trying to read as fast as I can.”

  “It’s alright, junior brother,” Froskur said. “I could barely read Dynasty script before I joined the Hunters Sect.”

  As Blake went down the row, the others translated for him. Blake targeted the slates that had a forty point price tag. Like Ethbin said, he was going to modify it anyway, so he didn’t need to pick out a perfect technique, but he still wanted something that was somewhat compatible with where he was going.

  But when his finger hovered over a forty-point slate, and Iver translated, “Endless Point Lightning Crucible,” Blake decided it was the technique slate he wanted.

  He really couldn't explain why. It just felt right. The fogterror had struck him with lightning, and he’d lived. At least if he screwed up, he knew his channels could take it.

  “You don’t truly get an aspect until you begin your Core Formation stages, Junior Brother,” Iver said. “But you can still draw in mana of a certain aspect and use it for compatible techniques. It’s not perfect, but it will get the job done.”

  “This slate…seems to draw in lightning-aspect mana. It’s slow—lightning’s rare, Junior Brother,” Konuth added.

  Blake nodded. “Thank you for the warning, but I’m still going to get this one. It just feels right. My heart says so.”

  “Alright…”

  “What cycling techniques do you guys have?” Blake asked.

  “Ours?” Iver shook his head. “No, no, we just have ten-point cycling techniques. They work well enough for our purposes. We put our effort into Smite and Harvesting techniques. We…didn’t waste points like that.”

  Blake grinned. “Well, there are more slips on the mission board, and plenty more of them worth fifty points. I think I can do more.”

  “You probably can, Junior Brother…” Froskur said.

  Blake chuckled, then reached into his pouch and handed each of them a single contribution point. “For the advice and the translations.” It still left him with forty-six points, which he handed the majority of over to the librarian at the front desk in exchange for the technique slate, leaving him with only six points left.

  Until he went hunting again, he’d save those for showers.

  He left the library and carried the technique slate back to his room, where he tucked it into a drawer. He held Ethbin’s ring up and whispered, “We can deal with this tonight. But I’m due for breakfast…then, by the looks of things, I have sparring.”

  ~ ~ ~

  After breakfast, Elder Ulfreld appointed Blake to a sparring group. Konuth, Iver, and Froskur were all part of the group, along with a few others. Their instructor was at the fifth stage of Body Tempering, and he looked about forty years old. They all called him Wind-Eyes, for his cloudy white eyes—with no pupils. Otherwise, he wore a plain sleeveless gambeson that revealed impressively toned arms.

  “You all have your weapons,” Wind-Eyes said, pacing the sparring green in front of them. They six of them had taken up a circle near the center of the pavilion, surrounded on all sides by footpaths, and with a big tree to provide them shade. A nearby pond burbled. “But you are all in need of practice and instruction—some more than others.”

  At the last comment, he looked directly at Blake, and Blake didn’t deny it. Blake needed to learn some proper fighting techniques.

  “It’d be an honour to learn from you, sir,” Blake said, giving a quick bow.

  “Senior Brother,” Wind-Eyes corrected. “And yes, it will be an honour. You will earn bruises, you may break some bones—nothing that won’t heal. And in the end, you will fight better for the sect and for yourselves. There is nothing worse than learning that a hunter has died on a mission…”

  ? Extra’s Mantle: Wait, What Do You Mean I Shouldn’t Exist?! ?

  by NekoSama#9999

  What To Expect:

  A protagonist who refuses to accept fate before he has tasted some beauties.

  > Good variety of side-characters with their own lives, motivations, and personalities.

  > Magic, stats, guns!