Blake only remembered the most basic palm art from reeducation. He’d never tried it, but the mana movements were stuck in his brain. Though he’d been kicked out early for poor potential, he had been meticulous in his studies.

  And now he had everything he needed.

  Palm arts were all Smite techniques. They started in the heart, travelled through the bone, built power in the muscle, then popped out the skin of your hand as one last resistant barrier, building speed and strength.

  It took about three tries to get the feeling right, but once he did, the basic art activated. If he remembered right, the Fate Monks called it ‘mana pulse.’ Because that was all it did.

  His black, static-filled Honour snapped out his skin, creating a forceful pulse on the surface of his hand. Wisps of the black void lightning still left his body. It played on his fingertips, completely silent. Not a single audible pop of static.

  The tiny bolts of black lightning moved in reverse, racing up toward the sky, but they faded before they hit the ceiling. Instead of splitting and branching in harsh movements like regular lightning, they slithered, almost like a snake.

  Blake shook his hand out. It had only tingled a little bit, but the lightning had felt forceful and cold. When he passed his hand through the air, it felt like a winter wind where the lightning had just passed through, and the air was still trembling with power. There was a smell that reminded him of a car starting on a cold day, but he couldn’t explain why.

  He sat back down on the bed and picked up the cycling technique slate, then tucked it away in the drawer. He’d need to review it a few more times to make sure he had everything right, but that could come later.

  For now, he assessed his Honour storage. Now, his Honour sea crackled with dark lightning. Honour with an aspect. There were only wisps of it, which he’d created with the modified Endless Point Lightning Crucible technique, and his palm art had used some of it.

  You’ll need to get yourself a better Smite technique next, Ethbin said.

  “I’ll need more contribution points,” Blake commented.

  You know how to solve that.

  Blake nodded. “But…what’s actually special about black lightning? Like, what does it do that regular lightning doesn’t?”

  Regular lightning embodies the principles of Aes. Black lightning is associated with Vir principles. It’s cold, not fiery, it is destructive, yes, but as a force of nature. You’ve ignited a storm in the void. But it’s not just about destruction—you will find that its best function is to use Shaping techniques. It can help you create solid objects mid-battle, providing you solutions you would never have thought of.

  “So is that what I should get a technique slate for next? Shaping?”

  No.

  “But—”

  Shaping is difficult, it takes lots of Honour, and you should focus on making the Lightning Crucible continuous and constant. A better Smite technique won’t take too much of your attention away from that, not like a Shaping technique.

  “Alright, alright,” Blake said. “But…make the cycling technique continuous? That’s impossible. Cultivators need their seclusion room hours, they need intense focus and complete concentration, and they can almost never do other things when they’re cycling—I mean, gathering mana.”

  Yes. Because they are lazy, because they have trimmed off the last two stages of Mana Condensation in exchange for Harvesting techniques.

  “What are the last two stages?” Blake asked.

  Willpower Sharpening and Concentration Linking. But it’s best if we progress through those while on a hunting mission, so no one will see us somehow make it to the ninth stage of Condensation when they don’t even know such a thing exists.

  Blake nodded. “I think I’ve had quite enough practice for today, though. My brain feels like mush, and I can’t remember half the stuff you told me.”

  After that, Blake made sure his room was in order, and there was no evidence of his techniques. Only a little frost on the ceiling, which was already melting.

  By the time he stepped outside the housing hall, it was evening. The sun was getting lower, and cultivators were rushing to the meal hall for dinner. Blake sat down with Froskur, Konuth, and Iver, but none of them had food yet, either.

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  “What’s going on?” Blake asked. “I didn’t see any bowls prepared.”

  “This is normal, Junior Brother,” Iver said. “Ulfreld does this when he has an announcement to make, and then we can go eat. An excellent tradition, if I do say so.”

  They’d already given up on correcting Blake’s speech—even Iver. Blake couldn’t help but smile at that prospect, but it faded.

  Elder Ulfreld marched down the center aisle of the meal hall, his three swords floating behind him. “Good evening, brothers and sisters. I would like to remind everyone that this year's Great Trade is fast approaching. In a few weeks, we will bring a party to Mergewatch and participate in the Great Trade. But I would also like to remind everyone that the Green Bears have been hunting in the mists just the same as us, and they have been gathering furs as well. We cannot let them outperform us at the Trade. To ensure our success, the Inner Court has authorized me to award double contribution points for any successful hunting mission up until the Great Trade.”

  Blake glanced at the others. “Why’s it a bad thing that the Green Bears outperform us?”

  “They’ve been sending satellite sects out into the woods, encroaching on our territory,” said Froskur. “They’ve set up a pavilion a few miles to the south, and they’ve been gathering pelts and treasures as well.”

  Blake nodded. “Alright, but like…is that a problem?”

  “It would be if they became more successful than us,” Konuth said. “They’re already the most powerful sect in the region, and if they could prove to the Steerman that we’re superfluous? He’ll dissolve our outer courts and send us back.”

  Blake rubbed his head. “I…don’t know what you mean.”

  “The Steerman,” Iver clarified, “is the captain of the manaship hovering over your city, but generally, the regional governor. Appointed by the King of the Nords himself.”

  “But why would he kick you guys out?” Blake asked.

  “You guys?” Iver stressed. “Junior Brother, you are one of us now.”

  “Just a habit,” Blake said.

  “The Steerman favours the Green Bears,” Konuth explained. “That’s why. He’s one of them. He grew up as one of them.”

  Blake narrowed his eyes. “So the Green Bears, a middle-level sect, and the regional governor, have more sway than an intergalactic sect? The Hunters’ Sect exists on more than one planet, right? That’s what I gathered.”

  “Well, the inner court of the Hunter’s Sect is likely stronger than the Green Bears,” Froskur said. “But this isn’t their only territory. They won’t care if they lose an outer pavilion. This region of Shell is poor, anyway, and it’s almost not worth holding.” He hung his head. “Everything’s changed so much in the past few years…I don’t want this to change, too. I don’t want to leave this place…”

  “Well,” Blake said. “I think we can fix that.”

  “What do you mean?” Konuth asked.

  “Look, it’s all about volume, right?” Blake tilted his head. “The more goodies we gather for the Great Trade, the more value we have to the regional government. The Steerman can’t replace us if we do better than the Green Bears, so that’s what we’ll do. Hunting missions, gathering furs—and contribution points.”

  “I am certain we could find a Senior Brother who’s willing to take us out tomorrow,” Iver said. “As an extra set of hands. It is tradition, after all, to have a porter on a hunt, even if few follow that…”

  “Have you guys never gone out on your own?” Blake asked.

  “Into the mists?” Froskur shook his head. “No, never. We’re not…not like you, Blake.”

  Blake chuckled. “Well, I’ll see you in a few days, then. It sounds like I’ll be going off on my own.”

  For a moment, he considered inviting them, but he couldn’t afford to worry about them. Nevermind that he needed the time to himself, to follow Ethbin’s instructions and advance. By the time he returned, he’d be at Body Tempering.

  ~ ~ ~

  The next morning, Blake ran to the bounty board and picked three slips. He needed to get himself enough points for a forty-point technique slate, plus enough points to live through his time at the sect. Already, his staff was showing signs of wear from just training with Wind-Eyes, and he’d need showers, and possibly more seclusion room hours to make his progress slightly more convincing.

  He picked a twenty-point bounty for a pack of howlers (twenty points after being doubled), and a forty-point bounty for a shroomclaw—which he learned was the name of the fungal badger he’d killed. And then, he took a hundred point bounty for something called a pistilwalker. In total, a hundred and sixty points, which he’d put toward a new technique slate and a staff.

  There were no bounties for higher monsters. Those were already gone by the time Blake got to them.

  He set out through the gate early in the morning. The other three boys were still sleeping, but the pavilion guards said, “Out already, Junior Brother? We thought you’d wait a little longer before taking more missions.”

  Blake held up the three bounty slips.

  “Three?” a second guard said. “He’s going to get himself killed…”

  “Let me know when that actually happens,” said the third guard. “He’s already gotten to Condensation seven.”

  “Most of our junior brothers are at Body Tempering, especially at his age.”

  “Yes, but…”

  Blake tuned out their bickering and walked away, marching away from the pavilion. The guards weren’t even paying attention to him anymore. After a few more steps, though, a hand clamped down on his shoulder.

  He whirled around. Wind-Eyes stood behind him. “Junior Brother Bjarke.”

  “Yes, sir?”

  Wind-Eyes sighed. “Leaving so soon? After only a few days of training?”

  “Apologies, sir, but I need to hunt, too.” Blake dipped his head. “I will return.”

  “Be careful. I would hate to see an inexperienced recruit gobbled up by the mists so soon—or to have that on my conscience.”

  “Would you help us?”

  “I came here for a peaceful life,” Wind-Eyes said. “To pass on what I know. Not to take any more than five steps away from the pavilion.”

  “I’ll be careful,” Blake said. “But I need those points.”