After disappearing from the kitchen for several minutes, Professor Masse returned carrying a stack of books and folders.

  He set them on the table without a word, then reached for the thickest folder. One by one, he began laying out photographs—old ones, some black and white, others faded like they’d been pinned to a corkboard for decades.

  Jack leaned forward. The photos weren’t glossy or modern, but they had a quiet weight to them. Some of the carvings in them were smooth and simple. Others were so intricate he had to squint to make out the lines.

  They showed carvings in every shape and size. Necklaces. Handles. Charms. Full sculptures the length of a man’s arm.

  “So,” the professor said, “let’s go through the history of bone carving.

  Bone carving is one of the oldest forms of craftsmanship in the world. It predates metalwork. It predates pottery. Long before chisels, before wheels, before swords and steel—people carved what they had. And what they had, more often than not, was bone.”

  He pulled a loose photo from the folder and passed it to Jack. The carving in the image was jagged and primitive, but the edge of a blade was still visible.

  “Bone is tougher than people think,” the professor continued. “It’s rigid but not brittle. Strong enough to shape tools with. Light enough to carry. And when it’s fresh—from an animal that’s just been cleaned—it carves like butter.”

  He glanced up. “But it’s not just about strength. Bone is different from marble. From stone. From clay. Even from wood.”

  He rested a hand gently on the folder. “Bone used to be alive. It carried blood. Held weight. Moved.”

  “When you carve bone, you’re not just working with a material—you’re shaping the remains of something that once breathed. Every piece you touch had a story before you ever picked it up.”

  “In the early days, it wasn’t about art. It was survival. Fishhooks. Knives. Needles.”

  He slid a photo toward Jack—a thin, sharpened sliver of bone, still bearing faint notches along the edge. “But even then, the line between tool and ornament was thin. Someone always added a swirl.”

  He passed another image: a handle with curved lines wrapping around the grip.

  “A ridge.”

  A carved hairpin, its edges shaped like waves.

  “A face.”

  A bone pendant, worn smooth, with eyes and a crooked smile etched into the surface.

  “Imagine, Jack. People like you or me, with their joys and aches, made these near a fire. And it’s lasted this long. Isn’t that incredible?”

  Jack nodded. He had to admit it was.

  “Different cultures perfected the craft in different directions.” The professor pointed to a few more photographs. “Look at this—Polynesian. They made beautiful pendants. They favored bold curves and deep grooves. They worked with whalebone, mostly. Strong, dense, and with a smooth finish once polished.”

  Another photo showed a thin, flat shard with a clean spiral etched into its face. “Spirals like this pop up often. Not just for looks—they made the surface easier to grip when worn or used.”

  He paused for a moment, then looked at Jack. “Different climates, different tools, different animals—but the instinct was always the same: carve, shape, refine. Leave a mark.”

  Jack thought about his attempts at stardom. His songs and his channel—how fast everything had to be. Snappy intros. High-impact edits. Metrics and likes and comments, all boiling down to one question: Did it catch attention?

  But this… this didn’t ask to be seen. The carvings weren’t made for views. They weren’t trying to go viral. They just were. Silent. Lasting. Made to outlive their maker.

  I have to give it to these artists. They were something else, Jack mused.

  “Let me show you what Indian craftsmen did,” the professor said, flipping to the next photo. “Some of the finest bonework in the world.”

  He held up an image of a lamp shaped like a small castle, floral grooves curling along the sides.

  “They don’t just carve bone. They slice it. Grind it flat. Piece by piece. Then, they glue those slivers together like a mosaic and shape them as one. Some boxes, knife hilts, and combs are made of twenty or thirty slats—each carved separately and assembled by hand.”

  “Like a puzzle?” Jack asked.

  “Exactly. Except instead of ceramic or stone, it’s bone—scraps from cattle or camel. Waste turned into elegance.”

  “And then there’s scrimshaw,” the professor added, flipping to one final image.

  A whale tooth etched with the drawing of a sailing ship.

  Jack leaned in. The black lines had depth and texture. Ropes dangled from the sails. Birds soared overhead.

  “It looks like a drawing,” he murmured.

  “It is,” the professor said, “but not in ink. Sailors made these. They used a pin. A knife tip. Scratched the image into the surface—then stained the grooves with ash, tar, and gunpowder mixed with oil.”

  The narrative has been taken without permission. Report any sightings.

  Jack stared. “It’s incredible.”

  “These were rough men,” the professor said. “Lonely lives. Long winters. But even then—they made something that said: I was here.”

  The professor gathered the pages and tucked them back into the folder.

  “But with time,” he said quietly, “bone carving faded. It became extinct. Part of it was environmental. But the bigger reason,” he went on, “was limitation. Bone’s hard to work with. It’s hollow. Brittle in spots. You don’t get huge blocks like you do with wood or marble. You get what nature gives you. A femur. A jawbone. An antler, if you’re lucky.”

  “If you want a sculpture taller than a breadbox? You better glue pieces together like the Indian craftsmen. And every seam’s a weak point. Every inch of ambition becomes a gamble.”

  He straightened slightly, and Jack saw something shift in his expression—like a current rising under still water.

  “Which brings us to New Earth.”

  He grabbed a fresh folder and spread the images like a hand of cards. But these weren’t photos of museum pieces. They were game renders. Screenshots.

  Bone blades. Ivory furniture. A carriage built from the skull of a T-Rex. Massive ribs arching over a village like cathedral beams. Sculpted bone columns.

  Seeing these, Jack couldn’t help but remember Embersgate. There were bones everywhere. Doors framed in ribs. Lamps carved from tusks. Beams of polished ivory.

  Flipping through the photos, he recognized it for what it was. Bonecraft.

  “In New Earth,” the professor said, his voice rich with something deeper now, “there are no environmental limitations. No scarcity. If you want a dinosaur’s spine? You can go hunt one. If you want a mammoth’s tusk the size of a tree trunk? Head for the frost sectors. Whale ribs, triceratops skulls, sauropod femurs thicker than oil drums—it’s all there.”

  “With this,” the professor said, voice rising, “all limitations are lifted. And from a defunct craft, a new form of art is born.”

  His tone had shifted—not loud, but full. Steady. Certain. Like someone finally speaking the words they’ve waited years to say.

  “We can pick up the baton from our ancestors. We can go where they never could.”

  He turned to Jack. There was no smile. Just fire. Belief. A kind of hunger behind the eyes.

  “When Marie first told me about the game, I was reluctant. Skeptical. I thought it was just another fantasy world.” He paused—just for a breath.

  “But then I saw it. The materials. The freedom. The potential.”

  He shook his head once like he still couldn’t quite believe it.

  “Jack... many sculptors have dreamed of this. A new medium. A canvas. One that pushes back. One that grows.”

  He tapped the folder with quiet conviction.

  “That’s why I decided to devote all my time in the game to bone carving!”

  Jack gulped, goosebumps. The passion in the eyes of the professor was palpable.

  “Alright,” the professor said, closing the folder. He reached for a thick hardcover and placed it before Jack with a soft thud. “Here is a collection of photographs—real-world bone art, museum-grade. And here—” he pulled a second book from the pile, this one a photo album with plastic sleeves “—is a collection of pieces made in the game. Screenshots, mostly. A few personal favorites.”

  He tapped both books.

  “I want you to peruse these until lunch. Pick your top three favorites. And don’t just pick them—tell me why you picked them. Understood?”

  Jack nodded. “T-that’s fine!”

  “Good!” The professor stood. “I’ll leave you to it.”

  He turned to Marie. “Would you like to see my latest sculptures? I’d love to have your input.”

  “Of course, Professor.”

  Jack followed them with his eyes as they stepped out of the kitchen, then let out a soft sigh and turned back to the table. He flipped the first book open and began thumbing through the pages.

  He’d never thought about the millennia of bone carving that predated his existence. Never thought about how careful hands—long gone—had shaped everything from needles to necklaces. He definitely hadn’t considered what having access to dinosaur bones—or things even larger—could mean for an artist.

  A small smile tugged at his mouth.

  What a good teacher, he thought. He’s getting me all hyped up about this.

  The kitchen was quiet now. Just the rustle of pages and the distant murmur of the professor’s voice drifting from another room.

  Jack shifted in his seat and adjusted the angle of the book so the light hit better. His thumb ran along the edge of a page, brushing faintly textured paper. These weren’t just printouts. The photos had been carefully chosen, printed on matte cardstock, with short captions handwritten in the corners. Some even had dates or initials.

  He made this himself, Jack realized. All of it.

  Something about that added weight. This wasn’t just a lesson. The professor wanted to pass something on.

  Jack got lost in the pages, eyes tracing grooves and ridges, admiring the contrast between ancient elegance and modern audacity.

  He turned another page. This one showed a ceremonial comb from the 1800s—delicate, nearly translucent, with curling motifs like vines growing in slow motion.

  Jack frowned.

  Why do I like this one? It wasn’t the flashiest. Not the biggest. But something about it felt... patient. Quiet. Like whoever made it didn’t rush a single cut.

  The professor’s words echoed again: “You need to work on the before.”

  Jack had always moved fast. In-game and out. Instinct had carried him far, and he didn’t regret it. But this—this was something else.

  The comb didn’t look like it had been born from instinct.

  It looked like the artist had already seen it long before carving the first line.

  He kept turning pages until he stopped. This time, what caught his eye was a pendant—an actual photo taken in warm museum light. A thin oval with twin spirals curling from each end. Balanced. Symmetrical. Clean.

  Jack tilted his head.

  He didn’t know why, but it captured his attention. The lines were simple, but they flowed. No jagged turns. No wasted movement. A small hole had been drilled near the top, clean and centered.

  He could see it hanging from a cord. Could feel the curve under his thumb.

  How would I even make something like that?

  He’d only unlocked one bone recipe so far: [Tooth Pendant]. He hadn’t tried it yet. Now, he wondered what his pendant might look like.

  Would it be like this—symmetrical, clean, and elegant? Or would he make it like the comb, with slow, patient flourishes?

  He didn’t know.

  But looking at these pictures was stirring something in him.

  Jack leaned in and kept turning pages, slower now.

  Just looking for what felt right.