“Say what now?” Sam’s face went slack, his brain not registering the words.

  “It's going to hurt. All the basic enhancement skills are going to be… unpleasant. Your body is going to undergo some serious changes. The upgrades hurt less, but I won't sugarcoat it. This first round is tough.”

  “Should I wait until I'm healed? Doing all of them at once seems like overkill.” Sam hated how much the words sounded like pleading.

  “No, now is actually the best time. Your body will go through a reset, including healing minor injuries.”

  “But it's gonna hurt.”

  “Oh gods yes.”

  Sam let out a long breath, once again at the mercy of the warring parts of his mind. The animal side of him wanted to run away, to curl up under the wool blanket and simply sleep until it was over. But the colder part of him, the part that had grown louder and more insistent, argued to stay on the path.

  This is how we get stronger. This is how we get even.

  “Alright,” he said at last, “How do we do this?”

  “There's a shower in the bathhouse, purchase the skills in there. Don't worry about the mess, but I'd leave the clothing outside. Simply select all the skills you want to level and pay the balance. The process will be almost instantaneous. Here—” he went and rifled through a drawer, before returning with a small strip of what looked like leather. “You'll want to bite down on this. I'm not trying to scare you, I'm trying to prepare you. I promise that doing them all at once will be for the best. Most aren't able to do it like this, and I've seen some warriors lose their nerve after levelling a single skill.”

  Sam locked eyes with the old smith, “What happened to them?”

  “They died. Got stuck and couldn't continue. Most Wardens recommend doing what you're doing now, getting your first few body enhancements done at once. That has its own risks, of course, as you end up fighting for days with no skills. Beats doing them one at a time, though—believe me.”

  The haunted look in the man’s eyes was enough to push Sam over the edge. He took the small strip of not-leather and turned to leave, before pausing as a thought came to him. “Wait, what about the medicine you used last night? Will that help take the edge off?”

  Arther shook his head, “Unfortunately, not. You're going to be rewiring your brain as well as your body. Any drugs in your system could cause irreparable damage.”

  Sam gritted his teeth and set off towards the bathhouse. Inside, he stripped out of his clothes and began unwinding the seemingly unending length of bandages. He was pleased to see that most of the cuts had closed, but the skin around them was puffy and raw. None of them looked infected, which surprised him, given the rather ad hoc nature of his initial first aid.

  After clearing out the large tiled room, he turned on the water and sat on the floor, nearly losing his balance as his legs locked up from the motion. He sat there cross-legged, simply letting the water wash over him. The water pressure was commendable, and he made a note to ask Arther how it worked.

  After a short while, he felt his skin begin to go pruney, and he begrudgingly brought up his tafla. The selection they’d made was still highlighted, and he pressed the purchase icon in the corner.

  [Confirm Skill Purchase: 7,000 Spira]

  He stared at the message, heart racing, mentally trying to prepare himself for the pain. This was just another fight, just another battle. As he’d lain there in those woods, he’d committed to doing what he needed to do. He gave a humourless grin.

  “Eat the rat,” he whispered to himself. He took a deep breath, closed his eyes, and hit confirm.

  Ding!

  The sound brought back a torrent of memories, as the familiar chime rang through his ears. It distracted him so much that he almost forgot to put the strip of leather in his mouth. It was a good thing he didn’t.

  The pain was instantaneous. Like the first moment he'd been bitten by the dire-rat, only without any of the shock to numb the sensation. His entire body shook, and he could feel his muscles tearing and repairing themselves a hundred times a second.

  At the same time, it felt like he was being beaten by a set of metal rods—the pressure slamming into him from all sides. Steam rose from his body in waves as impurities were flushed from his system. The smell alone was enough to make him retch, but his entire skeletal structure was locked, leaving him to thrash weakly on the brightly tiled floor.

  Next came the changes to his mind, images shoved unbidden to the forefront of his vision. Weapons and shields of all kinds were paraded in front of him, burned into his retinas with untempered ferocity. Forms, thrusts, cuts, bashes, bludgeons, parries, strikes… The deluge of information was a waterfall, pounding his mind into submission.

  It was all too much. Any one of these skills was causing enough pain that it should have killed him, but to do six at once? It was insane. Was Arther working for Zetos? Was this all an elaborate ruse to kill him within the confines of the rules?

  For what felt like hours, he writhed, unable to pass out as the knowledge that was pumped into his brain kept him hyper-aware. Eventually, blessedly, he felt himself start to slide, the world simply slipping out from under him as he gratefully gave in to the darkness.

  Skills Acquired: [Basic Constitution], [Basic Regeneration], [Basic Stamina], [Basic Strength], [Basic Shield Proficiency], [Simple Melee Weapon Proficiency]

  The words flashed across his eyelids, a stark white against the shifting grey. He hadn't even been aware that he'd regained consciousness, his only points of awareness being where his shoulder and hip dug painfully into the shower floor.

  At some point, the water had gone cold, and he realized he was shivering. Bringing all his will to bear, he opened his eyes, light still streaming through the open window. Out of habit, he checked the countdown:

  [Ring Purge Initiates in 47:22:39:45]

  He blinked. That couldn't be right. He could have sworn he’d been in the shower for days, weeks, not a few hours. The pain had been a fragment of eternity, twisting him around like the pillar that rose from the sands of the arena. He’d stood on those sands, spear in hand, feeling the relentless pounding of time against his shield.

  And he'd held.

  He exhaled, and it was as if his body sank into the tiles and the earth beneath. The warmth from the Spire’s distant core rose to meet him, and he felt himself thrum with energy. Gingerly, he pushed himself up, the pain in his pinky strangely absent. The flesh had healed completely, a smooth nub without even a hint of discolouration. His arms and legs fared a little worse, the web of scars that marred his skin reminding him of tidemarks on a beach.

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  He stood and turned off the water, shocked by the lack of pain. For days, his every movement had been accompanied by a swift retaliation—a constant balancing act, fearing to awaken the monsters sleeping on his skin.

  Now it was he who awoke, his heart a slow and steady drum beneath his ribs. He dressed quickly, amazed at how much better the clothing seemed to fit. His skinny-fat frame had changed in a matter of minutes, muscles unused for years suddenly reborn in a flurry of magic.

  As he walked back down to the forge, he pulled his knife from its sheath. Before, the blade had felt perfect in his hand, but he realized that he’d been mistaken. He now noticed all the tiny imperfections and imbalances. This was a simple tool; he’d need more than this if he was going to kill a god.

  He altered his grip and felt his awareness extend the length of the blade, his mind able to track the tip as he would one of his own limbs. It felt as natural as breathing, and he spun the knife on his palm in a series of complex flourishes.

  No, Arther wasn't a weapon of the enemy; that had been the panic talking. The man was a smith, and when he forged blades of steel, the metal twisted and strained, but once it was quenched, it was harder than it had been before.

  It appeared it was the same for people.

  The familiar sound of ringing steel greeted Sam as he sauntered down from the bathhouse. Every step was a miniature miracle, and he revelled at how light his body felt. He was certain that if he wanted to, he could easily do a standing backflip. Only the prospect of potentially landing on his head in front of the Warden kept him from attempting it—though he made a mental note to try it out later when he was alone.

  “Well, would you look at that!” the Smith exclaimed, setting down his hammer and the disk of metal he was holding. “You look like a new man!”

  “I certainly feel like one,” Sam replied, bouncing on the balls of his feet. “I think you may have undersold the pain, though, if I’m being honest. I won’t lie, there was a moment when I thought you were trying to kill me.”

  Arther let out a low chuckle and walked over to the bellows. “The first time is always the worst. Doing six skills at once is also…abnormal.” He gave a tight, pained smile, resting his hand on the machine’s worn handle. “But now, you’ll be able to get out and at it first thing tomorrow. You already have a massive head start; you’ll be able to begin pushing up the cliffs before almost anyone.”

  Sam nodded, the reality of the situation creeping back in. He only had a matter of weeks to accumulate not only enough spira to ascend, but also enough to buy the skills needed to stay alive on the higher Rings. He’d be facing down not only monsters, but other warriors as well.

  “The best thing for you now is to get the body moving. Neural pathways are still being cemented, so the more you can use it—the better.”

  Sam gave a wide smile, “You don’t have to tell me twice. What should I do?”

  Arther pointed at a tall, ceiling-height cupboard in the corner of the forge. “Go grab yourself a training spear from in there, and head up to the practice ring. There are a few dummies you can use. Just get comfortable handling the weapon. The first few times are going to feel weird, no matter what the skill says.”

  “Sounds good. Anything specific I should be trying to do?”

  “Just stab them until it hurts. Your muscles are going to feel tense for the next few days, but I'm curious to see how your regeneration skills stack. Push yourself as hard as you can go.”

  Sam felt himself grin as he retrieved a wooden spear from the cupboard. He’d gone to the gym just enough to keep in passable shape, but it had been years since he’d really pushed himself during a workout. Normally, it was something he would have balked at, but his body was thrumming with anticipation.

  He followed the path behind the forge as it wound up towards the road. A copse of trees provided some shade, and he found the practice ring nestled in a small grove. An old shed housed a collection of dummies, simple torsos mounted on wooden stands. The dummies themselves were made from a strange ceramic that sprang back into shape when pressed. They seemed incredibly durable, and he was keen to put them to the test.

  He set them up in a rough triangle and stood in the center, suddenly feeling very foolish. Until a few days ago, the biggest stress in his life had been writing his thesis paper. Now he was in a literal fight to the death, marked by unfathomable cosmic forces.

  His frayed mental state should have cracked under the added pressure, but instead it had somehow hardened, all his will focused on a single task: survival. In his old life, he’d spread himself too thin, wearing himself down until almost nothing was left. That version of him wouldn’t be able to endure the trials ahead. He needed to become someone capable of overcoming the impossible.

  He took a deep breath and rolled his shoulders, settling into the stance his mind categorized as “default”. He thrust with the spear and couldn’t help but grin at the resounding thunk that sounded as wood and ceramic met. He followed the motion with a spin, bringing the haft to bear on the next dummy, before reversing his grip and hitting the final one with the butt of the spear.

  The next hour was spent in a trance, his mind cycling through and categorizing the techniques he’d had forcefully inserted into his hippocampus. Arther had been right; it still felt awkward. The memories and forms all belonged to someone else, and he had to manually adjust them to fit his frame. The combinations were often fusions gleaned from multiple warriors, and each segment in the chain needed subtle tweaking to allow them to flow together seamlessly.

  He steadily increased his speed, the sound of wood on ceramic creating a driving rhythm. He pushed harder, stabbed faster. Each motion, a step in a calculated dance. He swung until he could feel the sweat running down his back and arms. He felt good, better than he’d felt in years. While his heart rate increased from the exertion, it never rose to a concerning level. With each new strike, his confidence grew, and the tip of the spear slowly became an extension of his very soul.

  He was so deep in concentration that he didn’t hear the footsteps approaching through the woods until they were at the edge of the ring. He finished a particularly complex sequence and struck the dummy with such force that the shaft of the spear cracked. The noise jolted him from his trance, and he noticed three figures watching him. He instinctively took a step back, nearly tripping over his own feet.

  “Don’t stop on our account, human, you’re putting on quite the show.” The drawling voice came from a particularly haughty-looking sylvan. He leaned against the fence, twirling a dagger between his fingers. His long blonde hair was tied back, and he was flanked by two hulking var—their usually pale skin looking blotchy and pink.

  Are they getting sunburned? Sam couldn’t help but wonder, curious as to what conditions could have caused the entire race to become so sensitive to the sun. One of them wore the customary shaved head he was used to seeing from the giants, but the other had long, white braids, and he suspected they might be female.

  The trio wore their simple warrior tunics, though Sam knew looks could be deceiving. Most warriors would have only had a few hundred spira to their names after the first night, so the chances of them pulling out any surprises were slim. He looked past them and realized he was only fifty yards from the road, and silently berated himself for not wrapping the spear in cloth to deaden the sound.

  When he didn’t respond, the sylvan’s face grew dark, and he nimbly hopped the fence, his dagger never ceasing its relentless dance across his fingers. The movements were too fluid for it to be a newly acquired skill; whoever this person was, they’d had training before the Spire. After exchanging a brief glance, the two var followed suit, the fence groaning under their weight.

  “I thought we weren’t allowed to fight,” Sam said, slowly backing up to put the dummies between himself and the intruders. “Isn’t there some kind of truce?”

  The sylvan grinned, and Sam noticed sharply pointed canines, the fangs reminiscent of old vampire movies. “Oh yes, in the cities, combat is strictly prohibited. We couldn’t hurt each other if we tried. Out here in the wild, however…” His voice trailed off, “Well, killing isn’t allowed, but maiming is still very much encouraged.” The wicked smile crept even higher, and Sam could sense the barely-contained frenzy lurking behind the poised exterior.

  The two var summoned simple iron weapons. The crude axe and mace were sized to match the giants, and Sam doubted he’d even have been able to lift them before the body enhancements.

  Without speaking, the three warriors moved to surround him, and he repositioned to keep the dummies between them. His first instinct was to run, to force them to chase him back down the hill towards the forge. He instantly dismissed the idea. He had no idea how fast they were, and he didn’t fancy the thought of a dagger in the back. He doubted Arther would be allowed to interfere either way. Better to face them here, where he could at least isolate one or two of them.

  He needed to take out one of them quickly. He had different scenarios for dealing with multiple opponents, but the chances of surviving against three armed adversaries were dramatically lower than two.

  He tried one last attempt at diplomacy, knowing it was likely futile. “I don't want to fight you,” Sam said, surprised that his voice sounded more sad than scared. “You can still walk away. We don’t have to give them what they want.” Despite the trio’s sudden appearance, his heart had maintained its newfound steady rhythm. He was shaking slightly, but it wasn’t from fear. Was it excitement?

  The sylvan curled his lip in disgust. “I did not ask what you want, human. The War has begun. The gods have demanded sacrifice, and they will not be denied. Are you simple, or simply a coward?”

  Sam had to resist rolling his eyes. He hoped this was a persona, and that the elf wasn’t always this insufferable. Either way, it made it easier to do what came next.

  “Fine,” he said, levelling the spear at the elf. “Remember, you wanted this.”