When you wake up in the morning, tell yourself: the people I deal with today will be meddling, ungrateful, arrogant, dishonest, jealous and surly. They are like this because they can't tell good from evil. But I have seen the beauty of good, and the ugliness of evil, and have recognized that the wrongdoer has a nature related to my own - not of the same blood and birth, but the same mind, and possessing a share of the divine. And so none of them can hurt me. No one can implicate me in ugliness. Nor can I feel angry at my relative, or hate him. We were born to work together like feet, hands and eyes, like the two rows of teeth, upper and lower. To obstruct each other is unnatural. To feel anger at someone, to turn your back on him: these are unnatural.

  -Marcus Aurelius, Meditation

  ******

  "Get the one in the crate!" Neron ordered as he reached down and scooped a rat into his hand.

  It wriggled and clawed, trying to escape, but Neron used his left hand to grab its head.

  With a squeal and the feeling of fragile bone snapping, Neron twisted its neck back.

  "Have it!"

  Jorry's voice came from the crate, one of the rats had escaped into. It was muffled but Neron knew it wasn't from having his mouth full.

  This time.

  Rather than go help Jorry, who couldn't kill the rat quickly due to the differences in sizes, Neron froze in place.

  He could barely hear the small serpent struggling with its prey, but he tuned it out as much as possible, just as he tried to ignore the sound of creaking wood from above him.

  It shouldn’t have been long enough for it to find a refuge…

  "Runhiderunhiderunhiderunhidedangerwarninghide."

  There!

  Neron rushed to the corner of the cellar. There were a cluster of barrels stacked on top of each other preventing him from getting to the scurrying rodent, but he knew what to do. He easily climbed onto one of the smaller barrels, crouching on its closed lid, and looked down at the floor.

  With the flat of his palm, Neron slapped the barrel under him hard, sending a small vibration through the wood with the loud 'thump!'

  It frightened the rat from its position, sending it in a mad dash for safety in another corner of the room.

  As soon as he saw the dark shape skittering along the floor, Neron dropped from his perch, trying to crush it.

  He failed, missing the quick creature by a decimeter or more.

  Without a care, Neron let himself collapse to the ground, trying to pin the vermin under his body. He managed to clip it slightly with his side, but it wriggled its way out from under him.

  And into his waiting hand.

  "Runbitekilldierunrunrundiediedie!"

  Neron retook his feet as he absently crushed the rat's spine, letting the creature fall from his hand as it twitched and spasmed in pain. Now that it wasn't going anywhere, he went to go help Jorry.

  Pulling open the lid to the crate, one filled with rough linens, Neron dug through the cloth to find the serpent tucked away in the corner near a crack in the wood.

  "Took your time," Jorry deadpanned, his coils tightening around a large rat to hold it fast.

  His scales were dotted with marks where claws had raked them, and he even had a rather nasty bite wound near his skull.

  Despite that, the tiny serpent sounded smug.

  "I was dealing with the other two," answered Neron. By the panic in its eyes, the rat was still alive.

  He couldn’t ‘hear’ it though. Despite not actually communicating by sound, his skill took the state of the being into consideration when determining what creatures ‘said.’ If they were panicking, they wouldn’t control itself but something hidden wouldn’t ‘say’ ‘hidehidehidehide.’ Similarly, a full mouth or injury to their jaw would prevent proper enunciation and something being strangled to death wouldn’t have air to ‘talk.’

  Neron found it mildly fascinating. Was it so anthropomorphized because he was human and relied on sound for communication so much? If he’d been deaf, would creatures communicate in a form of writing or sign language?

  Idle thoughts played through his mind now that the need for action had passed.

  Reaching down, Neron gently withdrew the snake and its prey. Once they were free of the crate, Neron pushed a few fingers in between Jorry's coiling body to hold the rat fast as the serpent unwound.

  No longer asphyxiating, the rat tried to squirm away but Neron broke its neck before it could.

  "This is the last of them, right?" Neron asked, casting his eyes around the room.

  The barrels and crates were still. They hadn’t broken any bottles in the scramble, thankfully. This wasn’t the most expensive place but some of these high proof spirits could go for a lot.

  "The only ones I could find," agreed Jorry.

  "Want any of them?" Neron asked, gesturing to the small bodies.

  "Too big."

  "Want to get healed now or can you wait a few hours?" Neron asked as he grabbed the bodies of the rats for disposal. There had been no blood this time, so this was all he needed to clean up. "I should finish with Scab soon."

  "They are nothing," Jorry said haughtily, as if his wounds were irrelevant. "Some scratches aren't a problem for a dragon."

  "So, you will not give me any trouble when I clean them?"

  "...Of course not."

  The hesitation in the cute snake's voice told Neron the real answer.

  Still, it needed doing. Neither of them were strong enough to ignore the risk of infection or disease from open wounds.

  Putting the bodies in a small sack he'd be bringing to the aviary for some extra coin, Neron pulled out the small wine-skin he'd taken to carrying around since this little business endeavor began.

  Jorry flinched as soon as he saw it. Realizing what he'd done, the snake held his head up higher, as if looking at the thing was below him.

  Neron didn't bother to hide a smirk as he uncapped it and tilted the container so a small trickle of clear liquid fell on the snake's back.

  "Hissssssss," Jorry recoiled as the alcohol ran along his open wounds, clearing them of the grime and dirt.

  Taking a clean cloth from another of his pouches, Neron dabbed the wounds even as Jorry tried to roll away.

  "It is just pain, right," Neron asked smugly. "Surely nothing for a mighty dragon like you?"

  "Right, right. This is nothing. Nothing at- Hey! Careful! It stings! Give me your hands! I'll do it myself."

  "There you go," Neron sighed, rolling his eyes at the dramatic serpent as he tied the cloth around Jorry's scales to prevent more dirt from getting inside. "Once I finish with Scab I will heal you properly."

  "...You better," muttered Jorry, turning his head to look at the cloth. His tongue flickered in and out a few times, tasting it. "I don't know why you wear clothes. I can't move with this thing on."

  "It helps us regulate our body temperature and provides protection against things our skin would not be able to handle," Neron explained as he placed the small snake on his shoulder. "With proper equipment, we can live and operate in practically any environment instead of being limited to certain regions at certain times of year. You like the summer, right?"

  "Right."

  "With the right clothes, we can be just as warm during summer as in winter. They are like... portable burrows."

  "I guess that makes sense," Jorry grudgingly admitted. "Still, you could just get strong enough that the cold doesn't bother you. That's what I'm gonna do."

  "In our world there is a limit to how strong one person can get."

  "How strong is that?"

  "Level twenty?" Neron half asked.

  Assuming ten was the average strength of an adult who maintained a healthy lifestyle without training, and discounting Spirit, that meant that level twenty was someone with half as much strength and hand-eye-coordination more than the average.

  Which was a bit low, now that he thought of it.

  "Probably closer to thirty. Maybe forty. The pinnacle, the absolute peak of human strength, might not even reach level fifty in my world."

  "That's so weak though," Jorry cried out in disbelief. "How are you even alive? No, wait. How'd you conquer the sky beyond the sky?"

  "The use of tools for specialized tasks, cooperation of large groups, the accumulation of knowledge, and the endurance of a species instead of the fragility of an individual,"

  "What was that?" Terrel, the tavern owner, asked as Neron emerged from the cellar.

  "Just letting you know that we got the last of them," Neron answered smoothly, breaking out into a warm smile. "You should be set for a while but let me know if you see anymore.”

  "Thanks for coming back," the barrel of a man said, wiping his hands on his apron to shake Neron's.

  "It is no issue, and no extra charge," Neron's smile was as charming as he could make it. "We are the ones who missed them the first time."

  Despite Neron and Jorry's increased experience in rodent hunting, and ability to cooperate better, there was simply not much they could do to stop a large group of the vermin from getting away if they wanted to. The fact that the cellar was largely isolated from the rest of the world was the only reason that the three they'd killed today had been the only ones of the eight that had escaped when they’d been here a week ago.

  "You're alright," Terrel smacked Neron roughly on the shoulder in a gesture of comradery. "If you won't let me pay you, at least let me get you lunch. It's on the house."

  "Do you mind if I take you up on that offer another time," Neron asked, gesturing to the snake on his shoulder. "I need to get a bit of healing for the little guy."

  "Go, go, take care of him," Terrel waved the player out the door. "It's a standing offer."

  "Much appreciated."

  Neron stepped out of the tavern and into the overcast of a gray afternoon, clouds laden with rain. Despite the ominous weather, the streets of Calderine were as busy as usual and Neron let himself be swept with the crowd, navigating between a halfling and ostrich therianthrope arguing over a quest.

  Jorry dug himself into Neron's shirt, his small head poking out from Neron's collar as the rest of him was laid across Neron's shoulder.

  "Maybe clothes aren't so bad," Jorry muttered, luxuriating in the warmth. A cold-blooded creature like him took every opportunity he could get to warm up. "Not on me, but you can keep wearing them. So long as there's room, I won't judge you for your weakness. Much."

  It was the coldest day of the year so far, at least since Neron had started playing, and the serpent was not fond of the drop in temperature.

  "Your magnanimity is matched only by your form," Neron drawled and the tiny snake, who believed it would become an enormous dragon, swelled with pride. "Though, I will need thicker clothes if it gets much colder. I will have to ask how the winters are around here."

  Neron had never experienced winter before, but he knew what to expect. At least generally. He'd have to do some investigation to discover exactly what to prepare for. He wasn’t so ignorant as to not realize winters varied heavily depending on several factors, such as altitude, distance to the equator, nearby mountains, proximity to the ocean, humidity, and winds.

  Despite this world not having anything close to satellite imagery, and any semblance of reliable atlas or globe was lost during the Woe, both players and natives were not ignorant. A simple creation of a Foucault pendulum and a bit of math proved that Leidon, the initial city players started in, was a bit under twenty-five degrees north of the equator. Calderine, being almost directly west of the other city state, was roughly in that same range.

  It certainly wasn't tropical, but winter shouldn't be too bad. Especially since they weren't at any sort of altitude that would exacerbate the change in temperature.

  He could evaluate those factors himself, if he wanted to, but that would be foolish. A much more reliable tactic would be to simply ask around. Even if it was anecdotal, local experience could teach just as much as meteorological studies on what to prepare for seasonal changes.

  There were also the unique aspects of this world to consider. Neron was new to God’s Nature. For all he knew, sprites or fae of the seasons could exist that would generate blizzards or winter storms on a whim.

  "Let's just find a nice hole," Jorry suggested. "We'll sleep till it's warm again."

  "Not all of us can enter a state of brumation," Neron pointed out. Then, worrying that it could be an actual problem if Jorry decided to hide away for months, continued. "Besides, a dragon would not hide from the cold."

  "Who's hiding!?" Jorry snorted, emerging from Neron's shirt as if to prove he wasn't afraid. "I was just thinking of you, since you need clothes to handle the cold. Unlike me. This is nothing to me."

  Despite his bragging, the tip of Jorry's tail remained under the shirt and his body was coiled under the cloth tied around his wounds. Neron didn't point that out, however, as they reached their destination.

  Entering the local school, Neron greeted the man behind the desk, a dour elf with a growing bald spot and a bit of pudge that spoke of sedentary years.

  "Good afternoon, Doyle."

  "Neron," the teacher nodded in greeting but that was it.

  "Is a Scab available?"

  "It is for the next two and a half hours," Doyle said perfunctorily as he stood from his desk, grabbing his keys. "If you want more time, you'll need to come back after classes are over."

  "I should only need one. One and a half at most," Neron said genially, trying for one last time to strike up a conversation. "Do you need me to do anything if I finish early?"

  "You have two and a half hours. Whether you need it or not."

  Internally shrugging, Neron gave up on establishing a more profitable relationship with the elf as he was led toward the practice area of the school, a corridor with a dozen doors on each side. Stopping in front of one of the sturdy doors, about halfway down the hall on the left, Doyle unlocked it and pushed it open with one hand, letting Neron enter the room.

  It was relatively small, only about three meters deep and two wide and the only furniture was a pedestal and a cushion on the floor. The sole source of light in the room was the aquamarine crystal, shaped vaguely like a pyramid, that sat on the pedestal's center.

  "Ensure that the room is clean and the crystal isn't damaged when you leave."

  With only that, the elf let the door close.

  "Why's he always like that?" Jorry asked as Neron set the serpent down beside the cushion.

  Support the author by searching for the original publication of this novel.

  "Who knows."

  Either Doyle didn't have the disposition for conversation, or some other factor was acting as a barrier. Could be jealousy that Medea had secured this opportunity for him or maybe disapproval of what Doyle thought was a braggadocios young man. Stars, it could be that he simply didn't like players.

  "Aren't you always trying to get along with people? Always talking and being nice and stuff?"

  "Of course, human resources can be just as valuable, if not more so, than material ones." Neron nodded easily as he grabbed the crystal, pushed the cushion against the wall with a foot, and sat on it with his back against the stone. "Nine times out of ten, cooperation provides greater results than attempting things on your own or having unnecessary enemies. But you can not force it.”

  Neron paused, rethought his words, and clarified.

  "You can force cooperation; you just need to know when it is worth the risk. He has nothing I want and most likely will not provide me with any great benefit in the long run. I have done the minimum to ensure we are cordial. More than that simply is not worth the effort. Now let me concentrate. The sooner I do this, the sooner I can heal you."

  Jorry flicked his tongue a few times but decided to remain silent and curl up. He winced a bit at the movement along the ground but didn't voice his discomfort.

  This was nothing to a dragon, after all.

  Neron focused on the crystal, the shape inside it, and the alien feeling of magic.

  It was an ironic twist of God’s Nature that players had an easier time learning the basics of magic than natives. While in any other game this could be attributed to a convenience the developer planned to help players have fun, the complete apathy the creator had toward players made that unlikely. This was proven when it was discovered that players were no better or worse than natives in learning high level magic. It hadn't taken long for researchers, both player and native, to discover why.

  Players simply weren't used to magic.

  To the natives of this world, barring some exceptional individuals or races, magic had been a part of them their entire lives. A big part of learning magic was learning to detect one's own Spirit, separate it from oneself, and manipulate it. It took a native years to be able to achieve this feat.

  Players averaged a bit under two weeks of dedicated effort.

  Precisely because God’s Nature was so realistic, even if one chose the Animated or Toon perception filter, players were able to clearly distinguish the alien sensation of their Spirit from their day to day to life.

  It was like suddenly having a new sense, one you'd lived your life without. It was very obvious.

  The simple fact that ‘Spirit’ was homogeneous to natives and heterogeneous to players. Even Neron, who hadn't focused on learning magic, had been able to learn the basics of manipulating it in around three weeks of casual attempts when he first started playing.

  Despite that, he'd never felt any desire to learn to cast spells. At least nothing more than an idle interest. Not enough to overcome the real-world benefit physical training in the game would bring or offset the benefit of focusing on learning about the common sense of this world and Calderine’s culture.

  Neron fundamentally didn't understand why others were so enamored with magic. Humanity had already achieved anything it could do and more. Certainly, there were more esoteric abilities like teleportation that were currently impossible in real life, but no players had reached that level yet, even after almost a decade, and Neron wouldn't be playing long enough to get to that far. Why invest so much time and effort to learn a discipline that could be replicated by getting in a vehicle or shuttle and waiting for a few hours?

  Even the basic seven spells taught to almost every person in the world hadn't been worth the time investment, at least not while he still had so much else to learn.

  That had changed with his decision to begin this little business venture with Jorry.

  Rats and mice were unable to pose a serious threat to him, and even if they bit and scratched, it wasn't anything a few bandages couldn't fix.

  Not so for Jorry, who could very well die facing creatures of a size or bigger than him.

  Though Jorry would respawn around Neron thanks to the Nest, a creature with a Self would usually lose that Self upon death, and only have it return after a period of time, usually measured in weeks or months.

  Neron had no desire to waste time taking care of an animal that acted on pure instinct. So, learning the basic spell 'Scab' was now a valuable use of his time.

  A considerable portion of his time.

  He'd learned to differentiate his Spirit had been accomplished weeks ago, but learning a spell required learning how to shape said Spirit into various patterns. The most basic of these patterns could be carved into certain crystals to aid neophytes in constructing the spells safely.

  As it turned out, he had a minor talent in that regard. Not enough to be anything prodigious, but a touch above average.

  Over the last week, Neron had accumulated over thirty hours of practice in this little room, and he was nearly certain he'd finish soon. It was nothing compared to some players or natives who could accomplish the same feat in hours, if they were truly prodigious and had a suitable Nature or Job, but it was better than the average of fifty hours per basic spell.

  Sensing his Spirit, Neron separated it from his body.

  Some people likened it to trying to separate your soul, as usually the Spirit permeated the body, thus assuming its shape. Neron didn't believe in any of that, just vaguely sensing a hazy source of energy that ran through him in God’s Nature that wasn't there in the real world.

  Thankfully, it matched his body even with his new tongue. When he’d first started learning, he’d read up a bit and a body not matching a Spirit could absolutely wreck one’s ability to cast spells. One’s mind was always operating one’s body in a million tiny ways on the subconscious level. That was intrinsically tied to one’s sense of ‘self.’ To operate something else with the same efficiency at the same time would take years of training.

  Taking a hold of that energy, in the metaphorical sense at least, Neron focused on compressing it into one point. Easy to do, it nonetheless gave his body a brief tingling sensation, like water was running through him as the Spirit flowed toward the palm of his right hand and the crystal it held.

  It wasn’t actually changing shape, more like parts of his Spirit far from his focal point were becoming fainter while the part around his target was becoming more detailed.

  Despite seeing no visual indication, Neron could sense that ball of potential power on his skin. From there, he focused on pushing it slightly away from his skin.

  He was only trying to move the Spirit a few centimeters, yet this task took over twenty seconds. Just separating a small portion of his Spirit from ‘him,’ or at least the body he subconsciously thought of as ‘himself,’ required intense focus and had taken him hours when he first began.

  He’d managed it in the end though.

  Neron kept a finger wide thread of Spirit connecting his skin to the ball of power but one's Spirit natural state was as a part of one's self and it didn't want to separate, even partially.

  Supposedly, highly skilled magicians could control their Spirit even at a distance from their body, but Neron had neither the time nor the inclination to get to that level of skill.

  Even with his Spirit extending beyond his palm and through the crystalline pyramid, there was no reaction. One's Spirit typically had no method of interfacing with the physical world. So, Neron opened his eyes, taking care to keep his Spirit permeating the crystal, and focused on the shape within the clear structure.

  From one of the four sides, the one facing him, it looked like someone had hollowed out a tube in the pyramid in the shape of an 'O.'

  Slowly, oh so slowly, Neron compressed the tread of his Spirit into that 'O.' Almost like kneading dough, he rolled his focus over every part, exerting a bit of mental effort here and there to smush the metaphysical power into the correct shape.

  Neron was not so arrogant as to not realize how privileged he was as a player. His Spirit felt alien to him. Textured without physicality. That unfamiliarity made it easy to grasp. To mold. It confirmed ‘something’ was there and thus he could manipulate it. He had no idea how natives ever managed to learn spells if they didn’t have that ‘texture’ to rely on.

  Eventually, one part of his Spirit stopped touching the crystal and fit into the hollow. In that small space, less than a cubic millimeter, sparkles shone through in twinkling lights.

  Unlike when he first reached this step, Neron didn't lose focus on his Spirit. He continued to knead his Spirit until the entire 'O' was alight.

  Exhaling, Neron took his left hand and, careful not to let the pyramid lose contact with his skin, turned it ninety degrees so another side was facing him.

  Unlike before, the hollow shape in the crystal was shaped more like a 'G.' The back of the shape was glowing with the twinkling lights, but the rest remained the same aquamarine as when Neron had first started.

  Taking hold of his Spirit once more, Neron resumed his work. No longer compressing his Spirit, he was now teasing it out so that it lengthened while simultaneously trying to keep the original 'O' shape in place.

  A Spirit had no real mass and, as far as Neron could tell, could be any size or shape. There were no real limits, just practical ones. Too small, and you can't sense it. Too large, and it becomes so diffused as to be indistinct from the world around it.

  A higher Spirit stat meant that one's Spirit was denser in its default shape, what one considered their 'Self,' allowing it to grow larger without diffusing or be easier to sense as it shrunk. A higher Control stat meant it was easier to manipulate by way of enhancing one's hand-eye-coordination... or Spirit-eye-coordination as the case may be.

  Any aspiring magic user would be well served in increasing those two stats, especially if they didn't have the patience to actually spend hours, or years, on end practicing. Absolute dullards could, theoretically, get to a high enough level with enough in both stats that they’d be able to cast magic with brute force. In reality, if you were investing in those stats without being able to cast magic then you likely wouldn’t be able to get to a high level at all.

  None of that mattered to Neron who was low leveled enough that stat corrections played no part in helping him.

  Once the 'G' was sparkling just as completely as the 'O' had been, Neron carefully turned the pyramid once more. Had this been a cube, one would expect the hollowed shape to be an 'O' once more. It wasn't. Instead, the slanted side showed a hollowed out 'C' with parts of the top and left side sparkling.

  As he worked, Neron managed to fill out the bottom part of the C but, when he attempted to extend his Spirit to cover the minuscule open space in the top, he lost focus on the 'G' and his spirit warped at an angle.

  With a sigh, Neron plucked the crystal from his hand.

  He wasn't frustrated that over ten minutes were wasted, as he didn't consider practice time a waste, but rather the fact that he hadn't made it as far as last time. It showed he needed to shore up his foundation more before getting to the last two sides.

  "Almost done?" Jorry asked, perking up from where he'd been dozing.

  "Not that time. But I will get it soon."

  "Don't mind me then. I'll just be lying here. Sleeping... Bleeding out."

  Neron didn't let the snake's words bother him. If he'd thought the serpent was at any risk of dying, he'd have let Terrel cast Scab or find someone with a better spell. Practically every native knew how to cast the seven basic spells.

  Letting all frustrations go with another exhale, Neron restarted on the 'O' side. It was the largest one by volume, thus requiring the most focus, so getting it out of the way first made his life easier. From there, he continued through the 'G' and 'C' sides, even through the reversed 'D.'

  Twenty minutes later Neron took a deep breath and, trying not to lose the shape, tilted the pyramid on its side.

  The final shape, displayed on the square base of the pyramid, wasn't one easily classified. The nearest approximation was a 'Q' with the tail being perfectly vertical, extending through and past the center before curving to almost touch the side. Most of it was already twinkling in lights and Neron really had to focus on noticing the parts that were dim. He spent over five minutes making sure no part wasn't glowing.

  This was the part he'd failed yesterday, and Neron didn't wish to once more restart so close to the end.

  Once he was as confident as he confident as he reasonably could be, Neron decisively cut the connection between himself and the Spirit in the crystal.

  If everything was done correctly...

  The crystalline pyramid glow shifted from aquamarine to a pure, if pale, white.

  As did Neron's hand.

  In a decisive move, the player reached down and picked up Jorry.

  "Wha... Hey!"

  Ignoring the tiny serpent's complaints at being pulled from its doze, Neron removed the cloth around his wound to reveal the red scales and flesh below. The wounds hadn't been large to begin with and now, almost an hour later, they had stopped bleeding.

  Neron lightly pressed his hand against the torn scales and, over the course of thirty seconds, watched the tears slowly scab over with the use of his first spell.

  "Be gentler next time," Jorry huffed as he was placed back on the ground. "What are you going to do when I'm huge and you're small? Gonna try and wake me up like that? Huh? No, you won’t. Because I'll eat you. So, you better practice now."

  "I will keep that in mind," Neron responded dryly. "How are you feeling?"

  "Fine. Itches. No different than when Optim casts it."

  "Good. I will keep practicing, and you should be good by the time we leave."

  Were this another game, one successful cast of the spell would have created a skill or some sort of ‘Spell Interface’ that would allow for Neron to cast it again without all the effort.

  This was God’s Nature.

  If Neron wished to cast Scab once more, he'd need to force his Spirit to once more assume the three-dimensional shape engraved in the crystal. And he'd need to do so every time he wanted to cast it again in the future. The good news was that there was no 'Magic' bar, just as there was no 'Health' or 'Stamina' bar, which meant he could practice as much as he could handle.

  He was literally shaving off parts of his Spirit to enact the effect, but the basic spells required such a minuscule amount that even for a low-level player like him, he could keep it up for hours.

  It still wasn't easy.

  Anyone who’s had to focus on one task for a long period of time will know that it can be exhausting in its own right, no need for extraneous factors. It gave Neron a newfound appreciation for those who practiced so much it became second nature. He likened it to something like spinning a pen around a finger or perhaps learning to play an instrument. It required a lot of focus and dedicated effort upfront, but there would eventually come a time where one could do it subconsciously.

  The seven basic spells, the ones everyone was able to learn considering their simple nature and ability to be represented in crystals with less than seven sides, were relatively easy to get a handle on, on top of their cheap spiritual cost. Their shape and structure, while esoteric, were something the mortal mind could easily learn to shape their Spirit into.

  Relatively.

  They were certainly easier than spell structures that could only be shown in crystals that needed to be carved into hundreds of sides to properly express every part. Or those that needed to change and shift along a fourth dimensional axis of time.

  No, despite failing his next attempt, and the one after that, Neron was able to cast the spell again without much issue. Once he replicated it three times in a row, cutting down on time to cast it each time, he attempted to replicate it without the guiding lights of the crystal, only using it as reference to keep the shape.

  He failed to do so before the two-and-a-half-hour slot was up.

  No big loss, as he did achieve a milestone of a sort.

  And that was it. If he hadn’t been expecting it, and hadn’t had Medea to explain what it was, what it did, and how to increase it, Neron would have absolutely no clue what Knowledge was. As it were, it just sat on his character screen with a 10 beside it, the same as the three basic stats when he started playing.

  Neron felt a vague, if minute, sense of accomplishment as he vacated the training room to let the school use it for their classes. With Jorry healed, he bought some food from a nearby vendor as he waited for the class to finish, attempting to cast Scab even without the pyramid as a reference.

  At this too, Neron failed. His efforts weren't without results, however. After a few hours of waiting, Neron returned to the training room where he managed to cast the spell for the first time without the pyramid's structure.

  Two hours later, when the school closed and Neron left for his training Hall, he had managed to cast it twice without looking at the crystal at all.

  Now, he just needed practice to speed up his casting time.

  Nothing that a few bruises from weapon training wouldn't help.

  ******

  It was well past midnight, in that darkest time before dawn, that a horseless carriage rolled through the main thoroughfare of Calderine.

  'Horseless carriage' was not a euphemism for a car or the like. It was, quite literally, a carriage that moved without horses. Its wheels spun on their axles without issues, traveling at a speed that had the occasional pedestrian crossing the still occupied streets jump out of the way in a rush.

  Curses and drunken slurs died on lips as those unfortunates caught sight of the sigil on the carriage. Quickly, people hurried away, hunching their backs into coats and cloaks in a bid to go unnoticed and unremembered.

  They needn't have worried.

  This carriage, despite lacking both horse and driver, turned and twisted through the paved roadways of Calderine. It did not bounce. It did not skid or crash, even as it squeezed itself through roads that should be too tight to fit it. It did not so much as leave a mark in mud or puddle.

  Indeed, to the eagle-eyed observer, of which there were many, the carriage might as well have been a phantom. The pouring rain did not reach the lacquered wood, and the light of the lamps on its side illuminated the vehicle yet never seemed to reach beyond.

  The carriage did not so much as cast a shadow.

  Those same eagle-eyed observers would, no doubt, have noticed the sigil painted on the doors of the simple carriage. The only adornment on this apparition of wood and twisted metal.

  The smart observers would rush off to warn their colleagues, friends, comrades, bosses, underlings, and anyone else they could find. News like this couldn’t wait longer than a second. Preparations were key to prosperity. To profit.

  The wise observers would keep their mouths shut, their doors closed, and their thoughts contained as they treated the carriage as the ill omen it was. Discretion was key to survival. To life.

  The carriage and its occupants cared for neither as they made their way through the metropolis undisturbed.

  They only made one stop.

  For a brief moment, a tiny second, the wheels of the vehicle paused on the outskirts of a small park in the middle of the city.

  Nobody exited.

  Nobody entered.

  Then the phantom carriage was moving once more, squeezing through an alley and back onto the main road. It took no other turns as it rolled past houses, shops, and more. It did not pause as it crossed the interior gate, the night guards hurrying to open the enchanted doors for it, the creaking of metal and wood so at odds with the silent vehicle.

  "Who was that?" A new guard would turn to his captain as they shut the doors, no longer in a rush.

  "We don't ask questions like that. Not if you want to keep your job. Get me?"

  "Yes Sir!"

  Still, Therin thought as his night watch dragged on for hours longer without any other issues, whoever or whatever was in that carriage, they'd have to be a big deal to get Captain Charlan assigned to the night shift just to make sure they got into the interior past curfew.

  Uncaring for the poor men and women who were forced to change routines to accommodate its occupants, the carriage rolled on deeper into the city.

  The Bastillion, the home of the royal family and the seat of the government, loomed on the largest of Calderine thirteen hills.

  Houses became mansions which became sprawling estates.

  One such estate, close enough to the palace as to share a street, metal gates’ opened all on their own, and the carriage drove through without so much as a whisper.

  The gates shut.

  The night deepened and then, as it always did, day broke the darkness.

  Those first rays of sunshine peeking through the clouds landed, as usual, on the hill at the center of Calderine and the palace built atop it.

  This day dawned with fanfare.

  There was running in the streets, excited whispering, and cheering as a large procession appeared on the distant road leading to the capital. They were hours away, but word and emotions spread fast and the morning sun at their backs framed the hundreds of well armed and armoured individuals.

  The largest player guilds had arrived in Calderine.

  Much was still up in the air as to why they were traveling together or what their goal was in the city, as they usually kept most of their forces on the frontiers. The only time they’d all been in Calderine at once was when the city had first been ‘discovered,’ so curiosity bubbled and boiled as rumors flew.

  It quickly spread from mouth to mouth.

  'El Dorado.'

  'El Dorado.'

  'El Dorado!'

  A foreign word to the natives of this world, yet one that stirred their hearts with dreams of riches, fame, glory, and adventure.

  By noon, the entire city was abuzz with interest and excitement as they watched the procession.

  Banners flew.

  A golden bird of prey, its wings spread over a blue sky.

  A black tower on a field of red poppies.

  An intricately carved shield with a pair of swords, a gnarled staff, and a brutal hammer crossed behind it.

  Yet... Murmurs continued to spread.

  The most expected and anticipated banner failed to make an appearance.

  In that way rumors did, the story warped and twisted with every telling until every flight of fancy had been given voice.

  The truth?

  Well, the truth had little relevance.

  Some did know it, of course.

  Those smart, eagle-eyed, observers of the night had shared it freely. The phantom carriage had rolled in last night, well ahead of this column.

  Spies were sent to watch the estate’s closed gate, determined to be the first to get a hint at what was happening. Entire fortunes could be gained or lost based on the information they could provide.

  It was a bit past noon, after every procession had reached their destinations and local headquarters. A hushed, if tense silence hung over the inner district while the center and outer regions broiled with excited tension.

  It was in that quiet that those spies threw off any pretense of subtlety. A gardener launched himself over roof tops. A wandering couple through off their coats, disappearing into their shadows. A neighbor launched a dozen messaging birds from his window.

  They ran, flew, or cast spells, uncaring for who was watching in their rush to report.

  For the first time since it had been created, the symbol on the gate, the same one that adorned the carriage of the night before, and the walls of every Bank in this world, had changed.

  The silver grave set on the background of a bronze coin, once so simple and plain, was now adorned with a golden crown.

  What did this mean? Had the Banker accepted the king’s courtship? Or was it a declaration of sovereignty in itself? Was the Bank making a push for hegemony?

  Anyone and everyone had opinions and thoughts and plans.

  Nobody made particular note that it was a seven-pointed crown.

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