I slept like the dead, which, for me, was a truly novel experience.

  That night, for the first time in centuries, the relentless alarm in my head was silent. The "spidey-sense"—a relic name from a cartoon you probably wouldn't know—was finally quiet. It was the only reason I'd survived this long, but it also meant I never truly slept.

  But that night? No alarms. No phantom threats. Just deep, uninterrupted blackness.

  I woke late. The exhaustion from forging my Core was gone, replaced by a steady thrum of Light Blue energy. I felt solid.

  Feeling a strange new self-consciousness, I headed down to the common room. I ordered bacon and eggs and, for the first time, truly looked.

  With my Core active, the world had a new layer. Texture. Energy. Most people were just people. But a table of adventurers near the hearth lit up like bonfires.

  The scarred woman? Solid Blue Core. The eager young man? Light Blue. But the grim-faced man with the eyepatch? Dark Green. Dense. Dangerous.

  ‘Enjoy the light show, kid,’ Ronan murmured, sounding bored. ‘Your optic nerves are raw. Give it three days. Then the world goes back to looking dull, and you’ll have to sense power the hard way—by getting hit with it.’

  The young man, Finn, caught me looking and grinned. He ambled over.

  "First time in the big city, friend?" he asked cheerfully. "You've got that 'eyes-wide-enough-to-catch-flies' look."

  "Something like that," I said cautiously.

  "Leave him be, Finn," the scarred woman, Elara, called. "Not everyone's looking to make friends."

  "Just being neighbourly!" Finn shot back. "We're celebrating. Got our pay from the Guild for a troll bounty."

  The Guild? Sounded like a union.

  ‘The Adventurer's Guild,’ Ronan whispered. ‘Chartered organisation. They regulate contracts and license mercenaries.’

  "Ah, right, the Guild," I said, nodding. "For a second there, I was confused which one you meant. A lot of guilds in this city."

  Finn laughed. "Aye! Wouldn't want to get them mixed up with the Seamstress's Guild, eh?"

  Elara didn't laugh. She gave me a long, analytical look, then dismissed it. "You an adventurer, kid? Or just passing through?"

  "Just passing through," I lied.

  Finn leaned in. "I'm saving up. I want to be on the first sanctioned crew that finds the Sunken City of Aeridor."

  Gror, the third member, barked a laugh. "Aeridor is a myth, kid. A grave, not a treasure chest."

  ‘Aeridor...’ Ronan mused. ‘Powerful city. Picked a fight with the gods and sank. If it's real, the treasure would be off the charts... but the guardians would be a nightmare.’

  The story has been stolen; if detected on Amazon, report the violation.

  I spent an hour soaking up their stories. Free intelligence. When they left, the gap between them and us felt less like a gap and more like a continent.

  ‘Right, they're gone,’ Ronan projected, all business. ‘We need a baseline. We need to know the absolute limits of your Art. We need a training ground.’

  ‘I don't see a sign for 'Public Sparring for the Magically Inept',’ I shot back.

  ‘The Adventurer's Guild,’ he replied. ‘Most logical place.’

  The Guild Hall hummed with energy. It smelled of sweat, oiled steel, and spilt ale.

  We approached a counter where a clerk with a magnificent moustache was stamping documents with a heavy THUMP. He was a mountain of a man squeezed onto a tiny stool.

  "Excuse me," I said.

  THUMP.

  "We're here to join."

  He looked up with the weariness of a man who has seen a thousand lifetimes of foolish ambition. "Application form 7-B?"

  "Don't have one."

  He sighed. "Citizenship papers?"

  "Passing through."

  "Of course you are," he muttered, pulling out a grubbier form. "Transient Adventurer Probationary Application. Two silver fee, non-refundable. Name?"

  ‘Thorough,’ Ronan commented.

  "Jack."

  "Just Jack?"

  "Jack O'Neill."

  "Origin?"

  "The Empire."

  He raised an eyebrow. "Specific."

  "Nope."

  "Declared skills?"

  I met his gaze. "Juggling—"

  ‘No!’ Ronan hissed. ‘I was joking! Tell him Water Elemental!’

  I blinked. "...and Water Elemental Awakened."

  The clerk stared at me. He wrote down Jug-gling... (Poor)... Wa-ter... Ele-men-tal.

  "Next of Kin?"

  "No one."

  ‘You are not alone, Murphy.’

  ‘They don't have a checkbox for 'imaginary friend',’ I retorted.

  The clerk slid the paper over. "Sign here."

  I made an 'X'. He slammed his stamp down. THUMP.

  "Two silver. Rank: Wood. Try not to die on the premises; the paperwork is a nightmare."

  The training yard was hot and dusty.

  ‘Plan A,’ I said. ‘Lava spray.’

  ‘Too expensive,’ Ronan sighed. ‘Plan B.’

  I summoned my Art. The wobbly, vaguely Murphy-shaped water sculpture appeared, sloshing pathetically.

  ‘Right,’ Ronan began. ‘Simulacrum! Adopt a combat stance!’

  Nothing.

  ‘I said, COMBAT STANCE!’

  Still nothing. People were staring.

  ‘What gives?’ I asked.

  ‘Every Art is unique,’ Ronan said, frustratedly. ‘I don't know the rules for yours.’

  Unique rules. Great.

  "Alright, uh..." I cleared my throat. "Rony. Hey, Rony! Adopt a combat stance!"

  The sculpture twitched. It tried to raise its fists.

  ‘You are not calling it that,’ Ronan stated flatly.

  "Too late! Okay, Rony! Move forward!"

  Rony took a step and collapsed into a puddle.

  I tried to hand it a sword. It passed through its hand.

  ‘Hey, Ronan,’ I projected. ‘We haven't talked about the end game. Separating us. That's a priority, right?’

  Brief pause. ‘Long-term problem. One thing at a time.’

  ‘What? We should be—’

  ‘Focus on the clone,’ he snapped. ‘Make it solid! It is your will!’

  I focused on its right hand. Pictured ice. The water hardened.

  I placed the sword in its grip. It held.

  "Rony! Hit the dummy!"

  It shuffled forward and swung. Thwack. It had the force of a wet noodle.

  We spent an hour. Rony was a glorified automaton.

  ‘It's useless,’ I projected. ‘It's a puppet.’

  ‘Then be the strings,’ Ronan said. ‘Direct control.’

  I reached out with my consciousness. A dizzying lurch.

  I was looking at my own body, slumped against a rack. I looked down at my water hands. I flexed them.

  I charged the dummy. I was fast, agile... and clumsy. I swung the sword like a broom, tripped, and dissolved into a splash.

  I snapped back to my body, gasping.

  ‘It works,’ I panted.

  ‘It does,’ Ronan agreed. ‘But your body is vulnerable. And I am trapped.’

  ‘Better than a talking puddle.’

  We spent the afternoon grinding. I learned the limits. No Inventory. Phantom pain. But it was a mobile shield.

  Drenched in sweat and bruises my real body never took, we called it a day.

  It wasn't much, but it was better than nothing.