Several days passed as I settled into a routine that left every muscle in my body screaming. Each morning, Cass and I would meet at dawn—the air still sharp with night's chill—and run for hours through the winding city streets. On the first day, she took pity on me, guiding me through familiar routes while I wheezed behind her. But once I knew the paths, she unleashed her full free-running arsenal, and I scrambled to keep up.

  The more mana I stored internally, the easier it became to shadow her movements. By the third day, I was running faster than I'd ever managed before—wind whipping past as we vaulted stone walls, scaled gnarled trees, and sprinted across clay-tiled rooftops. My lungs should have been on fire. My legs should have given out. Instead, I felt like I could run forever.

  It should have taken months to reach this level, but Cass provided the insight I needed: .

  The more I stored, the easier training became. The more I used, the easier it was to hold more. It was supposed to be a cycle—training two different muscles—except I couldn't tell if Bravery was actually consuming anything. The aura just... existed, humming quietly in the background of my thoughts.

  I held onto Bravery because maintaining it seemed effortless, and I could tell the reduced range I'd managed felt far less traumatic than before. The more I used it, the more natural it became, like flexing a limb I'd never known I had. The rune's image crystallized in my mind with each passing hour, its edges growing sharper and more defined. But I was also aware it was subtly changing me—making me more comfortable with discomfort, more willing to push past my usual limits.

  One morning, it even saved me from my own stupidity when my wandering attention nearly got me run over by a Trailbinder. The Sentarian driver was moving at surprising speed, and instead of diving aside like any sane person, mana suddenly surged into my legs without my permission. I launched into an awkward backflip—definitely not intentional—and landed hard on top of the cart's wooden bed. My mana reserves took a nosedive, leaving me dizzy and breathless.

  Okay, so Bravery used mana when it forced me to dodge death. Good to know.

  This time, I'd remembered my shoes, which turned out to be a mistake. Whatever trick had let me stick to that alley wall definitely didn't work with leather soles. I slipped immediately, landing square on my ass atop the swaying wagon. As the cart rolled past, I caught sight of Cass still running in the street, her expression somewhere between fury and disbelief. I gave her a cheerful wave.

  Honestly, I didn't think I'd ever match her speed, even without her swiftness rune. With training, maybe I could get close, but despite her imposing frame, she moved with liquid grace—like she'd been born on rooftops. Every obstacle was just another step on her path. Water finds its way downhill.

  I, meanwhile, had to weave around pedestrians, fight not to trip over my own feet, and scramble up walls like a clumsy cat.

  My afternoons belonged to Katie's bakery, where I discovered the painful art of kneading colossal sums of dough without an electric mixer. It turned out Katie’s late husband, a sailor, had simply never returned from his last voyage two years prior. The story emerged in fragments as we worked, her voice growing quieter each time she mentioned him. Her recent timid personality made more sense now; between grief and the city's increasing monster attacks, the bakery had become her fragile refuge from a world that kept taking things away.

  What didn't make sense was how this small-framed woman could hoist thirty-kilogram flour sacks like they were squirming toddlers. I watched her casually shoulder two at once while I struggled with basic measurements, given the lack of familiar tools.

  The ingredient overlap between Earth and Ark was surprisingly familiar, though quantities ran small. I quickly learned that while Vildar possessed a violently insatiable sweet tooth, Doreen's reputation was legendary throughout the harbor district. Deep-frying was common practice, but quality oil remained scarce—which made my suggestion of glazed sourdough donuts fried in lard an instant catalyst for chaos.

  The moment we hung our first batch in the window, Russets materialized from nowhere, setting up defensive positions and daring anyone to challenge their claim. What followed were some impressively acrobatic fistfights right outside Katie's door—Vildar launching themselves through the air with flying kicks while Gaians and Florans swung wild haymakers at targets barely knee-high. We sold out in minutes.

  The money was excellent. The attention from the Hunters who broke up the brawl, less so.

  "Maybe try something calmer next time," one suggested, still separating a stubborn Vildar from literally gnawing on a dockworker's ankle.

  Nuts and honey proved plentiful on the island, and once I'd shown Katie how to make phyllo for proper baklava, she became utterly obsessed. On the third day, I arrived to find half a dozen Vildar stationed outside the bakery like tiny, furry sentries. They wore suspiciously familiar wide-brimmed hats and refused me entry despite increasingly desperate explanations.

  "Katie experimented with fresh fruit and berry syrups," one explained solemnly, blocking my path with surprising authority. "Blackberry baklava. Pear and cinnamon. Even something with those tart green berries from near Rivberbend."

  The way he said it made it sound like she'd discovered the philosopher's stone. These mouse-folk weren't budging without a fight.

  Up to that point, I'd been maintaining Bravery almost constantly, which might have made me slightly overconfident in my response.

  "Look, I just want to help her with the oven—"

  The lead Vildar burst into delighted laughter and launched himself at me with a picture-perfect flying kick. It wasn't nearly as fast as Doreen's lightning-quick strikes, but for someone the size of a four-year-old, it was genuinely impressive.

  Using barely a sliver of mana, I slid sideways and caught him mid-flight, setting him down gently before giving his head an affectionate pat. He blinked up at me for a long moment, recognition dawning in his bright eyes.

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  "Fine," he announced to the growing crowd of increasingly agitated bakery hopefuls. "The Breaker can go in. But I'm watching the rest of ya."

  My evenings belonged to Doreen's kitchen, where I quickly discovered that Hildy's reputation as a cook was charitably overstated. The kitchen itself felt familiar—similar layout to Katie's but dominated by a massive wood stove that belched smoke whenever Hildy attempted anything more complex than boiling water. Doreen even had something resembling a refrigerator, though it was more like a portable root cellar—a large wooden box lined with metal and cool runes that stayed cool but never quite cold.

  On my first night, I'd made baked ham using whatever I could scavenge from the pantry, glazing it with honey and cloves until the skin crackled golden-brown. When I brought the massive roast to the common room, Doreen declared me hired on the spot—though she only made a token effort to defend the ham from the eager crowd that descended like vultures.

  I'd also learned I'd just missed Jeremy's visit that night, which honestly ruined my entire evening.

  The worst part of working with Hildy wasn't her enthusiasm—it was her complete inability to cook anything without setting it on fire. Fortunately, the kitchen had a back door leading to a narrow alley where I could escape the acrid smoke and gulp fresh air. Large bins sat outside, filled with what I assumed was compost for the nocturnal Sentarians who collected it for… something. The sweet smell of rotting vegetables was infinitely preferable to whatever Hildy was cremating inside.

  Over the next few evenings, various mana beasts approached as I sat on the back steps. Two different fox creatures—one rust-colored, one silver—accepted scraps before vanishing into the shadows. A disconcertingly large boar with a worn leather collar made regular appearances, grunting its appreciation before trotting away. They'd eat and leave, treating me like a convenient vending machine.

  But one mana beast returned every night, and it took me several days to understand why he was different.

  It wasn't just that he was a dog—though he definitely was a dog.

  I'd seen plenty of mana beasts around La-Roc, some even working as pack animals, though most thought it cruel since people here could carry far more than humans on Earth thanks to mana enhancement. But I hadn't seen a single dog in my time here, and when I'd asked around, no one seemed to know what a dog even was.

  He looked like someone had crossed a Labrador with a Great Pyrenees, his fur a rich orange-red like a fox's coat. But it was his eyes that set him apart—an intelligence and warmth I hadn't seen since the raptor in the lobby. Most other visitors were just hungry, where this dog looked at me with... curiosity. And when he entered my aura, I could almost pick up affection from him.

  Naturally, I named him Red.

  By the third night, our routine was established. "Hey Red," I said as he padded into the alley, "can you keep a secret?"

  He cocked his head with such perfect timing I had to grin. No skittishness, no wariness—just casual confidence as he approached, ears forward and tail already starting its telltale wag. He looked around expectantly, nose twitching at the scents wafting from the tray balanced on my lap.

  I'd brought two thick slices of ham covered in honey-mustard glaze tonight. Finding someone to smoke the meat had been easy enough, but I'd learned that mustard seed cost a fortune here. Cyrus had refused to budge on the price.

  Red sat without being asked, pink tongue lolling as he panted with anticipation.

  I tossed him a piece of ham, and he snatched it from the air with casual grace, swallowing it whole before I could blink.

  "Did you even taste that?" I chuckled, tossing another piece. This time he seemed to chew—at least a little.

  I picked up a slice for myself, but before I could take a bite, I felt the gentle pressure of a paw on my leg. I hadn't even felt him move. When I looked down, he was wearing an unmistakable expression—head tilted, eyes bright with hope, ears perked forward in perfect innocence.

  As someone who'd grown up with dogs, I recognized the look immediately. The universal "surely you meant to give me more food" expression.

  I reached out to pet him, and he immediately moved closer, practically melting under my touch as I used both hands to scratch behind his ears. His fur was impossibly soft, warmer than I'd expected.

  Oh.

  While I was distracted, he'd somehow snatched another piece of ham from the tray, wolfing it down but staying pressed against my legs as I continued petting him.

  "That was my dinner, you animal!" I laughed, but there was no heat in it. The simple act of petting a dog felt surreal—this familiar comfort on an alien world. It made me think of home with an ache I'd been trying to ignore. My parents, wondering where I'd disappeared to. My brother, probably raiding my room by now. My friends, who'd never know what happened to me. And Atlas, my own dog, was probably waiting by the door for me to come home.

  I hoped they were all alright. This world was my reality now—at least for the foreseeable future. But at least some things made sense here, I thought, looking down at Red's contented expression.

  "Ben! I've done it! I've 'folded in the cheese'! You must come observe this culinary miracle!" Hildy's voice rang out from the kitchen, accompanied by what sounded suspiciously like sizzling.

  "I'll bet you fucking didn't!" I called back, standing and brushing crumbs from my pants. The woman was utterly incorrigible.

  Red's tail wagged harder as I headed for the door. "I'll see you tomorrow, Red. Try not to steal anyone else's dinner."

  That night, I'd met quite a few Hunters in Doreen's common room—all friendly enough, though don't ask me to remember their names. Some stale ale had been flowing freely, and I'd been more focused on observing than memorizing introductions. It turned out the most populous folks in La-Roc were Florans, followed by the Vildar, but among the Hunters I'd noticed an obvious pattern: most were Aldertrees, with a scattering of their red-skinned cousins, the Carmintrees.

  One Carmintree woman—Belouet, I think—caught my attention when I spotted the familiar bracer on her wrist, identical to Felix's. Her accent carried hints of what my Earth-trained ear recognized as French, all rolling R's and softened consonants. Given that I hadn't seen Felix in days, I figured she might have answers.

  "Excuse me," I said, sliding into the seat across from her. "I was wondering about my friend Felix—the tall guy with dark hair? He has a bracer like yours."

  "Ah, oui." Her eyes lit up with recognition. "He is in seclusion, Breaker. To bind ze Soul Seal."

  I still didn't fully understand what Soul-Seals were, beyond being essential for becoming a Seeker. Those who could form one before the entrance exams got admitted to Sylvarus without question—a significant advantage. Felix had mentioned being close, but Cass had made it sound like a dangerous undertaking, involving some kind of spiritual test.

  "How long will that take?" I asked, trying to keep my voice casual.

  Belouet shrugged, swirling the amber liquid in her mug. "As long as it takes. If he survives, he will emerge a Seeker. Or he will emerge... defeated."

  My blood chilled. "If he survives?"

  "C'est rare, but..." She paused, choosing her words carefully. "Normally, failure just damages your Runebinding capabilities. But sometimes, things 'appen."

  The bottom dropped out of my stomach. No one had mentioned the possibility of death before—not Felix, not Cass, not even Chas in all his warnings about the dangers ahead. For the better part of that night, I nursed a single ale while anxiety gnawed at my gut like a living thing.

  The past few days had left me riding high on progress and possibility. This information knocked me down several pegs fast.

  The Initiation had been a cakewalk—weird, sure, but hardly life-threatening. But the next step involved real danger? Felix could die trying to become a Seeker? More immediately terrifying—I could die?

  I thought back to watching Chas glowing with molten gold, Lana exploding through a solid stone floor, Alexander's casual displays of power, and Doreen flying around her common room like some kind of martial arts legend. All that strength, all that capability—but at what cost?

  The question haunted me as I sat there, staring into my ale.

  Was it worth it?