"Though you needn't answer," the baksy continued, folding his arms across his chest. "There are questions better left unasked. Especially when it comes to Heritages. Yours are your business, your secret. Right now, only one thing matters—focusing on learning the limits of their effect on you. Understanding where your vulnerability ends and your strength begins."

  "If he manages to master all his heritages, within his sphere of perception the lad will have no opponents," the thought flickered through Zhalgaztur's mind the moment he grasped what colossal advantage the youth's gifts could provide. A lad capable of sensing any movement, any sound, any surge of Ether... He'd become a living detector, the perfect hunter, an invincible warrior, if only he could learn to control this avalanche of information.

  But voicing this aloud the orc deemed premature. Too soon. First he needed to observe the lad more closely, understand what stuff he was made of. Heritages were one thing, but character, will and patience quite another. Without the latter, the former would become nothing but a curse.

  Over the following hours they concentrated on methodically studying the external world's impact on the lad. Zhalgaztur worked carefully, like a jeweller polishing a diamond. In the first minutes even a tiny spark, conjured by the baksy's light snap of fingers, blinded Ayan so thoroughly it inflicted the 'blindness' debuff for a full five minutes. The lad sat with eyes clenched, grimacing from pain, whilst Zhalgaztur waited silently for the effect to fade.

  Yet by the third hour of continuous work the youth could gaze at that same spark without fear—but no more. The moment a minuscule light source appeared, bright as a candle flame, that same agonising effect struck him anew. Progress was slow, almost imperceptible, but it was there—and this already pleased the baksy.

  With sounds things fared no better. Even the light, almost playful tap of staff against stone floor caused the lad 'deafness', making him clutch his ears and wince as though thunder had struck nearby. Yet the scrape of that same staff against the cave's rough walls now evoked merely pain in his ears, dull and aching, but no longer paralysing.

  Small victories, barely noticeable steps forward, but each brought Ayan closer to life beyond this stone prison, to a world full of colours, sounds and dangers. And for this he was willing to endure.

  And the lad's endurance was not in vain. When exactly it happened, Ayan couldn't track—simply at some point his attention began to be drawn by a persistent icon, blinking somewhere at the edge, on the very periphery of vision. At first he tried ignoring it, dismissing it as fatigue, but the flickering continued, gradually transforming from mild irritation into genuine hindrance.

  Finally surrendering, he concentrated on it, and before him unfolded the event log. Ayan froze, seeing there two new messages, glowing with bright, almost triumphant script.

  The first was brief, formal, but no less significant for that:

  "Attention! Congratulations! Your characteristic Fortitude has increased by 1 point. Current value: 7."

  Ayan blinked. A characteristic increase. Without using the free points gained from levelling up! Simply like that—through stubbornness and pain he'd endured these past few hours. This was... strange. Wrong. Such mechanics didn't exist in the Ether.

  Ayan knew firmly and for certain: spontaneous increases to core characteristics simply didn't exist in the Ether. This was one of the game's immutable laws, verified and discussed on forums down to the finest detail.

  No training, however determined and gruelling, led to parameter growth. Hundreds, if not thousands of players had tried to trick the system—some lifted weights, hoping to raise Strength, some meditated for hours, counting on Concentration growth, some ran marathons attempting to increase Stamina.

  The result was invariably the same: zero. Characteristics grew exclusively through distributing points at level-up.

  True, unconfirmed rumours circulated online that randomly generated events—those mysterious quests Ilira created individually for each player—could sometimes grant characteristic bonuses. However, even if someone received such bonuses from the Ether, these lucky souls preferred silence, unwilling to share information with the rest of the world. And all that remained for other players was to guess indirectly, noting the anomalous effectiveness of certain characters in combat.

  Many believed that each extra point of damage such fortunates dealt in battles resulted precisely from hidden system bonuses, not merely lucky equipment or skill.

  Having accepted the Fortitude growth, he turned to the second message. It made him flinch.

  "Attention! Congratulations! You have received a new title:

  'Blessed or Cursed'

  By refusing initiation by the Ether, you have embarked on a path cursed by all the Gods. You may increase characteristic levels through training. Discover this new development path and determine—is this a curse or a forbidden gift from the Heavens.

  The lad exhaled slowly, feeling something inside him simultaneously contract and expand.

  "Curse or blessing? How can I understand? What's even happening?" The lad was in turmoil.

  "Well then, for today I think that's enough," pronounced Zhalgaztur, studying the youth's exhausted face intently.

  His voice sounded calm, but care could be felt within it. The orc saw how the lad's shoulders tensed, how his hands trembled, how his eyes darted feverishly, as though trying to find answers to questions not yet even formulated aloud.

  Ayan agreed with him completely. Never before had he felt more drained and overwhelmed than now. Every muscle in his body ached, as though after a multi-hour marathon, whilst his mind seemed wrung dry. He didn't mention the received messages.

  Trust between them hadn't yet formed, and he himself didn't yet understand what they meant. Curse? Blessing? What difference did it make if he didn't know what to do about it?

  "Now you need to concentrate and begin meditating," Zhalgaztur continued, unhurriedly rising from the stone outcrop where he'd sat throughout the training. "You must recover. Seek your inner world, where you can hide from everything external. Monitor your breathing. Control your pulse. Let your mind calm, and your body find equilibrium."

  He stepped towards the centre of the hall, where the air began vibrating faintly, as though from an invisible string. Summoning an air rukh—an incorporeal spirit whose essence was woven from movement and lightness—Zhalgaztur addressed it in ancient Orcish, his voice full of respect. Had Ayan understood it, he could have heard the following:

  "Aua-ie, I beseech you, accept this youth into your element. Let him know peace in weightlessness."

  The spirit responded with joy. Air around Ayan swirled, forming soft invisible currents, and the lad felt his body slowly rising above the ground. He found himself once more in the position in which he'd awoken.

  "Aua-ie will lower you to the ground in exactly four hours," Zhalgaztur explained, watching the lad freeze in mid-air at just above human height. "Use this time wisely. Then go to the adjacent hall—your belongings and food supplies lie there. I shall return in six hours. Until then—recover, both spiritually and physically."

  Unauthorized tale usage: if you spot this story on Amazon, report the violation.

  Air around Ayan rippled with warm currents, lulling and gentle. The lad closed his eyes, trying to follow the baksy's advice, but found no peace. Thoughts swarmed in his head like a disturbed hive.

  "Curse or blessing?" The phrase from the system message gave him no rest. "By refusing initiation by the Ether..." But he hadn't done anything of the sort! He'd simply lain here, in this cave, enduring pain and trying to adapt to the sensations crashing over him.

  His breathing faltered. Ayan felt his heart beating faster, a wave of anxiety rising in his chest. Everything he knew about the Ether, everything Rotis and Elaya had taught him, everything he'd studied on forums—all of it was crumbling. Characteristics weren't supposed to grow from training.

  "Monitor your breathing," he recalled Zhalgaztur's words.

  Ayan concentrated on the air entering and leaving his lungs. Inhalation—slow, deep. Exhalation—even, calm. The intangible currents of the rukh supported his body, and gradually the tension began receding. Muscles relaxed one after another—first shoulders, then arms, chest, stomach.

  "Control your pulse," the baksy's instructions echoed in memory.

  His heartbeat slowed. Ayan felt blood flowing through his veins, lungs filling with air, barely perceptible warmth kindling somewhere deep within his body.

  "Let your mind calm," Zhalgaztur's final advice echoed in his consciousness.

  Ayan stopped fighting the stream of thoughts. Instead he simply observed them coming and going. Worry about the title. Fear of the unknown. Anxiety for the future. All of it drifted past, like clouds across the sky.

  Time dragged slowly. Sometimes the lad's consciousness drifted on the edge of sleep, sometimes he returned to full clarity. He seemed to sink again into the familiar darkness of being, but then returned.

  When the air currents finally began lowering him to earth, Ayan felt renewed. The exhaustion hadn't disappeared completely, but the heaviness in his head had dissipated.

  Standing on the stone floor he noticed new messages had arrived. For a moment he felt afraid to open them, but he merely smirked at his own cowardice and began reading the text that appeared before him.

  "Attention! Congratulations! Your characteristic Perception has increased by 1 point. Current value: 7."

  "Attention! Congratulations! Your characteristic Concentration has increased by 1 point. Current value: 7."

  "Attention! Congratulations! Your characteristic Perception has increased by 1 point. Current value: 8."

  "Attention! Congratulations! Your characteristic Concentration has increased by 1 point. Current value: 8."

  Four characteristics increased simultaneously. If he added the previous Fortitude improvement, that made five characteristic points total—exactly as many as players received at level-up.

  Except ordinary players could distribute these points freely, directing them to whichever parameters they deemed necessary. Whereas Ayan was denied such luxury—his characteristics grew on their own. The system obeyed a logic he'd yet to properly study, but one thing he already knew—it was inextricably linked to his actions.

  Yet the lad didn't complain about unfairness. Because that would be foolish and ungrateful. So many possibilities, prospects and hidden advantages opened before him that his head spun at the mere thought. A development system through training, rather than mechanical point distribution, meant more organic, natural growth. This was the path of true mastery, not simple mathematical min-maxing.

  Heartened by the unexpected progress, Ayan was about to continue meditating right there, on the cold stone cave floor, but suddenly his treacherously rumbling stomach made itself known—loudly, insistently and utterly indecorously. A wave of hunger swept over him with such force that all further plans for spiritual self-improvement had to be urgently and categorically adjusted in favour of more earthly, physiological needs.

  "What did Zhalgaztur say about my things?" the lad tried to remember, wincing at another rumble in his stomach. "He definitely mentioned something about food, surely... Or is my hunger talking?"

  Taking a step and swaying slightly—his body still hadn't fully recovered from the meditative trance—Ayan cautiously, almost gropingly made his way to the only visible passage in the cave wall, intending to find that very hall with supplies the baksy had, he thought, mentioned.

  Emerging into a wider corridor Ayan stopped and pondered, listening to the surrounding sounds. From somewhere to the left, clearly above his current level, came persistent, almost hypnotic water noise—either an underground stream or a small waterfall crashing against stones in some hidden grotto.

  Instinctively the lad was about to head towards the sound, to quench his thirst and perhaps refresh himself after meditation, but thought better of it in time. Memory helpfully supplied a vivid recollection of what deafening, painful effect Zhalgaztur's simple staff strikes against the ground had produced on his heightened hearing. What then of a real underground waterfall, whose sounds would be amplified manifold by the acoustics of stone walls and vaults?

  "No thank you," Ayan winced mentally, imagining his eardrums bursting from the thunder of falling water. "First I'll sort out food, then I'll experiment with my new super-hearing."

  Turning one hundred and eighty degrees, he began an unhurried descent down the gently sloping stone corridor leading deeper into the cave. The walls here were clearly not man-made—no even, smooth faces, everything had a natural formation character. Here and there protruded natural limestone deposits and gleaming veins of some mineral.

  The floor underfoot proved surprisingly clean, as though someone regularly swept it, though Ayan couldn't imagine who would think to do housework in a spirit cave. Perhaps Zhalgaztur entertained himself thus. Though he didn't seem the type to wield a broom skilfully.

  Having walked another few dozen metres, he encountered another branch—this time to the left of the main corridor. A narrow passage, barely sufficient to turn one's shoulders, led somewhere into darkness. Hesitating a second or two, Ayan decided to look inside—perhaps the supplies were stored precisely there?

  Squeezing through the narrow gap, which wasn't easy given his new physique, he walked along a short winding passage. The lad discovered a small chamber of irregular shape, clearly of natural origin.

  Here there was neither food, nor water, nor any other useful items—only bare stone walls covered with a thin layer of damp moss, and several broken stalactite fragments scattered on the floor.

  "Dead end," Ayan exhaled disappointedly and, turning round, returned to the main corridor, continuing his descent in hope of finding something more substantial and edible.

  The further descent proved shorter than expected. The corridor gradually widened, transforming into a spacious hall. No, rather enormous, incomparable to that cubbyhole where training had taken place. Ayan was immediately struck by the drastic change in atmosphere.

  Here reigned order, some almost homely cosiness, utterly foreign to the harsh underground. Against the far wall loomed neatly stacked leather sacks and bundles, tied with rough rope. Nearby stood clay jugs of various sizes, some sealed with wax. A bit further could be seen a bundle of dried meat, hanging from a wooden hook driven into a crevice between stones.

  "Now this looks like supplies," Ayan exhaled with relief, heading towards the food.

  He dropped to his knees before the nearest sack, untied the tight knot and looked inside. Grain. Some greyish-yellow stuff, resembling barley or millet. In the neighbouring one he found dried fruits—wrinkled, dark, but still emanating a faint sweetish aroma.

  His stomach rumbled louder, more demandingly. The lad grabbed a handful of dried fruit, stuffed it in his mouth and began chewing. The taste proved unexpectedly pleasant—tart, with sourness, reminiscent of something between dried apricots and prunes. Having swallowed the first portion, he immediately reached for a second.

  Having satisfied the first bout of hunger, Ayan looked around more attentively. In the corner of the hall lay clothing. A simple shirt of rough linen, trousers of deerskin, boots. All neatly folded, as though someone had specially cared for this.

  He hastened to don it all. Continuing to parade in Adam's costume held no appeal for him.

  Next to the clothing lay a small leather rucksack, which the lad didn't even recall. Untying the worn straps, he discovered inside several useful trinkets: flint and steel, a coil of sturdy rope, a small knife in worn scabbard, a couple of candles and some bundle wrapped in oiled cloth.

  Ayan unwrapped it. Inside proved to be flat bread—a flatbread, hard as shoe leather, but judging by the smell, quite edible. He bit off the edge, struggling to chew the resilient crust.

  "Need to wash this down somehow," the lad thought, looking around for water.

  One of the jugs stood slightly apart from the rest, without a wax seal. Ayan approached, bent down and cautiously sniffed the contents.

  "No smell, most likely water."

  He lifted the heavy jug with both hands and took several gulps. He wasn't mistaken. Cool moisture spread down his throat, washing away the remnants of dryness in his mouth. The taste proved neutral, without impurities—evidently spring water.

  Having quenched his thirst, Ayan returned to the rucksack and settled nearby, continuing to methodically demolish the flatbread. Strength returned almost instantly—his organism greedily absorbed calories after the long hours of training and meditation.

  "I wonder how much time has passed since the game started?" he pondered, chewing another piece.

  Deciding to return to checking the logs, he choked on the bread, which lodged in his throat. The information he'd read was that shocking.