I woke before the sun crested the treeline.

  For the first time in what felt like forever, I didn’t protest the idea of consciousness. My ribs were sore, yes, and my muscles still carried the deep fatigue of yesterday’s fight, but it was distant. Manageable. The kind of ache that reminded you that you were alive.

  The best part was that my mind felt… refreshed.

  That realisation alone made me pause. I lay there on my bedroll with my eyes open, staring at the branches that make up the roof of the shelter. Dawn light filtered through the leaves, soft and muted, painting everything in that in-between colour where the world hadn’t yet decided if it wanted to be night or day.

  Then the curse started making itself heard.

  It was too good to be true.

  A slow, deliberate pull in my chest, like a hooked finger curling inward, urging me to move, to act, to do something useful. My breath hitched for a moment as the sensation spread, familiar now in a way I resented with every fibre of my being.

  I frowned and pushed myself up to a sitting position. Unbiddenly, the thought occurred to me that I wanted to test something. Last night’s conversation with Rhea lingered in my mind. She had discussed the concept of intent as structure, emphasising that magic responds not only to mana but also to meaning and emotional framing. Ritual magic codified that idea, but she’d hinted that the same principles should apply to spellcasting too.

  I wanted to try.

  I wanted to sit, breathe, and practise shaping mana in small, deliberate ways. No combat application. No utility. Just theory into motion.

  But of course the curse disagreed.

  The moment I reached inward and tried to gather mana without purpose or direction, the pressure intensified. Enough to deny me. The sensation twisted, constricted, as if the curse itself leant close to my ear and whispered, Not like that. I won’t allow it.

  I let the breath out slowly.

  “…Fine,” I muttered to no one.

  Resigned, I stood.

  My clothes were still slightly damp from the wash. While the discomfort didn't stop me, it did cause me to grimace as I pulled my shirt over my head. The fabric clung for a moment before settling, cool against my skin. My boots were dry, at least. Small mercies.

  I stepped out of the shelter and into the early morning camp.

  Most people were still asleep. A few shapes shifted under blankets or makeshift lean-tos, breaths slow and even. Smoke from last night’s fires lingered low, mixing with mist from the nearby river. It smelled like wet earth, ash, and meat.

  Not the worst, especially after yesterday's visit to the gorg cave.

  I moved quietly, more out of habit than necessity, letting my gaze drift as I walked. Near the edge of the camp, I spotted Marcus.

  He was already awake.

  Of course he was.

  The man sat on a low rock, his broad back hunched slightly as he worked. Besides him lay a neat bundle of spears, shafts straight and points freshly sharpened. They looked… better than they had any right to be. Balanced. Purposeful.

  In his hands was a large bone. The boss femur bone. Thick, dense, still faintly stained despite being cleaned. He was scraping at it with a smaller blade, movements slow and methodical.

  Doing what? I had no idea.

  I watched for a few seconds, curiosity pricking at me, but Marcus didn’t look up. His focus was absolute, the kind of concentration that shut the world out entirely. Whatever he was making, he didn’t need an audience, so I left him to it.

  Next stop was the guard post at the edge of the camp, where the forest thickened and shadows lingered even as the sky brightened. Three figures stood there, shifting their weight, weapons propped nearby. Sleepy faces turned as I approached.

  “Morning,” I said quietly.

  “Morning,” one of them replied, stifling a yawn.

  “Did anything happen during the night?”

  They exchanged glances. The mage among them, a thin guy whose name I thought might be Mark, scratched the back of his head. “We saw a gorg. Just one. Came close enough to see us, then bolted back into the trees.”

  “You didn’t pursue,” I said, already knowing the answer.

  “No,” the crafter said quickly. “Didn’t seem smart. Not at night.”

  “Good choice,” I nodded. And I meant it.

  They relaxed a fraction at that. People craved approval more than they admitted.

  There was a brief pause, then the bartender of all people cleared his throat. I didn’t remember his name, but his face was stuck in my head since the safe zone. Why the hell should somebody go for a bartender in here? I didn’t know. “Everyone’s been talking about… you know. The leader.”

  I smiled faintly. “I figured.”

  They leant in, subtle but eager, and I spent the next several minutes retelling the fight. Not embellishing or dramatising, just laying it out as it had happened. The resilience of the thing. The curse is in its chest. It defied death even when it should have.

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  Questions followed. About magic. About curses. They questioned whether it was typical for monsters to behave in such a manner.

  They asked how it was to evolve a class, and I just told them that it was pretty straightforward, just a choice like the others.

  One of them asked, half joking and half serious, what class the bartender would even get offered as an evolution in this place.

  I went for the diplomatic way. “If the system’s thorough, probably something terrifying. Alcohol-based buffs. Moral control. Crowd manipulation.”

  They laughed at that, and for a moment it felt almost normal.

  A bartender. A crafter. A mage. A crafter and a mage stand guard at the edge of a camp, immersed in a world beyond reality.

  Ridiculous.

  And yet… survival came first. Classes could wait.

  Eventually, I steered the conversation where I wanted it to go. I introduced the concept of an advanced party to the conversation. The idea was to forge a safer path ahead. I framed it carefully, emphasising reduced risk, clearer routes, and fewer surprises. Not abandoning anyone. We will keep them with us.

  I ensured their safety by being the first to move.

  By the time I finished, they were nodding. Thoughtful. Convinced enough.

  Good.

  As I turned away, a strange satisfaction settled in my chest. Not pride. Something quieter. The sense of alignment. I’d noticed it before, faintly, but now it was undeniable.

  The curse… approved.

  Ever since we’d come here, its reactions had changed. Back home, winning cases, helping refugees, and doing good work had kept it manageable. But this? Fighting to protect the group and making decisions that increased collective survival was the new normal.

  That fed it.

  The pressure eased, the constant tug becoming more like a steady hum. It valued this kind of action more highly. Protection. Leadership. Violence in service of others.

  For once, its goals and mine weren’t at odds.

  I was about to head back towards the centre of camp for a quick meal when movement caught my eye.

  From the treeline.

  Three figures burst out of the woods, sprinting hard towards the camp.

  Gorge.

  The guards stiffened instantly, hands going to weapons, mouths opening to shout—

  “Wait,” I said calmly.

  They froze.

  “I want to try something.”

  The looks they gave me were… mixed. Half disbelief. Half anticipation.

  I stepped past them and walked forward, meeting the oncoming monsters without haste. They roared as they ran, crude weapons raised, eyes fixed on me. I could have ended it immediately. Three arcane darts. Over in seconds.

  But that wasn’t the point.

  I reached inward, gathering mana, and began to multicast.

  This was not the clean, mirrored casting I had previously done. This time, I forced divergence. Different spells. Different shapes. Simultaneously.

  It was like rubbing my stomach and patting my head in opposite directions, except the consequences for failure were significantly more lethal. My concentration wavered for a heartbeat, then steadied.

  A barrier flared into existence in front of the two trailing gorgs, thicker than usual, infused with extra mana. The two trailing gorgs struck the barrier with a force that shattered bones. The surface cracked and formed a spiderweb pattern under the impact, but it held firm. Both creatures rebounded, falling back on their asses in confusion.

  The lead group didn’t even notice.

  I focused on it and cast Hex.

  The sensation was… strange.

  Unlike other spells, the hex didn’t feel like something I threw. It slipped. A thread of intent-laced mana slid forward, seeking purchase. It wasn’t brute force. It was insinuation.

  And I could shape it.

  Not the mechanics, but the meaning.

  I imprinted my desire to weaken its strength.

  The hex struck, invisible, and the gorg faltered mid-stride, nearly crashing face-first into the dirt. It roared, furious, and pushed on regardless.

  Interesting.

  I cast it again, this time enhancing it with arcane infusion and reinforcing the intent. The result was immediate. The gorg collapsed, hitting the ground hard and rolling, limbs flailing as if gravity itself had started pulling it harder.

  I didn’t stop there.

  “Let’s see,” I murmured.

  Malign Intensification followed, the skill amplifying the curse-like effect already in place. The gorg slammed into the dirt as if crushed by an invisible weight, muscles spasming uselessly.

  Satisfied, I turned my attention back to the other two.

  Another multicast. A barrier snapped into place, keeping distance, while a hex targeted their agility. They were already slow creatures. Enhancing that weakness was… devastating.

  Their charge degraded into an awkward lurch, then a forced walk. When I layered Malign Intensification over it, their movements slowed further, cautious now, terrified of falling and not being able to rise.

  I walked towards the downed gorg, boots crunching on dirt, and planted my foot on its skull.

  “Contact is contact,” I said softly.

  I started using Drain the Accursed.

  Energy surged upward, flowing into me in a steady stream. Not as overwhelming as the ritual had been, but intoxicating all the same. Warmth flooded my veins, washing away pain, stiffness, and fatigue. My ribs stopped aching. My lungs expanded freely.

  The gorg wheezed beneath my boot.

  I ignored it. It wasn’t even capable of movement anymore.

  The other two were closing in, still a dozen yards away, so I decided to experiment further. Arcane Infusion. The spell swelled, power coiling tight and eager. I shaped an Arcane Blast, this time feeding the stolen life force directly into it.

  Mana converged between the two monsters, visible now as a point of blinding light. The two monsters gazed at it with a sense of slow motion, their expressions amusing in their slowed state.

  I chuckled.

  The blast detonated with a thunderous crack, hurling both gogs' bodies backwards. The blast was so strong that parts of their torsos and their heads were no more.

  The sound echoed through the camp.

  “Shit,” I muttered.

  No matter. I finished draining the gorg under my foot, watching its body wither as life left it. It was taking too long; their high vitality was impressive, but I didn’t have all day. Impatient by the end, I formed a compressed arcane dart and guided it forward manually, resisting the spell’s natural release. The effort made my temples throb, but it worked. The dart cleanly pierced the creature's heart from the back. Without making a mess of my clothes.

  When I dismissed the magic and turned around, half the camp was staring at me.

  Horror. Awe. Fear.

  One of the guards, the mage, stared with wide eyes. “Dude,” he breathed. “That was awesome! What skill was that?”

  I smiled politely. “Arcane Blast”.

  Then I waved it off. “Don’t worry, everyone. They were under level ten. Good morning exercise.”

  Chuckling, I walked back into camp, already planning my next task.

  A system chime rang in my mind, listing the fruits of my little experiment.

  Arcane Manipulation didn’t give me a choice for evolution. Why? Did the skill have a higher cap? I had to ask around if someone discovered something.

  Anyway, not bad.

  Not bad at all.

  I got more level ups in two minutes by focusing on the spells than I got in half a day of casting by just repetition; it makes sense.

  I’ll have to talk to Rhea and the other mages more; if we pool together our insights, we could advance much faster.

  Now though, I was going to find Jack; I had to remove the curse from the shield, and then breakfast was due; I was famished.

  20 chapters ahead!