Chapter 31

  Raime woke slowly, the kind of waking where body and mind seemed to come alive without a hitch. The old stone bed was unmoving beneath him while he sat up, but he didn’t feel any discomfort, not with his new attributes. His body answered him without hesitation, he felt neither fragile nor on the verge of breaking, both physically and mentally.

  I think all those attributes are messing with me, I felt such a massive difference even with a couple of points when I had little. Now I feel it, but not that markedly, maybe it’s because there is no imbalance between them. If only I had someone to compare to, except monsters I mean… I’m going to go crazy here alone with my thoughts. Better to move, lots to do today.

  The air in the chamber was still, cool, faintly metallic with the taste of the Rift. He drew in a deep breath and let it out slowly, then stood. He went to relieve himself and after donning his armor, used the cleaning function to get something close to a morning shower.

  Still, it consumes too much energy, I need to work on my reserves.

  He started his day with a big meal, he was worried about burning too many calories and not being able to replenish, so he cooked the alien boar and ate as much as he felt like. While eating he could already feel his body absorbing the meal, his metabolism was getting ridiculously fast.

  After breakfast Raime picked up his weapons and went out into the hall he prepared yesterday.This morning, he wanted to test what his body could do, not just his mind.

  The first part of his new routine was simple: motion. He started with footwork, pacing back and forth, running in short bursts across the flagstones, circling, pivoting, feeling how much faster he had become. He needed to get used to the speed, and then learn how to control his inertia and momentum, the armor wasn’t providing any help in this regard. But he had a feeling that there was a function he could use to get a boost in maneuverability, he just had to find it. After all the armor already pulled him out of danger during his last fight. Still his feet felt lighter, his steps surer. His lungs no longer burned as before, though the alien air always left him feeling a bit strange in his chest.

  He dropped into push-ups, counting steadily. Ten, twenty, thirty. His arms moved like pistons. He reached a hundred without feeling any stress, two hundred. He stopped, he couldn’t seem to get tired while doing push-ups with only his body weight. The strain was minimum, and his body recovered too fast for feeling the effect of the exercise. He had to create weights if he wanted to feel the burn.

  A super gym for the super strong, hah! That would be a good slogan, when athletes and culturists starts gaining attributes things will be funny, I can already imagine the videos of little girls benching four times as much as strongmen.

  He swung the lever next, both hands gripping the cool metal. Wide arcs, short thrusts, angled cuts—though it wasn’t a greatsword, he treated it like one, practicing different strikes and defensive sweeps. When fatigue failed to gnaw at his muscles, he shifted to practicing with one hand, forcing precision and control. His grip never faltered, the weapon steady in his hand while he continued his warming up.

  Then he started to incorporate the Tetra Unum with his movements, using his mind to scan the surroundings like usual and strike the imaginary foe in front of him with Thunk while the other weapon circled him, cutting down threats from afar, separating and uniting in a deadly dance of metal. Slicing, spearing and shearing the adversaries his imagination conjured. He tried to use one of the blade to pierce into a ruined wall section and the blade went through with a deafening screech of metal against stone. When he checked the blade, nothing except some dust was marring the weapon, not a scratch was left. He already suspected the material was something extraordinary but he still had no clue about its nature.

  The real question is: how fucking hard the carapace of the centipede was to resist this weapon? Or is it more a matter of energy instead of the material itself? Maybe, other than floating one of the strong suit of those beasts is body reinforcement…

  After the physical training was over, lunch approached, he stopped again to eat, going outside the temple and basking in the sunlight of Ithural, the light no longer affected his mind, it felt more like a caress than any discomfort and he started to like spending time in the open, grilling meat and pondering his new reality. But there were no rest for the wicked, as soon as he was done eating he went to the hearth of the temple for the next part of his training.

  He sat cross-legged inside the basin, closed his eyes, and let his mind sink inward. At once he felt the faint pulse of his unformed Psionic Thread, his first, the one provided by the System as a reward. After what he learned from the thought-knots, keeping the Threads unformed was hard, usually their nature prevented them to staying unformed without becoming specialized. Apparently he was lucky to have received a perfectly unformed Thread, if he kept it this way he could use it as a template to generate more of the same without a loss in energy efficiency. After all if he used a Thread similar to the bond he had with Thunk, it was more likely that he would generate another bond thread, something that he wanted to do, for solidifying his link to the Tetra Unum.

  I really need to find a better name for that weapon.

  The thought flickered through him as he sat in the basin, legs folded, hands resting on his knees. Tetra Unum was what the System had called it, but that sounded more like a classification than a name. The bond he was developing with the weapon deserved something personal—something his own. Still, that was a problem for another day.

  This content has been misappropriated from Royal Road; report any instances of this story if found elsewhere.

  Now, the Thread.

  Raime drew in a long, slow breath, letting his lungs fill with the faintly metallic air of the Rift before easing it out again. He sank deeper into himself, brushing against the pulse of his unformed Psionic Thread. It quivered, faint and formless, yet undeniable. A tether of pure possibility.

  The thought-knots had been clear—most Threads did not stay this way for long. Instinct and circumstance molded them. He had been given something rarer than he had realized: the chance to preserve a blank template.

  So if I can keep this one stable, maybe I can replicate it. Multiplicity without compromise.

  He focused, feeding a trickle of will into the Thread. It brightened in his inner perception, threads of pale light rippling outward, then it settled into stillness.

  Good.

  Now, replication. He recalled the thought-knot’s guidance: forming a new Thread was like drawing a filament of himself, stretching it into reality, and locking it in place with psionic essence. It required both precision and fuel. Too much strain, and the forming Thread could destabilize, shattering before completion. This was a new method, a traditional technique for an Ithurial, but new to him. Until now he only managed to create new Threads by pure situational insight and circumstances. Now it was time to follow a more paved path, one that will maximize his efforts.

  And so Raime gathered his will, then pulled.

  A ripple passed through him—like drawing a muscle he hadn’t known he possessed. The sensation wasn’t pain, but it wasn’t comfortable either. A burning pressure gathered at the center of his mind, sharp and insistent. He held it, gritting his teeth, and forced the pressure into shape.

  Light uncoiled in the dark of his inner vision. Another filament, faint but solid, extended outward from the first. His breath caught as it trembled at the edge of formation. For a moment, he thought it might unravel, but he poured more of himself into it. Resolve steadied his hand.

  Then, with a quiet snap, the new Thread locked into place.

  Raime exhaled a breath he hadn’t realized he’d been holding. Sweat dampened his brow despite the cool air. He probed inward. Yes—four unformed Threads now pulsed in him, coiling in his mind.

  It worked. Relief mixed with elation. It actually worked pretty well.

  A grin tugged at his lips. He wasn’t sure how many he could make before exhausting himself, but this was the first real proof that his path as an Anomaly was not just luck—it was a road he could carve for himself. Even as a not Awakened he managed to find his way into a form of energy. Maybe not the standard mana or essence the Administrator was talking about, yet it was something magical, with an incredible amount of versatility and potential.

  I don’t know how it measures up to mana, but the capabilities the Ithurians showed were more than impressive, we’ll see…

  He rested for a few minutes, slowing his heartbeat, then tried again. The strain was worse the second time, the pressure sharper, but he endured it. He performed the same technique: pushing his energy into his Origin Thread and following the right patterns he wove the energy into another Thread, with a final flash of resistance, his newest filament of possibility locked into place.

  Five.

  By the time he forced the sixth Thread into being, his skull throbbed like a drum. His vision wavered with each blink. He knew he was at the edge—push further, and he risked collapse. Better to stop now, consolidate his gains, and recover.

  Still, when he opened his eyes, six faint pulses thrummed in harmony inside him. Full of possibilities, but not for now, his reserves were nearly spent.

  “Not bad,” he muttered aloud, his voice hoarse.

  The basin’s air shimmered faintly with psionic residue, like invisible heat rising from stone. He could feel the traces of past psionic masters nearly rejoice with him. The feeling of contentment he could perceive in the stone brought a smile to his lips. It was like the ghosts of the Ithurials living here were cheering him, like enthusiastic parents would cheer a child who drew a family portrait.

  Raime wiped his face, happy with the progress he made. Then reached for the next part of his training—the thought-knots.

  He slid one from his pouch, holding the crystalline knot of memory and mind between his fingers. The strange object pulsed faintly in response to his touch, as though recognizing him.

  The first time he had tried one, it felt quite overwhelming. Alien thought had spilled into his mind in raw torrents—images, sensations, unfiltered understanding and concepts too complex for words. But now he was more prepared, his Insight sharper, his cognition bolstered by the System. He had learned to shape the flow instead of being drowned.

  He pressed the thought-knot to his forehead.

  Warmth spread instantly, seeping through his skull. A cascade of impressions tumbled into him: layered diagrams of psionic constructs, flickers of creatures shaping Threads into weapons, battles fought not with steel but with raw will. He glimpsed towering figures cloaked in mental energy, bending reality with sheer force of mind.

  His head swam, but he breathed through it, focusing on what he could grasp. One fragment stood out: a method of refining Thread control, weaving two into harmony for greater stability. He focused on it, tracing the logic until it imprinted itself into his thoughts.

  Two Threads can act as one, but only if I learn to braid them together without resistance. Like hands clasping, not fists colliding.

  He let the knot dissolve, its light fading into him.

  Hours passed like this. He reviewed the knowledge he just acquired, memory after memory. He learned fragments of meditation practices, reinforcement techniques, even the basics of psionic combat forms. Much was incomplete—parts of a whole—but even shards had edges sharp enough to cut. The rest will come in time, he still had many thought-knots to explore.

  By the time he pulled away from the basin, exhaustion pressed on him again. His mind felt stretched, buzzing, alive with too much. And yet beneath the fatigue lay exhilaration. Knowledge was power, and power was survival.

  Evening light spilled faint lavender through the opening of the temple ceiling. The twin suns had begun their descent, casting long shadows across the chamber. He could hear the wind sighing outside, rustling the alien grass, his new senses allowed that much.

  His day had been long: physical drills, weapon practice, psionic training. And yet it didn’t feel wasted. He was building something. Piece by piece, step by step.

  After a bit of rest, he realized that he worn himself a bit too much today. And the part that excited him the most would not be feasible after exerting his mind so much; he would leave levitation training for the next morning.

  The thought rose unbidden, and he smiled faintly. He had touched on it before—small nudges, the beginnings of lifting—but he had not yet dedicated time to it. Not today. Not with his mind already worn thin. But soon. Soon he would rise from the ground not by muscle but by will alone. The idea filled him with boyish excitement, almost enough to laugh. Despite all the new abilities he learned, there was something special in a man’s mind at the thought of lifting into flight like a bird.

  Well, it’s not like I’m going to learn to fly, but this is the first step. Raime thought giddily.

  He left the basin and climbed the temple stairs back outside. The smell of cooked meat still lingered faintly from his lunch, making his stomach grumble. He cooked again, another meal to replenish what training had burned away. His metabolism demanded fuel, and he answered it, chewing through strips of seared flesh while staring out into the horizon.

  Ithural’s world stretched before him—black grass swaying under lavender skies, metallic trees gleaming faintly as the suns dipped. Alien, dangerous and so beautiful.

  He thought of Earth—of his family—and his chest tightened. But then he thought of what he was building here, of the potential he had carved from chaos, and a different feeling stirred. Drive.

  I will see through these challenges. I will not be stopped until I return back home, and even there I will carve this initiation to shreds and protect everybody. It’s the minimum after all the time I spent away, they must be so worried… especially mum.

  He set down the last bone of his meal, took a sip from a vine, and looked once more toward the Riftlands.

  Tomorrow, he would train again. Tomorrow, he would push harder. He would not stop until he could stand against whatever this world hurled at him—and win.

  For tonight, though, he returned to his chamber, and after getting into the bed he let his mind drift into quiet meditation. The Threads pulsed softly within him, a rhythm he was beginning to learn. He listened to that rhythm, steady and strange, until sleep finally took him.