House arrest sounded considerably worse before I remembered where I lived.
Our estate had gardens, a library, a private training ground, servants who brought me food, and a tutor whose preferred teaching method involved setting parts of me on fire.
Actually, that last one made it sound worse again.
"Three months," Veronica announced.
We stood on the training field the morning after my conversation with Dad. She held my two remaining skill books beneath one arm and a wooden practice spear in the other.
"No unauthorized excursions. No borrowing horses. No investigating suspicious noises beyond the estate."
"What about suspicious noises inside the estate?"
"You may investigate the sound of me beating your ass."
Clear instructions. Excellent leadership.
She handed me the dark blue book.
"Learn this first."
The cover shimmered beneath my fingers.
"Yes."
Silver lettering lifted from the pages, spiraled around my wrist, and disappeared beneath my skin. The book collapsed into an empty cover.
A little pressure settled behind my eyes, like remembering a room I had never visited.
I reached toward it.
A dark opening appeared above my palm.
"Holy shit."
"Description first," Veronica said.
I picked up a stone and pushed it through.
Gone.
I thought about taking it back.
The stone dropped into my hand.
I looked at Veronica.
"I am going to put so much crap in there."
"You are going to maintain an inventory."
There were few things in existence capable of making magical storage sound boring.
Veronica had found one immediately.
Fireball came next.
That red book disintegrated, and suddenly I understood how to gather heat around a knot of mana.
Not why it worked.
Not the underlying principles.
Just how.
It was like receiving the memory of a movement my body had never performed.
"Five mana," Veronica said. "Forward release. Keep your wrist straight."
I held out my hand.
An orange sphere appeared above my palm.
Beautiful. Radiant. Mine.
I grinned.
It burst against the dirt three feet away.
Veronica looked at the smoking patch.
"Terrifying. The worms will surrender by noon."
By the end of the first week, I had learned something important.
Knowing how to activate a skill and knowing how to use it were very different things.
Fireball wanted to travel where I directed it. Unfortunately, my idea of direction apparently included the ground, a target stand, and once the very edge of Veronica's boot.
She extinguished that one without looking down.
Then she made me run.
Pocket Dimension was easier until I discovered that dumping everything into an invisible hole created exactly the same organizational problems as dumping everything into a closet.
I spent twenty minutes trying to retrieve a clean shirt without also producing three stones, an apple, and a sock.
Veronica watched with her arms crossed.
"Inventory."
"Yes, ma'am."
Minor Healing required its own lessons. She had me practice on the small scrapes that came with training, under supervision.
No cutting myself for experience. No injuring anyone else.
When I asked, she stared at me until I reconsidered my life choices.
"A healing skill is not an excuse to manufacture patients."
Fair point.
My gun training began with an argument.
Naturally.
"You already know how to point it," Veronica said.
"I know considerably more than that."
"Then demonstrate judgment."
That shut me up.
She arranged targets at different distances and heights. Some carried red cloth. Others wore white.
"Hostiles and civilians," she explained.
"I figured."
"Then you will also understand why speed is secondary."
She walked behind the firing line.
"Begin."
The first target rose.
I fired.
The second appeared beside a white-marked dummy.
I waited for separation before firing again.
The third never provided a clear shot.
I lowered the rifle.
Veronica nodded once.
"Better."
For some reason, that felt more satisfying than watching a target explode.
Annoying woman.
She also insisted most repetitions be performed without firing. Weapon handling, movement, restraint, identifying targets.
Dry practice did not increase my skill percentage.
It did, however, reveal how often my fourteen-year-old limbs failed to match what my old brain expected.
Experience was useful.
Apparently, so was practice.
By the third week, I had finally confirmed how Limitless Growth handled skill progress.
The first successful use earned 0.01%.
The second earned 0.02%.
The third earned 0.03%.
Each use added another hundredth to the next gain.
"That's not exponential," Veronica said when I explained it.
"The description says exponential."
"The description can argue with mathematics."
I considered defending the system.
Then I remembered my Intelligence attribute and decided not to embarrass it.
Whatever the terminology, the practical result was wonderful. Early progress crawled. Later progress accelerated.
Each skill tracked its own sequence.
Opening my storage counted once. Moving several objects through the same opening didn't give me unlimited activations.
Likewise, maintaining one healing spell counted as one use.
The system, apparently, had anticipated at least some of my bullshit.
The second month settled into a rhythm.
Morning conditioning.
Breakfast.
Magic theory.
Practical exercises.
Lunch.
More practical exercises, because Veronica considered happiness a dangerous distraction.
Fireball improved first in the ways that mattered. Not levels. Control.
I learned to release it without jerking my arm like I was throwing a baseball. I learned that panic made my shaping unstable and that a smaller, accurate spell was preferable to a dramatic miss.
Pocket Dimension became a proper supply cupboard.
Water. Bandages. Spare clothes. Food wrapped against spills.
Veronica inspected the contents weekly.
I complained.
Then I retrieved everything she requested without losing a sock.
That shut me up too.
Milo sometimes watched from the fence after his lessons. He had taken to the stables with an enthusiasm Dantalion encouraged by accepting every stolen carrot.
Lottie came with him once she was well enough.
She announced that my Fireball looked like a tiny sun.
Veronica announced that tiny suns still required safe distances.
Neither of them argued.
I tested the carbine's reservoir carefully.
Twenty mana stored.
Twenty mana available after dismissing and summoning the weapon.
No leakage overnight.
No free refill.
Exactly as promised.
Reduced-output shots consumed less energy but lost effectiveness quickly. Higher output hit harder and drained me faster.
Veronica made me record every result.
She also pointed out that blowing through a target was not automatically useful if somebody stood behind it.
I knew that.
I wrote it down anyway.
There was something uncomfortable about having old knowledge turned into new habits.
Probably why she kept doing it.
Magic Gun reached its next threshold during the final week.
I had started this stretch at 1.71%, eighteen successful uses into its second-level progression.
One hundred and twenty-three additional activations brought the total to 100.11%.
The final shot struck the center of a battered practice plate.
Golden light wrapped around the carbine.
Then something considerably larger settled against my shoulder.
A tube.
A grip.
A sight.
I stopped breathing.
"Oh, you have got to be kidding me."
Veronica read the public description.
Then she looked at me.
"No."
"I haven't said anything."
"Your face did."
Dad approved testing at the old quarry.
Veronica selected the location, established the boundaries, inspected the surroundings, and delivered a lecture that made absolutely certain I understood what an explosion meant.
Then, finally, she let me fire.
The projectile streaked toward an isolated rock face, trailing blue-white light.
I kept my attention on the marked target.
It adjusted slightly in flight.
Then the quarry answered with a tremendous cracking boom.
Dust billowed.
Chunks of stone tumbled down the slope.
I lowered the launcher.
Veronica stared at the impact site.
For once, she had nothing insulting to say.
I treasured the moment.
We performed twelve carefully supervised launches over that final week. Most of the time went into preparation, recovery, observation, and discussing when not to use the damned thing.
The rocket wasn't a replacement for the rifle.
It was a very expensive answer to a very different question.
Also, it was awesome.
On the last evening of my confinement, I inspected the results.
Level 4 (86/400)
HP- 40/40
MP- 60/60
Strength- 5
Willpower- 10
Agility- 5
Stamina- 7
Intelligence- 8
Luck- 5
Unused Stat Points- 0
Magic Gun {Level 3}(0.89%)
Minor Healing {Level 1}(8.20%)
Pocket Dimension {Level 1}(32.40%)
Fireball {Level 1}(18.30%)
Limitless Growth {Level MAX}
Adaptive Mana Carbine
Mana Rocket Launcher
No additional character levels.
No conveniently spawning monsters.
Just three months of work.
Veronica looked over my public screen.
"Acceptable."
From her, that was practically a marriage proposal.
"So," I said, "does this mean I'm ready for another adventure?"
She handed me the practice spear.
"It means your house arrest ends tomorrow."
"And today?"
She smiled.
"Today, we fix your footwork."