Date: 11th Frostweave, 2026 GEC – Morning
The system's assessment countdown burned in Jack's peripheral vision as he walked to school: *7 days until mandatory ATB progress review.* But today's more immediate threat waited at the gates.
Alfred leaned against the wrought iron, flanked by Derek and Ben. His expression was one of bored expectation.
"Four-Eyes. Decision time."
Jack's fingers tightened around his strap. He'd run the numbers all night. Veridian's minimum wage was 12 sigils an hour. Sixty-hour weeks were standard. That was 2,880 a month before the "safety compliance deductions" and "talent maintenance fees" the forums mentioned. He'd net maybe 1,800. Enough for rent and nutrient bars, nothing else. No time to craft. No progression. A slow death by bureaucratic exploitation.
"I appreciate the offer," Jack said, keeping his voice flat. "But I'll be focusing on independent study for the ATB assessment."
Alfred's smirk didn't falter, but his eyes hardened. "Independent study? With what materials? Your trash heap?"
"With whatever I can scavenge. As I have been."
"You've been peddling illegal food charms in the Warrens," Alfred said softly, stepping closer. The air grew dense around him, a subtle pressure from his Steel Defense talent. "I have friends in Compliance. One word, and they'll raid your hovel before your assessment. Failure due to 'contraband materials.' Instant stipend revocation."
Jack's blood ran cold, but the system chimed in his mind.
"If you had that word," Jack said, meeting Alfred's gaze, "you'd have used it already. Veridian needs warm bodies for the forge lines. You're quota-filling for your father."
For a second, raw anger flashed in Alfred's eyes. Then it smoothed into something colder. "Fine. Starve. But after the ATB flunks you—and they will—the offer drops to eight sigils an hour. And you'll take it." He shouldered past Jack, his lackeys following. "Because you'll have nothing left."
Jack exhaled, his hands trembling. The system updated: Survival probability adjustment: -3% (Increased hostile attention). Current: 64%.
---
Date: 11th Frostweave – Evening
The chunk of Glimmerstone ore sat on his workbench, humming with a low, terrestrial frequency. Jack ran his fingers over its rough surface. His affinity resonated with it, not as a passive material but as a *conversation*. The ore wanted to be something. His job was to listen.
He lacked proper stone-shaping tools. But he had the Essence of Firmness, his utility knife, and a new currency.
"System, can Crafting Points assist analysis?"
"Expend ten points on Material Understanding for Glimmerstone."
A wave of knowledge flooded his mind—not instructions, but *principles*. The crystalline structure's fracture lines. The way earth mana flowed through micro-veins. How to channel intention through the Essence of Firmness to guide rather than force the shape.
Four hours later, he held a pair of calipers. They were crude, asymmetrical, but they glowed with a soft, steady blue light along their inner edges. When he adjusted them, the glow intensified at the point of measurement, highlighting discrepancies.
The jump was substantial. Affinity: 13.2/1000.
As he set them down, his vision flickered. The clinical blue interface dissolved into static, then reformed with a line of corrupted, angular text: [CORE INTEGRITY: 0.004% - STABILIZING - MEMORY FRAGMENTS INACCESSIBLE].
It lasted 0.3 seconds. The normal interface returned.
Jack sat very still. Core? Memory fragments? The words whispered of something deeper than a simple progression system. Something damaged. He checked his status. No change. No explanation. Just the silent, growing dread that the voice in his head wasn't just a tool. It was a patient.
---
Date: 12th Frostweave
"He's not a bad man, dear. Just careful."
Mrs. Genni led Jack through the labyrinthine Ironworks District, away from the roaring forges and into the quiet, soot-stained alleyways where the city's machinery bled its discarded parts. They stopped before a shop front with a faded sign: MARROW'S CURIOS & REPAIRS.
The inside smelled of ozone, oil, and old paper. Shelves held everything from broken mana-crystals to what looked like a desiccated imp's hand in a jar. Behind the counter, a man in his sixties with augmetic eyes that whirred as they focused on Jack.
"Genni. And a new face."
"This is Jack, Marrow. A good boy. Makes the tonic that helps my joints."
Marrow's left eye lens zoomed. "Awakener signature. F-Rank. Chaotic. You're the one making the infused meals."
"Yes," Jack said, laying his pack on the counter. He produced five wrapped nutrient bars and two pairs of low-light goggles. "I have these."
Marrow examined each item with detached efficiency, his augmented eye emitting scanning beams. "The bars are clean. Simple life-affinity infusion. The goggles… crude runework, salvage optics. But functional." He looked at Jack. "The ATB has sniffers in the district today. Routine sweep. Selling unlicensed enchanted goods is a Tier 3 violation. Fines start at two thousand sigils."
Jack's stomach dropped. "Then—"
"I'm not buying them," Marrow said. He opened a ledger. "I'm listing them as 'mundane goods' in my inventory—surplus camping equipment, nutritional supplements. I will then sell them to certain clients. You receive a 'finder's fee' for the mundane goods. Four hundred fifty sigils total."
The fiction was transparent but legal enough to create plausible deniability. Jack nodded. "Understood."
As Marrow counted out worn bills, he gestured to a glass case. "Looking for anything?"
The cracked beast core fragment called to him. It was the size of a walnut, dark purple with a spiderweb of fractures, pulsing with unstable energy.
"That," Jack said.
"Three hundred. And a warning: I've seen cores like that take off a man's hand when they tried to draw the mana out. It's junk."
"I'll take it."
As they left, Marrow's final words followed them. "The sniffers are looking for something specific. High-growth anomalies in low-rank awakeners. Rumors from the front about 'irregular talent manifestations.' Keep your head down, boy."
---
Date: 15th Frostweave – Rent Day
Landlord Jorgen was a block of a man who smelled of cheap cigars and cheaper whiskey. He took the 800-sigil chit without a word, then eyed Jack's worn toolkit.
"Heard from the super you had an ATB visit. Compliance sniffing around."
"A routine check. They cleared me."
Jorgen grunted. "Your mother was a good tenant. Quiet. Paid on time until she couldn't." He lit a cigar. "My mercy lasts until the 18th. You fail that assessment, lose that stipend, you're out. I've got a family of refugees from the Eastern Breach who'll pay double for a roof. Sentiment don't pay my taxes."
The door closed. Jack stood in the hall, his balance now at 3,470 sigils. The countdowns glared in his mind: 3 days to assessment. Stipend: 900 sigils if he passed. Homelessness if he failed.
That night, he unrolled the schematic for the Basic Warding Rune. The design was elegant—interlocking geometric patterns meant to create a zone of purified, stabilized mana. He mixed the Essence of Firmness with powdered Glimmerstone as a conductive medium. On his knees, he began painting the design onto the bare floorboards of his main room.
The first attempt failed at the third junction. The mana he fed into it bucked, the patterns conflicting. Feedback lanced up his arm.
His hand shook. He couldn't afford this. Not before the assessment.
"System. Expend twenty Crafting Points for Guided Execution of this schematic."
A calm, detached clarity settled over him. His hand steadied. His perception shifted—he saw not just the paint, but the flow of mana it was meant to channel, the way the lines needed to curve to accommodate the room's latent energy. He painted again, his movements sure and economical.
As he completed the final symbol, the rune array glowed silver. A gentle hum filled the room. The ever-present grime of the city's mana pollution seemed to withdraw to the walls. The air felt clearer.
*Affinity: 15.0/1000.*
A new ATB notification popped up, automated: *Reminder: Assessment includes environmental scan of primary workspace. Ensure all active enchantments are registered or deactivated. Unregistered wards are a compliance violation.*
Jack smiled grimly. The ward was registered—as a "meditation aid," a perfectly legal, low-grade enchantment F-Rankers were encouraged to use for focus. It would hide the residual signatures of his crafting, the subtle traces of Glimmerstone and beast core. It was a shield made of bureaucratic loopholes.
---
Date: 17th Frostweave – Evening
The items were laid out on his workbench. His real progress, and the lies he'd tell.
Demonstration Pieces (To Show):
1. A poorly stitched leather pouch with uneven mana-stitching (Unranked).
2. A lumpy, barely conductive copper coil (Unranked).
3. A knife with a wobbly, dull monster-bone reinforcement (Unranked).
Hidden Progress (To Hide):
1. The Bone-Reinforced Knife (Unranked+).
2. The Glimmerstone Calipers (Unranked++).
3. The Mana-Conductive Wire (Unranked+).
The system's analysis was stark: *Optimal progression suggests demonstrating Items 4-6. Survival probability increases to 71%. Demonstrating only Items 1-3 decreases probability to 54%.*
"Why?" Jack asked aloud.
"So I have to deliberately fail."
It was a dance. Show just enough promise to avoid being cut off, but not enough to be worth closer examination. The humiliation of it burned, but the colder logic of survival prevailed.
A frantic knock at his door. Rick stood there, pale, his hands shaking.
"Jack. I did it. The military assessment."
He looked ill. Jack pulled him inside, the ward humming as it sealed behind them.
"What happened?"
"They scanned everything. Not just my talent. My memories. My… connections." Rick's voice was hollow. "They used a Cognizant-class awakener. S-Rank. She went into my head. Asked about my friends. Their talents. Their growth." He met Jack's eyes, terror in his own. "They're looking for something specific. 'Pattern-breakers,' they called them. Awakeners whose growth doesn't match their rank or resources. They asked about you three times, Jack. Wanted to know if you'd had any 'unexplained breakthroughs' or found 'unusual materials.' I… I think I lied. But I'm not sure if she knew."
The room felt suddenly colder. The military wasn't just recruiting. They were hunting. And Jack, with his hidden system and accelerating growth, fit their search parameters perfectly.
---
Date: 18th Frostweave – 08:45
The ATB Sector 7 Office was a monument to sterile authority. White walls, blue flooring, and a pervasive mana-suppression field that made Jack's own energy feel sluggish and heavy. The air smelled of antiseptic and ozone.
He sat in a waiting room with eleven other low-rank awakeners, all wearing the same expression of anxious resignation. A screen on the wall showed a muted news feed: "...Veridian Steelworks secures major contract for frontline barrier modules... Polles Institute announces new S-Rank recruitment initiative..."
"Jack Milstrom. Booth Four."
Officer Malthus was a man worn smooth by routine. Mid-forties, thinning hair, eyes that had seen ten thousand variations of desperation. His office was small, dominated by a large scanning array and a terminal.
"Sit. Awakener ID."
Jack presented his chit. Malthus slotted it, his eyes on the scrolling data.
"F-Rank. Crafting Affinity. Last assessment: Awakening Day. Minimal progress expected." His voice was monotone. "Assessment has three parts. Signature scan. Practical demonstration. Material knowledge. Begin."
He activated the wall array. Rays of pale light passed over Jack. He felt his mana being measured, categorized, compared to his baseline. The ward's influence was subtle—a gentle filter that made his signature appear stable, consistent, and unremarkably weak.
"Signature: Stable. No contamination. Proceed."
Malthus placed a chunk of common iron ore and a simple schematic for a basic bracket on the table. "Replicate. Thirty minutes."
Jack worked slowly, deliberately making his hands clumsy. He overworked the ore, misaligned the mana flows, and produced a lopsided, weakly enchanted bracket that barely qualified as Unranked. He was panting with effort—some of it genuine, most theatrical.
Malthus examined it without comment, then placed three materials before him: common iron, a sliver of pine, and a chip of low-grade mana crystal. "Identify primary crafting applications."
This was the one area Jack didn't have to fake. He spoke clearly, listing standard uses, then added, "The pine could also be charred and mixed with crystal dust to create a low-grade conductive paste for temporary repairs. The iron filings could be used to reinforce the mixture for magnetic sealing applications."
For the first time, Malthus looked up from his terminal, his tired eyes sharpening. "Beyond curriculum."
"Independent research," Jack said.
"Show me your demonstration pieces."
Jack presented the three poor-quality items. Malthus scanned each, his expression unchanging until he picked up the knife. He ran a handheld scanner over the bone reinforcement.
"Monster bone. Source?"
"Discarded sweepings from a C-Rank student's trash bin at school. I asked for practice materials."
"Hm." Malthus's scanner pinged. He looked at the readout, then at Jack's hands. He picked up Jack's toolkit, opening it. The scanner passed over his Glimmerstone dust-stained calipers.
"This residue. Glimmerstone. An F-Rank cannot afford Glimmerstone."
"Found a piece in a scrap pile near the Ironworks runoff canal. Probably industrial discard. I tried to shape it. Failed." Jack gestured to the misshapen, unused chunk of ore still in his kit.
Malthus stared at him, the silence stretching. Then his terminal pinged with a sharp, priority alert. A red symbol flashed. Jack's heart froze.
But Malthus read the alert, his shoulders slumping slightly. "Anomaly detected in Sector 12 scan data. Protocol Delta." He dismissed it, turning back to Jack with renewed weariness. The excitement had been a momentary distraction from his crushing workload.
He typed rapidly. "Assessment complete. Progress: Minimal but sufficient. Demonstrated resourcefulness and theoretical knowledge. Practical application: Below average but within variance for rank. Stipend continued. Next assessment in 30 days. Note: Reclassification to E-Rank requires either tangible economic contribution or demonstration of D-Rank affinity thresholds. Dismissed."
Jack stood, his legs weak. As he left the booth, he passed the waiting area. Alfred was just being called, flashing a confident smile at the attendant. He saw Jack and gave a slow, mocking clap, mouthing the words: "Still F-Rank."
Jack walked out into the cold morning air. The system updated: *Assessment Passed. Stipend secured. Survival probability: 72%. Warning: Pattern of strategic underperformance noted. May trigger 'Low-Potential' tracking protocols in future.*
He'd passed. He'd survived the bureaucracy. But he'd also been cataloged as mediocre, written off as a non-threat. The victory tasted like ashes.
---
Date: 18th Frostweave – Evening
The knock at his door that evening wasn't Alfred. It was a woman in her thirties with sharp eyes and hair pulled into a severe bun. She wore nondescript gray coveralls.
"Jack Milstrom? Lena. From Marrow's."
She stepped inside without waiting, her eyes immediately going to the ward on the floor. "Hmm. Damaged Sanctified Ground. But stable. Your work?"
"Yes."
"Marrow said you were precise. And discreet." She placed a small case on his table, opening it to reveal five small, brass security wards—the kind used on apartment doors. Each was cracked, their runes dark. "A private collector needs these modified. They're keyed to a specific bloodline that's… diminished. They need to be re-keyed to a new signature. Quietly. No ATB logs."
Jack picked one up. The craft was good—solid D-Rank work. Re-keying was complex, legally restricted. "This is a Tier 4 violation."
"It is. Payment is eight hundred sigils. Upon satisfactory completion." She studied him. "Marrow said you have lines. No military work. No demonkin artifacts. These are civilian. Family heirlooms, legally disputed. The client wants them functional, not reported."
The money was more than his monthly stipend. It was security. It was materials. It was progression.
"How do I know this isn't a Compliance sting?"
Lena actually smiled. "If this were a sting, you'd already be in cuffs. The ATB doesn't pay eight hundred sigils for entrapment. They just break your door down."
The logic was sound. The risk was enormous. The need was greater.
"I'll do it," Jack said.
"Smart. Materials you'll need are in the case. You have three days." She turned to leave, then paused. "One more thing. The ward you made here. It's better than it should be. That's a valuable skill. And a dangerous one. Keep the improvements small. Incremental. The moment you make something too good for an F-Rank, people like me aren't the only ones who'll come knocking. The ones from the newsfeed? They hunt talent too. They just call it 'recruitment.'"
She left. Jack stared at the case of illegal work. He'd passed the bureaucracy only to dive deeper into the shadows.
As he began examining the first ward, his interface flickered again. This time, the text was clearer:
[CORE INTEGRITY: 0.009%]
[MEMORY FRAGMENT RECOVERED: 'THE BUREAUCRACY IS BOTH CAGE AND SHIELD. LEARN WHICH BARS TO BEND.']
[DAILY QUEST UPDATED: ESTABLISH LEGAL CRAFTING LICENSE (APPRENTICE TIER). REWARD: 100 CRAFTING POINTS, LEGAL PROCUREMENT ACCESS.]
The cage. The shield. And the slow, careful work of bending the bars, one illegal ward at a time.
Date: 18th Frostweave, 2026 GEC – 21:17
Next: Chapter 5 - "The Shadow's Price"