Chapter 34

  The thread shimmered against Ren’s skin—an almost invisible pulse just beneath the surface, like a second heartbeat. He crouched, one foot braced against the mossy stone of the old terrace, sweat drying cold on his neck.

  Across from him, Leo twirled a stick like it was a pointer and not the branch of a fallen tree. “Try it again. But this time, instead of focusing on the Thread, try focusing on you. Imagine your body like a pipe that’s been clogged up with garbage emotions and half-baked instincts. Now flush it.”

  “That’s the dumbest metaphor I’ve ever heard,” Ren muttered.

  “Wow. Hurtful. My metaphors are award-winning.”

  Ren didn’t bother arguing. He took a breath. Then another. Slower this time. In. Out.

  The Aether Thread quivered—closer now, not something foreign but something familiar. The same thing he’d used in the cave, when panic had risen like floodwater in his throat. That flare of strength, that unnatural clarity. The rush. He hadn’t even realized he’d drawn on it until after the fact.

  This time, he reached with intent.

  And the world sharpened.

  Colors brightened. His limbs felt lighter. Faster. Like he could dodge an arrow without thinking. The ache in his shoulder dulled, and even the throb in his temple seemed to fade to background noise. His remaining hand clenched—steadier than it had been all day.

  Leo’s eyes widened. “You did it.”

  “Yeah.” Ren flexed his fingers, then stumbled back a step, knees buckling.

  The world slammed back down.

  He landed hard, gasping as if he’d sprinted a mile without stopping. Muscles burned. His heart pounded like it was trying to tear through his chest.

  Leo jogged over, holding out a water flask. “That’s the crash. You’re borrowing from something deeper than stamina. Think of it like taking a loan from your soul. Not great interest rates, either.”

  Ren drank and coughed. “You could’ve warned me.”

  “I did. Several times. You just assumed I was being metaphorical.” Leo sat beside him, letting out a breath. “It’s a powerful ability. But don’t abuse it. It’s not meant to be sustainable. The Order calls it a Thread Surge.”

  Ren wiped his mouth. “I’ve used it before. While testing the Threads out. Well, not to this extent but I have used it.”

  Leo didn’t answer immediately. He picked up a small pebble and rolled it between his fingers. “Yeah. I figured.”

  Ren raised an eyebrow. “You did?”

  “I’ve been piecing together some things,” Leo said, quieter now. “From the traces left behind, the preliminary scans, what little energy signatures we could get from the ruins—assuming you can call them ruins. It’s more like the place exists slightly out of phase. Aether. Very old. And there’s… a resonance.”

  “A resonance?,” Ren echoed.

  Leo nodded. “My current theory? There’s something in that cave. Something dormant. Not alive—at least not in the way we’d recognize. But active. And powerful enough to warp the space around it. Enough that it’s drawing in beasts like the wolf you fought. Maybe others. Like it’s calling to them. Maybe a powerful Artifact.”

  “Great, more weird stuff.”

  Leo leaned back on his hands, eyes scanning the tree canopy overhead. “There’s more. The Order’s sending an expedition.”

  Ren’s head snapped toward him. “What?”

  “To the cave. In a few weeks. Full scouting team. Mages. Archivists. They want to catalog whatever’s there—and maybe secure the artifact, if it is one. Assuming it doesn’t kill them.”

  “They don’t think I damaged it, do they?”

  “No,” Leo said. “They don’t know how you found it in the first place. It’s part of the reason the Writ-Bound called that meeting. You’re a non-combatant, technically. No scouting background. And somehow, you stumbled into one of the most potentially important sites in the last decade.”

  Ren frowned. “So they think I’m lying.”

  “Not exactly. Just… wondering what else you’re not saying.”

  “I’m not hiding anything.”

  “I know. That’s what makes it so weird. You weren’t supposed to find that cave. Not even the top trackers have found Aether traces that powerful in the field. You, meanwhile, walk in with a bow, a tiny dagger, no real combat experience and a suspiciously tasty mushroom stew.”

  Ren closed his eyes.

  He could still feel it—that strange second heartbeat. That thread beneath the skin.

  “Teach me more,” he said.

  Leo grinned. “You’re finally asking nicely.”

  “Don’t ruin it.”

  “No promises.”

  They trained again the next morning.

  The focus now was control—not just pulling a Thread in the middle of panic, but guiding it precisely. Leo’s exercises were ridiculous at times—balancing on one foot while manipulating a falling leaf, drawing exact thread paths through stone circles he’d marked with colored chalk, even making Ren attempt a thread-surge mid-sprint.

  “You’re lucky I only have one arm,” Ren muttered as he collapsed into the grass for the fourth time that day. “Or I’d strangle you.”

  “I’ll put that on my tombstone,” Leo said, scribbling something down. “‘Beloved scholar. Loved by the world. Smartest to ever exist. Strangled by a one-armed chef.’”

  Ren chuckled. He wasn’t whole.

  Not yet.

  But he was healing.

  _______

  Two weeks later

  Ren flipped the knife mid-air, caught it with his good hand, and sliced through the bitterleaf stalk in one clean stroke. The rhythmic clack of blade against board was almost meditative.

  The stew behind him hissed as the lid puffed with steam, and Ren turned just in time to stir before the broth could foam over. The rich, spiced scent of smoked saltroot, pan-seared flycap, and mana-cracked marrow filled the makeshift kitchen behind his tent —what Leo called his “culinary lair.”

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  It was no Sleazy Snake but it was still decent.

  He reached for a jar of cracked sunpepper flakes, added a cautious pinch, and watched the broth shift color, deepening from amber to a smoky crimson. It smelled divine. It also hurt his eyes.

  Ren grinned.

  “Still overcompensating with spice, I see.”

  Leo leaned against the wall, arms crossed, fresh bandages wrapped around one of his fingers.

  “You’re the only person I know who can almost combust himself with enthusiasm.”

  “I consider it a talent.” Leo tilted his head toward the pot. “Is that… mana marrow?”

  “Some of the initiates brought back a mana-infused boar, no idea how that even works but if I can cook with it, works for me.”

  “And they just gave it to you?”

  Ren smirked. “I made them lunch. Twice.”

  He moved the stew off the heat and uncapped a small jar using his threads, tilting it just enough to let the thick, iridescent oil drizzle across the surface. The reaction was instant—small plumes of faintly blue steam curled upward as the meat simmered.

  Leo approached, fascinated. “You’re doing it instinctively now. The thread control. You don’t even notice.”

  Ren blinked.

  He hadn’t noticed.

  “You’re getting stronger again, adapting to your new situation.” Leo said. Not just physically. Your Mana and Aether control is worlds above just two weeks ago.”

  “I guess that’s what having to replace an arm with mana will do to you.”

  “Perhaps.”

  Leo perked up. “About what?”

  “I was still in that cave. For weeks. Every time I trained, I was fighting it again. And every time I cooked, I was trying to forget.”

  He looked down at the bowl he’d just plated—steamed glade-rice, the mana-marinated stew pooled across it, topped with a ribbon of flash-fried ghostkelp for bite. Balanced. Rich. Spicy enough to make Leo cry.

  “But today,” Ren said softly, “I cooked like I used to before.”

  Leo whistled. “You’re one monologue away from a memoir.”

  “Shut up and get a spoon.”

  They ate in companionable silence, seated on overturned crates and half-unrolled rugs, steam curling into the warm evening air. Outside, the base buzzed with quiet purpose. Scouts coming and going. Mages exchanging reports. Somewhere, an archivist shouted angrily at a pigeon.

  Ren exhaled.

  It felt normal. Almost.

  He then decided to go over his system notifications

  [You have reached Level 16]

  [Stat Growth Applied: +2 Intelligence, +2 Perception, +1 Dexterity, +2 Free Stat Points]

  [You have reached Level 17]

  [Stat Growth Applied: +2 Intelligence, +2 Perception, +1 Dexterity, +2 Free Stat Points]

  Ren blinked.Two levels. In two weeks.

  Normally, he was lucky to scrape out one level in that time, Hell, even fighters would probably only get 2-3 max. He couldn’t even imagine how few other non-combatants would gain.

  He pulled up his stat sheet, confirming it again. The four stat points ready to distribute.

  It was later that evening when Ethan came.

  He didn’t knock.

  The door to the training dorm clicked open, hinges groaning like they hadn’t been oiled in a decade. Ren looked up from his notes just as Ethan stepped inside, his dark coat still wet with mountain mist.

  There was a brief silence. The kind that stretched. Heavy, uncertain.

  Then Ethan sighed and walked in.

  “You’re not dead,” he said.

  Ren arched a brow. “Working on it.”

  Ethan’s lip twitched — not quite a smile. Not quite forgiveness either.

  He pulled over a chair and sat down across from Ren. No games this time. No riddles or cryptic mage chatter. Just the tired weight of a man who’d spent too many nights wondering if his newest recruit would bleed out in some cave halfway to madness.

  “I read Leo’s reports. And the healer’s,” Ethan said finally. “You stabilized. You trained. You listened. Mostly.”

  “Is this where you chew me out?” he asked.

  “No. This is where I tell you that I’m not pressing for punishment.” Ethan’s gaze didn’t waver. “You’ve suffered enough. And… I believe you. About this anyways.”

  Ren blinked. That last part — the belief — hit harder than he expected.

  “Thanks,” he said quietly.

  Ethan leaned back in the chair, studying him. “But there’s something else.”

  Ren felt it coming. The weight of the words. The sharpness buried behind them.

  “You’re not going on the raid,” Ethan said.

  Ren stiffened. “What?”

  “The Dungeon I mentioned a few weeks ago, you're not coming.”

  “But that was the whole reason I—” Ren stood, voice rising. “You said I’d earned it. I’ve trained for it. I need this.”

  “That was when you still had both arms. You can't exactly keep training with Sinclair one-handed.”

  Ren opened his mouth. Closed it again. Anger prickled behind his ribs, hot and humiliating.

  He wasn’t some broken thing. He wasn’t useless.

  “Then where do I go?” he asked.

  His voice came out tight, measured only because he was holding off the angry remarks until he heard him out.

  Ethan sighed and rubbed the bridge of his nose. He looked tired. Not the kind of tired you fix with sleep. The kind that sank into bone.

  “There’s been a shift,” he said. “The raid I mentioned — the one scheduled weeks ago? We’re not going through with it. At least, not the way we planned.”

  Ren frowned. “Why?”

  “You remember me talking about The Collapse? Church agents moving in places they shouldn't be. Scout teams going quiet. Our analysts think we’ve been watching the wrong site. That the real action — whatever’s actually happening — might be centered on this dungeon. The one you stumbled into.”

  Ren went still.

  “You think they’re after something in the cave?”

  “We don’t know,” Ethan said. “But they’re definitely up to something. Too many signs. Too much movement. And the mana around that place is... off. Wild, ancient. Our mages say it feels older than recorded history — like the whole place is stitched together wrong. But we can’t get a proper read on it without sending in a dedicated team.”

  He met Ren’s eyes.

  “That’s happening in ten days.”

  Ren straightened, heart pounding.

  “You’re going in?”

  “I’m leading one of the teams. A secondary force. While the main party secures the outer ruins and watches for Church interference, I’ll be taking a small strike group inside the cave — to find out what’s causing the distortions, and if there’s anything down there worth locking down or extracting.”

  “And me?” Ren asked.

  Ethan hesitated. “You’ll stay at the support camp. Just outside the perimeter.”

  Ren’s jaw tensed, but Ethan raised a hand.

  “Listen. You’re not being benched. We need someone we can trust with the support role. You’ve seen what your food can do when it’s laced with threadwork. It’s not just nutrition. You’re able to actually enhance the Order’s forces using your food, ‘Buffs’ as the System calls it. That’s a bigger edge than most realize — and this time, we’re giving you full access to our alchemy resources, any ingredients you need or want, It’s at your disposal. If it’s not in our stores, we can even go out into the forest and help you forage.”

  Ren exhaled slowly. “So I’m cooking.”

  “You’re arming us,” Ethan corrected. “With mana-infused meals designed for combat ops. Stamina regulation, mental focus, resistance boosts, — whatever you can squeeze out of the system, we need it. Because when we go in, we’ll be blind and possibly outnumbered. The food you provide might be the difference between one hour of survival or five.”

  Ren’s mind raced.

  “And what's in it for me?”

  “A replacement.”

  Ren’s heart stuttered.

  Ren stared.

  “It’s not a real arm,” Ethan said. “But it moves and feels like one. More durable. Built from high-grade arcane alloys, stabilized core enchantments, and I can get it modified to not only be compatible with but enhance your threads.”

  Ren’s breath caught.

  “You’d have to train with it. Quickly. Learn its quirks. But if you’re serious about helping — if you’re in — I can get it cleared for you.”

  A slow, hollow silence filled the room. The sound of hammers and distant shouting faded to the background.

  Ten days. A supply post. Mana-infused food as their lifeline.

  And a new arm.

  Ren didn’t flinch this time when he stood.

  “I’m in.”

  Ethan smiled, but there was a weight behind it. “Then report to the artificers tomorrow morning. They’ll get you fitted, run calibrations. The arm’s not perfect — still in testing — but it’s yours if you can handle it.”

  Ren nodded once.

  “And Ren?”

  He looked up.

  “This is your second and final chance, I hope you’ll do some good with it.”