Basic Spells for the Alchemical Aspirant.
The first book so far had been dense, theoretical, and frustratingly vague on practical application, but it had given him one concrete thing: a name for the Mana pool in his gut.
The soulspring. Neat.
He mentally gripped a thread of the energy and pulled.
The sensation was distinct, completely unlike the kinetic burn of Stamina. Stamina was heat, friction, and explosive potential that lived in his muscles. Mana flowed with an icy quality, heavy and viscous like mercury sliding through his veins.
He braced himself, waiting for the grating pain of [Channel Erosion].
It never came.
The cold current surged up through his shoulder and down his right arm without a single hitch. The pathway felt smooth, pristine, and entirely separate from the damaged infrastructure that carried his physical power.
Relief swept through him. He’d been worried that his damaged channels would impact his ability to cast Spells, but it seemed the damage was strictly physical. His magical potential was intact.
Encouraged, he pushed the chill stream of Mana down into his palm. He could feel it pooling there at the edge of his spirit, completely under his control.
He didn't try to form a rune or do anything fancy. He just wanted to project it. To push the energy out of his spirit and keep it stable in the air for a single second.
He extended his hand, palm up, and willed it beyond the total control of his body.
The Mana responded, seeming to seep out through his pores. But the moment it left the domain of his body it rebelled. It didn't maintain the liquid density it kept inside of him. It simply unraveled, bleeding into the air like smoke in a gale, dissipating before he could even attempt to give it structure.
He tried again.
This time he visualized the energy as one of the runes he'd been studying for the alchemy Spells. He wanted to see if intending for it to fit an arcane mold made a difference. He drove it out again.
Same result. The Mana poured out, turned to formless mist, and vanished.
Frustration began to creep in.
He'd been waiting for the instinct to take over. He waited for that sudden, clarifying "click" that happened whenever he picked up a spear or evaded a strike—the moment where [Savant of the Body] took the wheel and translated his Intent into flawless muscle memory.
Nothing happened.
Right. This requires mental control, not physical instinct. But he still expected [Savant of the Mind] to operate in a similar fashion for magic…
…and then he was hit with the sinking dread of a check engine light flickering the day after his warranty expired.
He recalled the specific text describing his mental Impartment back in the white void.
"Accelerated learning across all cognitive disciplines. Master languages in days, comprehend complex theories in hours, develop new applications of knowledge through innovative connections. First manifested by Grimble Whistlewick the Quick, who mastered seventeen schools of magic in less than a century."
Caleb stopped abruptly, eliciting a curse from whoever had been following behind him and had to make a quick dodge. He lowered his head, face meeting palm. He'd assumed that mastering magic would be just as simple as mastering martial techniques. Rereading the description revealed the truth: the Impartment accelerated magical comprehension, both the theory and understanding, while leaving execution to practice and repetition.
Maybe I should have picked something like [Savant of Magic] or [Mana Manipulation] instead?
He sighed and continued on towards the inn.
There was no cheat code here. No Impartment to smooth over the rough edges or grant him unearned proficiency. For the first time since waking up in this world, he was just... normal.
Manipulating Mana outside of his body felt like he was trying to write calligraphy with his non-dominant hand. He had an idea of what he needed to do, but his mental dexterity was clumsy and uncoordinated.
I might actually have to learn this the hard way.
He was surprised when he realized that he wasn't in the least discouraged. If anything, it made him excited.
He'd spent months assuming his Impartments would carry him through every challenge, that they were the solution to any problem he might face. They were extraordinary tools, but they weren't omnipotent. Some things required time and genuine effort—the kind of work that couldn't be shortcut by even the most powerful abilities.
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He took a breath, preparing to try again.
"Thal!"
Caleb jerked his head up.
Felicity stood ten yards away, having just rounded a corner. The quartermaster of the Adventurer's Guild was usually a portrait of half-elven composure, her bun severe and her expression unreadable. Now, her face was flushed, her chest heaving as if she'd sprinted from the Hall. Strands of dark hair had escaped her immaculate styling, sticking to her damp forehead.
"Felicity." He blinked. "What's wrong?"
"You need to come with me." She paused to take a breath. "Now!"
Her tone stopped any thought of questions. Caleb fell into step beside her as she turned and started jogging toward the northern village gate.
"What happened?"
"Your father finally received a confirmed sighting of the mosshide bear that killed your mother."
Caleb's stomach lurched. This… was not on my bingo card for today. "Someone spotted it?"
"Two hours ago. Near an abandoned cottage, about a mile northwest of Deadfall." Felicity's voice was clipped and rushed. "He bought stimulants from Zarven's shop. Combat draughts. The kind that give increased speed and strength but burn through Vitality like kindling." She glanced at Caleb, her brown eyes concerned. "The kind that aren't typically sold in more reputable establishments. Then he went into the Virethane. Alone."
Caleb said nothing, his mind already calculating.
Rufan was a washed-up E-tier drunk. Even at his prime, a comparable tier mosshide would be a dangerous opponent. Now, fueled by artificial courage and years of rage, he was stumbling into a suicide mission with nothing but pride and grief to sustain him.
"A team is waiting at the gate," Felicity continued. "Your folks' old party. They wanted to leave immediately, but they're waiting for you."
When they reached the gate they met a group of five adventurers standing in the shadow of the wall, their gear worn but well-maintained. Each one radiated the quiet competence of professionals, their countenances steady in a way that spoke of experience.
Felicity stopped at the edge of the group, turning to face Caleb.
"They didn't linger because they think you'll make a tactical difference." Her voice was gentle. "They didn't expect to reach him in time. They wanted you there for the end. So you could say goodbye."
Caleb looked at the veterans. Their faces were grim, set with the resignation of people who had already accepted the outcome. This was a recovery mission, plain and simple.
He had a hard time processing the situation in front of him. He felt no love for Rufan Caldorn.
The man had been a monster to Thal. An abusive, bitter drunk who blamed his son for his wife's death and channeled his grief into cruelty. Caleb had no obligation to this stranger, no emotional investment in his survival.
But Thal had loved him once.
Caleb could feel it in the fragmented memories—the vision of a child's desperate hope that his father might return to the man he'd been before misery consumed him. That hope had died slowly, beaten out by years of malice and neglect, but it had been real.
I owe the boy that much.
Thal would have wanted to be there. He would go for the memory of the father who had existed before the bear. For Meriel, who had loved the man despite his flaws.
So be it.
"I'm ready. Thank you, Felicity."
Felicity nodded and stepped back, her role complete.
One veteran approached, a tall man with a weathered face and a neatly trimmed gray beard. He wore a suit of segmented iron plate that looked heavy enough to anchor a ship, with a utilitarian longsword hanging at his hip and a heater shield strapped to his back. He got close enough that Caleb's passive aura could pick up the deep crimson lake of a martial E-tier, but he was careful not to prod it actively and break propriety.
"Thalorin." The man's voice was rough but not unkind. "You've grown."
Caleb recognized him from one of Thal's memories—a fragment of a summer evening, years ago, when this man had sat at their table and shared a meal with his parents. His name was Kamari.
"Kamari." Caleb inclined his head.
The veteran's eyes softened for a moment, grief flitting across his features like a candle flame in the wind. "Your mother would be proud of you, lad. You've turned into quite a fighter."
Caleb didn't know how to respond to that. He settled for a simple nod.
Kamari gestured to his team. "You may remember Amina and Jorik. The other two are Senna and Bryon."
Caleb observed Kamari's crew. Amina, a lean woman with a bow and quiver of black-fletched arrows, was checking gear, her movements efficient and rigid. Jorik, a stocky man with twin hand axes strapped to his belt, stood with thick arms folded. Senna, a scarred woman who carried a healer's satchel alongside her short-sword, expression gentle despite the old wounds that marked her face. Bryon, the youngest of the group, barely older than Thal, wielded a spear similar to his own, and listened with the deliberate confidence of someone still proving themselves.
They each gave him solemn nods.
"We're not expecting miracles," Kamari said quietly. "The draughts Rufan bought will give him a couple hours of false strength before his body gives out. He's likely already consumed them, and we're eating into that time."
"Then why go?"
"Because he was our brother once." Kamari's jaw tightened, the muscle jumping beneath his beard. "And because Meriel would have gone for any of us, no questions asked. We owe her this."
Caleb mentally reviewed his gear. His spear was strapped to his back. His boiled leather armor, reinforced with groveback tortoise shell plates, was already on. His harvesting knife hung at his belt.
He was as prepared as he could be. He wore his armor everywhere now, even on casual walks through town. The amount of unplanned, violent encounters he'd experienced since entering this world had generated a healthy amount of paranoia. And as far as he was concerned, paranoia was tantamount to survival. He nodded to Kamari.
Kamari turned to the group. "Let's move."
The veterans fell into formation without a word. Kamari took point. Bryon and Jorik flanked. Senna and Amina brought up the rear, with Caleb positioned in the middle.
They stepped past the gate and into the treeline of the Virethane.
The open air and sunlight of Deadfall gave way to the perpetual twilight beneath the canopy. Towering Sitka spruce and western hemlock rose high overhead, their trunks draped in thick layers of moss and lichen. The air smelled of wet earth, decaying wood, and the faint, green tang of living growth.
The veterans moved quickly. Their footfalls were nearly silent, each step placed with deliberate care to avoid snapping branches or disturbing the undergrowth.
Caleb matched their pace, his senses honed.
The forest canopy thickened. With every mile they crossed, a strange pressure built behind his eyes—a vibration, like a tuning fork struck against a nerve.
A phantom familiarity took hold. He stepped over a gnarled root system before he’d fully registered it was there. He anticipated the dip in the terrain a hundred yards before they reached it. His body knew this path, even if his mind couldn't quite locate the map.
Why do I know this?
The question scratched at the back of his mind, unsettling in its persistence. It felt like a warning encoded in his marrow. Thal’s subconscious railed at him, a silent siren wailing in the dark, while the context remained locked away behind whatever defect kept him from accessing the boy's memories directly.
The trees ahead began to thin, the dim light shifting brighter. The silence here hung taut, charged with the static of violence that had barely settled.
Caleb tightened his grip on his spear. He remained ignorant of what waited in that clearing, but the specter of Thal inside him trembled.
They had arrived at the end of the line.
Chapter 34 revision: dampstone turtle will henceforth be known as groveback tortoise (context: armor plates woven into Caleb's leather equipment). This is happening because I'm dumb and created a dampwood salamander too. This is better. Promise.