West Wind's breakfast was interrupted by a loud swearing inside Seventh's bone asylum. After a moment of loud knocks, snaps, and whacks that sounded suspiciously like Shadowbolts hitting the walls, they suddenly collapsed and the adventuring party saw a sweaty pile of a man tangled on dark animal pelts.

  Seventh stood up, gave one of the pelts a swift kick, and waved at the adventurers stunned silent. Jenn and Sylvia waved back before knowing what they were doing, and the others just... stared.

  “Morning. It was hot inside. I did what had to be done,” Seventh said after joining them at the low-burning campfire. Breakfast was crispbread with assortment of spreads, hard cheese, salted meat, and strong black tea.

  There was already a segmented bread and an empty cup waiting for Seventh, and he leaned towards the cheese. Janiq slapped his hand before Seventh reached the salty goodness.

  “Sparring first. You'll get lazy and pudgy after eating,” Janiq said while looking at Seventh's betrayed expression.

  “Sparring?”

  Janiq stood lightly up, and started to limber his arms up while walking away from the group. “I told you last night that I want to check out your combat capabilities. It won't take long.”

  Giving the food last longing look, Seventh followed Janiq. He heard low whispering coming from the group.

  “Bets?”

  “Five silvers to Seventh.”

  “I'll pass, thank you.”

  Turning back, Seventh saw Oran and Jenn shaking hands and smiling menacingly. He didn't have a great feeling about the sparring.

  “Don't mind them, focus over here.” Janiq drew Seventh's attention while slowly stretching his neck. “I don't mean to offend, but I believe you are at least two ranks lower than us. You winning would be a statistical improbability— or a miracle.”

  Seventh drew his axe from his belt and gave it a worrying look. “I'm good at bending the numbers. So, you're what— D-rank?”

  The question made Janiq stop his stretches, and give Seventh an odd look. “That's right... although we'd say Steel-rank.”

  “Oh.” Seventh made a small smile and became very interested about the claw marks on his axe's handle.

  Janiq cleared his throat with a light cough, drawing Seventh's attention. “The ranking system is quite old and odd, but most of South Valeria uses it instead of the Church's ranking scale. It was a culture shock to me too when I came here.” Janiq made a happy chuckle. “Imagine, me talking about Soul Levels in Adventurers' Guild. Everybody thought I was a nutter.”

  Promptly ignoring knowledge of Soul Levels, Church, and Adventuring Guild, and nodding like he knew what Janiq was talking about, Seventh nodded and steered the conversation to safer waters. “So, about the sparring. What are the rules?” He lifted his axe to a two handed grip. “We using sharps and magic?”

  “Yes.”

  Seventh blinked. “Really?”

  “Like I already said—“ Janiq smiled.”— I'm two ranks higher. I can take your hits. And don't worry, I'll just defend myself, no attack skills or attacks themselves.”

  Janiq drew a long, flat knife with his left hand. It had deep angled notches along one side and sharpened edge at the other. It had long curved cross guard protecting the fingers. He kept his right hand free, and took a sideways stance towards Seventh. “Sharps and magic, but no minions if you don't mind?”

  Maybe it was the blade or the stance, but something about Janiq suddenly felt dangerous. Seventh had a vivid mental image of a snake coiled and readying for a strike. He placed his left leg forward and lowered his axe at low ready.

  “I don't mind if you don't mind to take this little more seriously?” There was a little bit more edge in Seventh's voice than he meant to use, but something in Janiq's casualness had irked him.

  Noticing the tone, Janiq nodded. “Very well. Sharps, magic, and blood?”

  “Agreed.”

  The two men stared at each other for a moment. Both scanned the other from head to toe, checking the balance, tensing muscles, and minute changes in the opponent's stance.

  Seventh breathed slowly, and did something he was almost sure Janiq was also doing: channeling mana for explosive start. Debating between firing Shadowbolts or raising constricting Bone Walls, Seventh loosened his grip on the axe handle. Just a fraction, but a glint in Janiq's eyes told he had seen it.

  Sighing mentally, Seventh sprinted forward and let his right hand off the axe. The Shadowbolt sliced through the air towards Janiq's left shoulder, and the dagger wielding man easily dodged it by shifting his center of gravity and making a small sidestep. His stance was fractionally disturbed, something Seventh took an advantage of and made a wide swing from left to right, towards Janiq's midriff.

  Metal flashed as Janiq moved to block with ease. He had spun the dagger's notched side towards the axehead and it was now stuck on Seventh's weapon. With a twist, Janiq was in control of the swing and he guided it low and wide, away from his stomach with a safe margin.

  For a split second, Seventh was confused what had happened. His swing was wild, but he had been in control, and now he was losing his balance. He opened his left hand, letting the axe go wild while he pointed two fingers at Janiq. “Shadowbolt!”

  Janiq pulled Seventh's axe— and by consequence, his arm and whole body. Still keeping the dagger and the axe tangled together, the dagger wielding swordsman avoided the bolt of magic by extending his arm and slipping behind Seventh in one fluid motion, like a dancer circling his partner.

  Metal scraped metal as the weapons unbonded, and Janiq created more distance between the combatants with a backstep. As a parting gift, he slammed his right elbow at Seventh's lower spine, right beneath his battered leather armor.

  “Summon Bone Wall.”

  To Janiq's surprise, a Bone Wall rose quickly between them after the strike. A moment too late to block the hit, but the white structure bruised Janiq's hand while springing into being. Sensing a trap, Janiq hopped backwards with his skill and saw a box of bone manifesting where he just stood.

  Simple, but effective tactic if Janiq hadn't known about the Seventh's skill. Janiq narrowed his eyes. Little bit effective. Spells usually need a line of sight, chant, and wiggly fingers. Seventh couldn't possibly see behind the first wall but now...

  New walls started to rise from the ground behind Janiq. A puzzled look back was a slight mistake as a Shadowbolt aimed at his legs almost hit him. The dodge wasn't fluid or oozing with skill, but the swordsman kept his legs intact.

  Pretty good tactic, but Janiq had figured it out. He looked upwards and saw a green eye floating above him. The Wandering Eye had been forgotten by him, but a quick draw and dagger throw freed him from surveillance. It tried to dodge, but was too slow. Too low ranked.

  Seventh appeared behind the third or fourth wall he had risen— he and Janiq had kinda lost the count— and was clearly preparing another Shadowbolt holding his axe on his left hand— but froze.

  Raising an eyebrow, Janiq lowered his stance for better defense and reaction speed. He tensed his legs for a quick spurt, readying for a barrage of magic.

  Seventh nodded behind Janiq.

  Usually, that would read as the oldest trick in the book— the Book of War— but this being a friendlyish sparring, Janiq looked behind and saw the campfire surrounded by his partymembers just a dozen feet right behind him.

  Jenn was dipping his crispbread in salty broth, Sylvia was sipping her tea, Nevin wasn't interested in the spar and was inspecting Seventh's pelts while Oran checked if they had enough boiled water for more tea.

  Blinking, Janiq turned back at Seventh. He was making a spinning motion with his right hand.

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  Awkwardly, the two duelists shuffled, trying to keep the same distance between them as they moved. When Seventh was standing roughly at the same spot where Janiq had been, they both nodded and continued the fight.

  Seventh ran towards Janiq, blasting Shadowbolts. Janiq was making a relaxed saunter towards him and occasionally sidestepping to avoid bolt of magic. It was becoming more and more difficult as the distance between them shortened. The necromancer had a commendable amount of mana— maybe he had sneaked in a Mana Potion behind a wall?— and the barrage continued until they were at striking distance.

  Janiq actually riposted the last Shadowbolt with his dagger before Seventh switched back to axe tactics and made an upwards swing towards Janiq's rib cage.

  Again, the dagger flashed, but this time it had stabbed right below the axe head, lodging itself neatly behind the beard of the axe. Functionally it was the same as getting the blades stuck to each other, Janiq had the control again, and he forced the axe up while kicking Seventh's left knee under him.

  Seventh stumbled with a pained grunt. He felt his axe being slowly guided away from him, and he made a choice. Letting go from the axe, he actually surprised Janiq the second time, and got him to stumble a bit. It was all he needed, mana surging to his hand, he aimed and—

  Sharp pain in his right knee, and a blur of movement grabbed his hands and forced him to his knees. The axe clattered somewhere as it met the dungeon floor, and Seventh stared at his own pointed finger. Aimed straight at his own eye. He felt throbbing pain on his knees, and Janiq's vice-like grip holding him down.

  Janiq let out a strained breath of air. He didn't look like he even broke out a sweat. Seventh was breathing heavily, he had used a lot of mana on the walls and the last barrage. He was running on fumes.

  “Do you yield?”

  Looking at his own magic turned against himself, Seventh thought the question. He could just cancel the spell and suffer for some discomfort when the mana flowed back where ever it came from, and... bite Janiq?

  “Uh, Seventh?” Janiq had a questioning tone.

  “I'm thinking. Is biting allowed?”

  “I will poke you with your own finger if you don't yield.” The tone changed into slight annoyance with a hint of authority and smile.

  Seventh let out a sigh of his own. He wanted to land even one solid hit on Janiq. Well, that was something to do in the future.

  “Okay, okay. I yield.”

  Janiq beamed a smile and patted Seventh on the shoulder. “Great! Let's get some breakfast.”

  After helping the down kicked necromancer up, Janiq and Seventh joined the others. Oran was smugly accepting the five silver from pouting Jenn. “Ya never learn, Jenn. If you want some coin, put your bets on Janiq.”

  Jenn mad shrugged as she dipped the bread to her mug. “Eh, one day— one glorious day— I will rake in the wins, with interest!” She waved her soggy bread around, getting some on Sylvia. The elf flicked the sogg of her while glaring at Jenn.

  “Janiq gets into duels often?” Seventh asked as he accepted his own portion of the rations. He focused on the cheese.

  “Oh yeah— he spends all of his free time sparring and dueling at every Guild we come across. I think he has lost— what?— a dozen or so times? In our rank of course. He gets smacked around if he challenges Silvers,” Oran said.

  “That's actually nice to hear, thanks. Better to be beaten by a professional duelist than a complete rookie,” Seventh said while gnawing on the cheese and rubbing his bruised knees.

  He glanced at Janiq's weapon belt, the two swords and the dagger he didn't even use against him. Well, the dagger was thrown at his Eye, but that didn't count.

  “You have some class helping with those fancy moves? Something from... Cadral?” Seventh paused only a split second before remembering Janiq introducing himself.

  His knowledge was oddly sparse and holey at times. Sure, he knew what tea and bread was, but something big like geography? Big fat nothingness inside his memory.

  “Defensive Duelist. If I have a weapon in my hand, consider it as a shield too.” Janiq patted his sheathed odd dagger. “Correct tools of the trade help too. I picked up this parrying dagger from here. You got a melee class too, Seventh?”

  The question was casual, but Seventh could almost feel the unspoken etiquette. Janiq had shared his class, so Seventh was expected to share too. No harm in sharing, his classes weren't exactly great secrets.

  “Soldier. It's lower than necromancer, though.”

  “I see. Which one is your first class? Necromancer?”

  Seventh swallowed a dry piece of bread and washed it down with excellent tea— he'd have to ask which blend it was— and considered the question. Soldier was listed before Necromancer, and Scholar appeared after both of them, so Soldier was first?

  “No. Soldier, but it... I just haven't ranked it up.”

  Janiq nodded. “Just not your Path?”

  “No. Necromancer just rose because of necessity, and I have been slinging spells more than waving a spear— or axe around,” Seventh said.

  “We could tell. Your Might and Agility lowest Attributes too? You move like a slug in mud with arms made of twigs.” Oran interjected while packing up the cooking wares.

  “What kind of slug has arms?”

  “It's a metaphor, Jenn. I'm allowed to use them too.”

  “Oh yeah. The famous metaphor of the Twig Slugs. Truly the makings of a ballad.” Jenn was rolling her eyes around.

  “Anyway.” Janiq filled his voice with some serious scolding dad energy that shut the bickerers right up. “Your physical attributes are lacking. You need to raise them up or Essence and Focus get bottle necked too, strong magic needs strong body so you don't just... blow up.”

  “The term is Mana Cascade,” Sylvia said. “An uncontrolled rush of magic that isn't contained within the body, and triggers a chain reaction that pulls more mana out of your Core, continuing the cycle and tearing the body apart.”

  She turned to face Seventh before continuing, still holding the cup of tea on her hands. “But you don't need to fear that happening. You would have to push yourself far beyond your own capabilities and mana pool. You would render yourself unconscious with Mana Burn far before triggering the reaction.”

  Seventh had stopped eating, a piece of bread with green paste halfway up to his mouth. He gave the elf a thumbs up. “Got it, when I get headaches I stop casting magic.”

  “Or you could just train your body...” Oran muttered while securing straps of his backpack and checking the weight distribution. He was deliberately flexing and bulging his tree trunk like arms.

  “Sure! Kill the ratkin, raise the ratkin, and have them keep company while doing push-ups? Maybe some running company?”

  Oran gave Seventh a flat look. “I meant when we get back up! I don't care if you keep grinding your skills and hope for a Rank Up like a chump— or train.”

  There was something about Oran Seventh didn't quite like, and he had an inkling that the feeling was mutual. He did have a lot of complaints about the undead and their smell yesterday, and he was little blunt to Seventh. But he did actually give a good hint to raise Attributes.

  Seventh had to find out if there was some specialized training he had to do, or did just some basic muscle training and running around work. Seventh grinned at Oran as he finally bit into the bread.

  The paste was disgusting, reminding Seventh of a spoiled pickles— salted, then salted again. He tried to give Oran a placating smile, but it twisted into a disgusted grimace. The cabras wasn't amused.

  Seventh was able to speak after downing the rest of his tea down in one gulp. “By the gods, what is this paste made of? Past crimes of naughty pickles?”

  “Kinda. Salted pickle paste,” Jenn answered and chomped at her own food with a smile. Seventh shuddered.

  “Who in their right mind salts pickles?”

  Nevin and Sylvia raised their hands and Nevin spoke. “Elves. I like it.”

  “An acquired taste, I'm sure.” Seventh managed a strained smile. He could still taste the brine and salt.

  Nevin grabbed the oportunity, and while he had Seventh's attention, he pointed at the pelts he had neatly rolled and placed close to the campfire. He raised one of his eyebrows.

  Seventh nodded while trying to scrape his tongue clean with his teeth. “Umbrefel pelts. I told you yesterday— earlier today?— that I killed one.”

  Leaning forwards, Nevin grabbed one of the pelts and pointed at the tanned leather side of the hide.

  Seventh shrugged. “The body melted away. Left behind those pelts, a po— and ration bars.” He almost managed to stop himself before saying 'potion', but everybody noticed. They didn't bring it up immediately.

  The black-clad elf nodded in interest. He stared at the pelts, shifted his eyes at Seventh, and back at the pelts. He handed one to Seventh, but kept one in his hand. He pointed himself, and rubbed two fingers together?

  “Oh, you want to buy one? How much?”

  Two fingers up.

  “Two gold?” Seventh looked at the pelt on his hands. “Seems kinda cheap.”

  Nevin waved open palm upwards. Showed two fingers and pointed up.

  “Twenty? Two hundred?” Seventh raised the price seeing Nevin continuing pointing up. At two hundred he gave thumbs up.

  That was a lot of money. A lot of money. Average worker with a steady income could make a gold a day, but usually made couple silvers less. Two hundred golds was easily over half a year's salary, and Seventh had two pelts.

  He was silently weighing the pelt, making a rocking motion while he thought. “You sure? That... seems like a lot.”

  Before anybody could stop her, Jenn was leaning close to Seventh with a grin. “Of course! All rogues are experts in hide!”

  Everybody groaned at the joke— well, not Nevin, but he did roll his eyes almost out of his skull.

  “I think the price just went up... actually, no. You can keep it. As a payment to escort me to the upside.” Seventh's words stopped Sylvia from bonking Jenn with her staff, and the whole West Wind stared at him. “I mean... I kinda got it for free? And I truly appreciate you guys helping me out.”

  There was another of those little nudge-nudge-stare-stare conversations these adventuress made. If Seventh followed the conversation right, Janiq was opposing the offering in principle and wanted to get a fair price for their services. Others called him an idiot goody two shoes.

  Seventh smiled at the familiar feeling and watched the silent conversation come to an end.

  Janiq sighed loudly. “We thank you for the offering, and gladly take it after we get to the Bastion. I think we have wasted enough time already and need to get moving. Nevin, give Seventh his pelt back. He stays in the middle with Sylvia.”

  The leader of West Wind hadn't said anything about his and Seventh's spar, but his decision to put Seventh in the middle with the wizard was all was needed to say. Wizards were important support party members, and needed to see both forwards and backwards to cast spells effectively. Walking in the middle of the formation was also the safest position and hardest to ambush, but if a party was big enough one or two members were protecting the wizard. But Seventh wasn't doing that. He was the one put in the safest position and being protected.

  Not that anybody was expecting any trouble. West Wind was currently slightly too relaxed for a dungeoneering team. Metal clanged there, a laugh echoed in the stone, and Sylvia lit up the space with balls of light glowing in white.

  Like a well-oiled machine, the adventurers picked up their backpacks and gear, and took their positions. Seventh wasn't surprised to see that the ladle wasn't actually Oran's weapon, he had two large one-handed axes hanging from his belt while he hoisted the small mountain that he called a backpack up.

  And like a bucket of tar, Seventh ground the well-oiled machine to a halt with a single skill. He held the pelt on his hand, and sent it to his voidspace. Everybody saw that. Everybody turned their heads to stare at Seventh.

  “What?”

  “Seventh, my dearest of all my friends. Was that an inventory Skill?” Oran's voice was so sweet Seventh expected to see honey dripping from his mouth.

  “Aaah... yeess?”

  ““DIBS!”

  “Please, ...”