The sounds from the boarding house rise slowly, Buck rises with it. The cellar room holds the night longer than the rooms above. Cool stone. Damp air. A sense of being tucked away rather than buried. He sits up, stretches once, and lets the quiet settle.
“All right,” he says softly. “Readiness assessment.”
There is a brief pause, the kind that tells him the answer is already prepared.
You’re asking earlier than expected, B.U.C.K. replies.
Buck smiles faintly. “You told me to watch for inflection points.”
Fair, the AI says. Stand by.
The HUD appears, restrained and orderly. Less broadsheet today, more ledger. Columns. Margins. A document meant to be audited.
READINESS REVIEW
Buck exhales. “Define moderate.”
You often escalate when threatened, B.U.C.K. says. That hasn’t changed.
Buck nods. “Not planning to.”
Planning and instincts are different subsystems, the AI replies.
“Yeah,” Buck says. “I know.”
He waits.
Overall readiness is acceptable for continued surging, B.U.C.K. continues. Provided discipline is maintained.
Buck leans back against the wall. “Good. Next question.”
Of course.
This tale has been pilfered from Royal Road. If found on Amazon, kindly file a report.
“How far do the next few jumps take us,” Buck asks. “Assuming I don’t screw it up.”
The now familiar spiral appears, careful and deliberate. The first segments glow, modest and restrained.
The next surge advances one year, B.U.C.K. says. Again.
Buck blinks. “Again.”
Yes, the AI replies calmly. The sequence repeats before it grows.
Buck lets out a short laugh. “That feels intentional.”
It is, B.U.C.K. says. The universe checks whether you learned anything the first time.
The HUD resolves into a simple table, crisp and clear.
| Surge | Forward Jump | Required Rest |
| Completed | 1 year | 1 week |
| Next | 1 year | 1 week. |
| Then | 2 years | 2 weeks |
| Then | 3 years | 3 weeks |
| After | 5 years | 5 weeks |
Buck studies it.
“So no rapid acceleration,” he says. “Just ever widening steps.”
Exactly, B.U.C.K. replies. Distance and recovery grow together. Miss either and nothing happens.
Buck nods slowly. “That forces some planning.”
It forces patience, the AI corrects. Planning is the side effect.
Buck rubs his chin. “Which means I can’t improvise my way forward forever.”
Correct, B.U.C.K. says. You need income that survives absence.
“And storage,” Buck adds. “Because not everyone is Maeve.”
The HUD shifts again.
STRATEGIC CONSIDERATIONS
Buck taps the air where the last line appears in his vision. “Let’s talk about that.”
There is a pause. Not hesitation. Deliberate timing.
Wellllllllll, you actually already have a solution, B.U.C.K. says.
Buck squints. “I really hate when you phrase things like that.”
Because they’re usually true, the AI replies.
“You’re saying I’ve had storage this whole time.”
Access to it, B.U.C.K. corrects.
Buck straightens. “You didn’t think that was worth mentioning.”
Not until now, the AI says. Up to this point you were living day to day. You don’t give a child a sword before they can stand.
Buck exhales. “We’re back to that again.”
Wax on, B.U.C.K. says immediately.
Buck closes his eyes. “I swear to God.”
Wax off, the AI continues. Mr. Miyagi did not show Daniel the crane kick on day one. He waited until the muscles knew what to do.
Buck opens his eyes. “So what is it.”
The Time Locker, B.U.C.K. says.
The words land with weight.
It’s a fixed point in time, a microsecond that exists outside normal progression, the AI continues. Same space. Same time. Every time. You open it like a door. You can walk in. You can see what you’ve stored. You can take things out or put them back.
Buck’s mind races. “And it doesn’t move when I surge.”
Correct, B.U.C.K. says. Objects don’t suffer temporal shear. Living things do. Which is why you can’t store people. Or animals. Or yourself.
Buck nods. “What about quick access to things?”
You get a limited set of quick storage bins and limited slots for smaller objects, the AI replies. Ten for now. Call them from the HUD and the system puts the item in your hand or equips it on your body if possible.
Buck lets out a slow breath. “That uh… that changes everything.”
It certainly changes sustainability over time, B.U.C.K. corrects.
Buck shakes his head. “You really could’ve mentioned this sooner.”
It wasn’t important until today. You weren’t ready and the information would have been a distraction, the AI says gently. Yesterday you were worried about rent. Today you’re worried about decades.
Buck smiles despite himself.
“All right,” he says. “Income that compounds. Storage that lasts. One careful step at a time.”
Now you’re thinking like someone who survives time, B.U.C.K. replies.
Buck heads for the stairs, hand brushing the stone wall.
“Tonight,” he says, “we inventory.”
Tonight, the AI agrees, I show you what you forgot you were already carrying.
Above him, the boarding house wakes and somewhere just off the map of ordinary reality, a door stands ready to be opened.
