It wasn’t nervousness at all, Mason finally realized after pacing a hundredth time across the tiny, half-wrecked space that made up his temporary home. Neither was it just some general sense of discomfort from being in a city full of people he could hardly identify with- he honestly spared them few thoughts at all in his pacings.

What kept him unable to sit down or rest was a general sense of disquiet at the fact that nothing loomed ahead. His first several days in the Trials he had been lucky if he fell asleep through anything other than forced unconsciousness brought on by Mana Sickness or a lack of stamina. And each time that had happened he had less slept and more recovered.

He remembered the time he was with the Biord and knocked unconscious by the weight of stealing two souls in the span of a day, and when he was travelling with the band and passed out from trail weariness. He knew he had actually slept at some point, but he could hardly think of a time he had laid his head down and let his body relax itself into sleep.

And even when he did have some say in the manner of his rest, it was always a brief bout of recovery so that he had strength to gather food in the morning, or plunge deeper into a dark cave. It hadn’t been long, but this had quickly become his new norm. Mason had to accept this as a rule, as he had accepted so many impossible things.

To survive, one had to put aside all preconceptions and respond to each choice with only the question of whether a particular option would make one stronger.

But now there was no threat. He had been offered free room and board by the council of New Marra in return for his services rendered and his agreements to train under and join Torysen’s Roving Band. Honestly though, he would have likely been granted anything he needed merely for his status as ambassador. There was no illusion that the threat of the humans appearing en masse held a great deal of sway for him.

And tomorrow he had been specifically told to rest and familiarize himself with the city’s services. Training had been withheld, and in a quiet way, likely forbidden. Leornal and Shaywise had suggested it separately, and their combined wisdom had made it law. Mason would be of no use to anyone if he wasn’t able to begin processing what he had been through, as well as the many strange powers forming within him.

But he wished for nothing more than an easy way to avoid having to really plunge through those complexities now that he had time to do so casually. It was fine to address his stats or talk to Geralt and Mowry when he was rushed and desperate, but to really begin to contemplate the ramifications of everything he had done…

He wasn’t certain his mind could handle it.

Instinct had done much and more to get him this far, especially as he now suspected that the influence of his Demon persona had begun to sink in almost as soon as he began using the staff and the Mardun Mana.

But instinct had also driven him to kill, and not just beasts. There were several Biord who were probably only his enemies because they too were trying to survive. He had helped Terk, Lany, Bazy, Shovelknight and… whoever the other one was, sure, but he had killed those two guards in the next room not even because they were in his way, or threatening his friend, but simply because they were wearing a shoddy uniform and stood between him and the potions he thought he might need later.

Hell, he hadn’t even used those potions until way later than what he thought they’d serve for.

What made him most uncomfortable was that he really didn’t care to know their names or their histories. He wasn’t upset they were dead anymore than he was upset about the deaths of Mowrytal or the gremlins. He knew that by the rules he was raised by, he should feel terrible. Most likely if those lives had been what his trial with the council was about, he would have expressed guilt and remorse for the sake of those watching.

But without an accuser, he felt little to nothing but a twittering restlessness.

Perhaps, he considered, what he was really feeling was fear. His mind had accepted the cruel reality that this world was dangerous, and his instincts had wrapped themselves around that idea to accept that he would fight for his life no matter the cost. But now that he wasn’t fighting for his life, it seemed uncertain whether those instincts had been truly correct at all.

In his old world, he only had to really worry about whether or not it was right to report less of his tips to the IRS while he delivered pizza.

Thinking about it that way, he began chuckling to himself. It wasn’t that he was wholly unequipped to make moral judgments on himself- he had studied some philosophy after all. But he remembered a story of Aristotle- or maybe Socrates- who had been imprisoned and put on death row. All of his friends had a great plan to save him, but he turned them down. He insisted that if he were to do that- rebel against the state which he had always supported, put his friends at risk, save his own skin- he’d be denying his values and it wouldn’t be worth him escaping at all.

Mason didn’t think of himself as any great moral teacher, though: If it were him, he’d have been out of there that night and working on a new value system.

His mind continued to circle around itself like this as the night went on. He’d pick up an idea, toy with it, and dismiss it as soon as it became uncomfortable or heavy. There was a lesson there, but he was not of the mind to learn it. Instead, he found himself almost hoping for a new threat. If there was danger, a problem to be solved or something to survive, he could pour all of his energy into it and then not worry at all about who he was becoming or what he was willing to do.

Mason sighed, finally sitting down on the rough excuse for a couch in the main room then falling backwards so that he was sprawled out staring at the ceiling. What it really came down to was a question of values.

Was it worth it for him to become strong even if it wasn’t essential?

Leornal, after all, had access to magic his whole life, yet still struggled to learn combat spells now that they were relevant. Eventually there was a good chance that humanity could fortify itself to the point that it wouldn’t be necessary to reach any great strength. He could participate in the general defense, maybe fighting off goblins and gremlins, but why should he push himself beyond that?

Mason thought about the rune that was simmering in his chest, as well as the small white egg of his soul, surrounded by the pool of mana that grew deeper and wider with each passing day.

If he did nothing at all, the few Focus Points he had left would still improve him over the next few months. If he did just a little, enough to complete some of his challenges, perhaps he could gain enough Focus Points from them to become much stronger than he ever could have training on Earth.

But he wanted more. He wanted to see the look on Torysen’s face when he could cross blades with her and put her on the defensive. He wanted to help push back the Corrosi, or meet Artorias without fearing immediate obliteration. Indiscriminate Force was an ability unlike he could have ever expected to have before, but it was just raw material that he could do almost anything with.

And he wanted to do just that.

So he sat up, crossing his legs and resting his hands in his lap, and he dug into the rune. The slopes and curves of it had become familiar, though he was far from memorizing them, and much further from understanding them. He let a small bead of mana form like a cursor, and pulled it along the rune’s edges, watching to see the point at which it transformed.

One full revelation later, it seemed to bubble and transform, as if the mana itself were becoming something else. It didn’t disperse- there wasn’t enough mana for the rune to activate, but the energizing effect of the rune was still enough to stimulate that strange substance.

If he could change the slopes, widening them, or shrinking them, what effect would it have on that energy, and ultimately the spell?

Mason resolved himself then to spending the night exploring the mysteries of the rune. He expended mana faster than he noticed, but it had obvious gains. He improved Runecraft by two levels, and Mana Manipulation, Mana Tolerance, and Indiscriminate Force by one each.

But as the hour passed, so did the frenzy in his mind that came from indecision and uncertainty, and finally he slept.

Geralt and Mowrytal sat at opposite sides of a round table that they had conjured in the place within Mason’s soul. They had kept to themselves mostly since they had appeared here. Both of them had their own anger and resentment to nurse, and their motivations rarely lined up.

But Mason’s steady progress was promising, and with their fates inextricably linked to his, they both felt their moods buoyed by a cautious optimism that they could use him to their ends. This was what brought them together. Cooperation was the surest way they could hope to hold real sway over the boy.

“I still feel that he’s too arrogant to work with. He recklessly rummaged through our memories, and then condescended to us when confronted. How dare he make demands of us when we are his most promising assets?” Geralt muttered, his hands steepled in front of him.

Mowry saw right through his bluster, “He’s smart to recognize that he is ultimately in charge of this vessel. If he were to back down to us, he would end up losing his mind. No body can be ruled by three masters. But you are right, he has not yet realized our true value.”

“I should have destroyed him when I could. He gave us access to his full mana stores while we empowered that rune. I don’t think he had even the slightest clue the power we had in that moment. His body is frail. Even this much mana would be enough to tear him to shreds.”

“Do you really think he’s lacking any more surprises? If all humans are like him, then they are extremely unusual. This level and rate of adaptation are truly promising. You want your revenge, of course. But surely you can see there is better revenge to be had with his strength than by simply destroying him from within?” Mowry stood and turned from the table, pulling up an image of Geralt’s old teacher.

“I do not want revenge on my teacher,” growled Geralt. “He did not slay King Arlon.”

“Neither did Mason,” Mowry said quietly. “The Trials put you through the hell of your childhood. They brought you to serve Arlon. They ultimately cost you his life and your own, too. Wouldn’t you like to know what they are about?”

Geralt laughed, rocking back in his chair, “The Trials are not about anything, you fool! That is simply a story told by old men who lived too long in them. They are a sick game, at best, and a hell at worst. You grow strong in the Trials if that is what you want. And you die if you do not want it badly enough.”

“And I think Mason wants it badly enough,” Mowry said.

“Mason doesn’t know what he’s doing even half of the time. He stumbles and he scrapes by. If he hadn’t been given the staff by some cosmic joke, and he hadn’t stumbled upon your body, he would have been food to some stray animal. Even with these assets, he doesn’t understand any of what he’s capable of. He just swings that stick of his and hopes it does something useful.”

“My sister Torysen can cure him of many of his bad habits. And with our assistance from within, we could shape him into a force greater than anything that I’ve seen on this plane. You have to see it. Isn’t potential the reason you followed King Arlon after all?”

“Our power is limited in here. And the boy hardly listens to us. He treats us like playthings.”

“We need to show him our use, and help him grow strong enough that we can grow strong again through him,” Mowry insisted.

Rather than laugh or roar, Geralt was quiet for a moment as he leaned on the back two legs of his chair. “He has a long way to go before he can benefit from our strength,” he said finally.

“I don’t think it will be as long as you believe.”