Automate

The Past

"By deepest caverns and farthest stars, loot for all you're worth." -Wick's Journal Entry #1

Wick's eyes widened at the second message box. All the costs for his skills and skill slots were halved. That was insane. As far as he knew, there wasn't a single thing that could do that, not one of the Three Swords and One or even the mysterious artifacts found in the Labyrinth.

His knees buckled under the weight of the message, and he collapsed backward on to his butt, eyes still glued to the blue screens floating above the opened chest.

The fear that the message was some kind of elaborate, Misonian hoax made Wick hurry to open the skill details for Cut and Forage. They were both now half the cost.

He rubbed his rough hands against his mouth in shock, and only then did he realize his cheeks hurt so much from smiling. He felt like he was going to explode.

The boon from the Title, The Crafter, would change Wick's trajectory forever. Not only did he have no manna leak for any of his skills, they all cost half to use them. The possibilities were endless.

"And the skill slots," Wick reminded himself. The breath almost escaped his lungs at the wonder of it.

Everyone on the surface was limited to three skill slots. Each slot was allowed to upgrade to level three. Most people could afford enough Source Points to unlock their first skill slot by the time they were eighteen or twenty. Of course, that depended heavily on the manna density of their location, their source, and how fast they could absorb it.

People's absorption rate differed in the way the nymph half-breeds had green hair and most people in the country had black or a variation of blonde. It was in the blood and the body.

The cost for unlocking skill slots were different for each person, too. Though, the first skill slot was always around the same for everyone else. But after that, it varied wildly.

Before getting The Crafter Title and discovering the manna-dense dungeon, he was about another twenty years away from unlocking his second skill slot without the use of manna pots or other means. Upgrading skill slots was even more costly than unlocking an additional one.

Wick's dad hadn't even bothered unlocking another skill slot, and had focused on upgrading his first slot to level two in hopes that his proficiency with Cut would upgrade the skill.

So basically, his dad had spent the Source Points to have the ability to equip a level two skill, but never ended up having a level two skill before he died. He hadn't been able to afford one and evolving skills was difficult.

Wick vowed to his dad's grave that he would be the first in their name to become so proficient with Cut, that it would get to level three. When he had made the silent promise to himself and the blue sky, he had no way of knowing how he would do it. Now, the path opened up to him like a blooming flower did to the sun.

It would now take ten years, and maybe even less if he ventured more into the high-density manna locations like the Grey Forest or other dungeons. It had seemed like a lifetime away. Even now, the second skill slot was a distant dream, but attainable.

Wick stood back up, renewed by his reward. And he still had more.

And yet, the shoulders in his muscles tensed more and more each time he reread the third message.

Unparalleled Crafters of the Ages. Through their inheritance, you will now receive a base golem as a model for future golems, and the pinnacle of their achievements, the skill, Automate.

"What in the Crawl is a golem?" Wick wondered.

He reached out cautiously to the iron ball, holding it in his hands. The surface was smooth and it felt slightly warm in his hands. It had a good weight to it.

Nothing happened. He had hoped that instructions about his legacy would come flooding into his mind like how it felt when equipping a new skill. Wick couldn't help but feel a slight pang of disappointment.

Acting on a whim, he reached out to the third message box. The blue, translucent window broke apart in a thousand lights and reformed into a smaller window the shape of a rectangle. It became less translucent, solidifying into a form Wick recognized all too well.

It was a skill card, just like any other. Only, this one seemed a more substantial blue, the ridges and lettering of the card embossed. In the top half of the card where the image lay was the same circle with lines protruding from the center that he had seen on the walls.

Wick now knew they weren't letters, but instructions of a sort. He looked down at the orb in his hand and grinned. The puzzle wasn't figured out, but he was another step closer. Somehow, the letters that were not letters were directly tied with the orb in his hand.

He set the orb down on the ground and read the letters of the skill name on the bottom half of the card. It read, Automate (0).

Level zero? How could a skill be a level zero? That didn't make any sense.

The Sprawler in him screamed for caution, to study the object more, but he was too high on his rewards to care. He clawed at it with giddy glee.

Automate swept into his chest like a long-lost lover, and Wick's mind was finally flooded with new knowledge. The Misonians. This was their crowned jewel, the pinnacle of all their magitek creations, a single skill that would shake the world. And the writings on the walls weren't just instructions, they were patterns, elementary designs for golem creations.

But the knowledge was just a spark, and not a full flame. It only opened the path. His job was to stoke the ember. Wick would have to walk down the path himself and discover what it held. He frowned. Why was it the more powerful you were, the more mysterious you had to be? Were all ancient powerful beings just jerks and liked to play practical jokes?

Wick waited for the flooding to stop, so he let the exhaustion take over to fall asleep. Then he could equip the skill in the Changing Room.

But his body jerked, twisting in pain. He fell to his knees, gasping for air and clutching at his chest. His skin felt like it was on fire and his bones splintering like dry wood.

Wick gritted his teeth and forced his eyes open. This pain wasn't just another trial for power. It was his pain. Everything he earned was his. And soon, everything else would be his as well, more gold for the hoard.

So he didn't just endure the pain. He relished in it, forcing his bared fangs to spread into his dragon's grin.

"Mine," Wick reminded himself. The pain, exhaustion, the twisting of his insides were all bad luck. And if his trials proved anything, the good always came with the bad. His doubt was swallowed by his need for the reward.

After what felt like an eternity later, the pain was gone. Energy rushed into him, and it wasn't just the manna. He felt like he was remade, a new Wick.

He stood up and opened his skill screen. Something felt off. No. Not off, but different.

Skill Slots: 0 - 0 - 0

Skills Equipped: Automate

Skills Unequipped: 2

What? His first skill slot was gone, but Automate was somehow equipped? The math didn't add up.

Wick expected to feel panicked, but found himself flexing his hands. His spade felt just as heavy as before, so he hadn't gotten stronger. But something in him had changed. The skill had equipped itself without the Changing Room.

The transformation wasn't over. A single, final bestowal of knowledge stretched his mind, and his eyes widened at the revelation. What he learned slowed his heart.

"Automate took up all three skill slots," Wick thought aloud. He spent a few silent minutes processing what that meant.

After reviewing the knowledge of how his new skill worked, Wick nodded in understanding. Automate was now his only equipped skill. He opened the skill window.

Automate (0): You may spend Source Points (SP) to automate yourself and those within your Domain.

The knowledge bestowal didn't give him any clue as to what a Domain was, but he knew he had truly struck gold with the skill. Thymesia removing his manna leak and giving him nearly perfect memory, the mysterious potential for the golem, and even the halved SP costs from the Crafter Title were grains of sand compared to the potential of Automate.

The skill meant that even though his other skills could never be equipped again they could still be used.

With the perfect visualization afforded to him by Thymesia, Wick imagined Cut and every intricacy he knew about the skill. With the Crafter Title, it would only cost him ten SP if the skill was equipped.

It wasn't. But with Automate...

Wick held the image of Cut in his mind like a floating painting that could be seen from all sides. He saw its motions and angles. Then he bound it with a single spoken command with Automate.

Cut still unequipped, Wick raised his hand at a nearby blank stone wall and whispered, "Cut."

A blue-bladed arc spread out of his palm. It sprang out awkwardly, and not in the way he intended. But Wick jumped in place, yelling from the bottom of his lungs. "Yes! Morgoth's unholy hairy face, it worked!"

He breathed heavily at the sight of it. His skill screen showed that the whole thing cost him only twelve SP, ten for the skill itself and two for the Automated command.

This changed everything. While everyone else in the world was limited to equipping three skills, Wick could use as many skills as he wanted at once, as long as he had the SP for it. Sure, using Cut through another skill was clunky, but he'd figure it out.

Another thought came to him. Did this mean he didn't have to spend the insane amount of SP to unlock skill slots? Could he just equip a level three skill?

He chuckled at the thought. "Sure, Wick. Like you could afford to buy a level three skill from a skillmonger."

One day, he promised himself. One day.

With plenty of SP to spare from the manna-dense dungeon, Wick tested Automate, binding Cut with speaking the word aloud. The skill was technically bound by both his spoken command and the release point from his body, which was his hands.

His dad had only ever released the skill from his hands. Wick tried releasing the skill from his forearms, but since he lacked the experience with it, the blue magical blade shot out in wildly different directions than he predicted and even leaked manna.

At first, he had thought the skill would have released based on the surface and angle of his skin. But it was more than that. He didn't know how, but he could feel it. There were points in his body he was more aware of now that drew Source Points for the skill.

By choosing to release Cut from a place other than his hands, the Source Points had to be drawn from other areas from his body. Even after at least another half hour of experimenting, he still couldn't figure out the pattern. Maybe reading physicker books would give him insight.

Wick finally settled on binding Cut with a spoken command along with his palms like he had always used it. He didn't want to combine the skill with gestures in case he accidentally released a blue blade and gave a random stranger a gash. He had enough trouble as it was.

Forage was much easier to bind than Cut since it was a passive ability. With its standard cost of five, the skill was down to three. Wick frowned at the number, annoyed at how the Misonians rounded their fractions up rather than down.

Even for a measly half an SP, Wick felt like he was cheated out of the full benefits of the reward. Was it petty? Sure. But he didn't give a damn.

He tried binding it to other parts of his body, but got nothing out of it except an extreme tickling sensation when he bound the skill to his ribs. Stupid Automate. Even with the powerful skill, there were limits. But limits existed to be broken.

Wick's exhaustion had reached its peak. He let himself rest against the wall of the treasure room, hoping the room wouldn't teleport him back into the Home Sweet Home for another series of trials.

He slept. He dreamed. But he did not visit the Changing Room.

When he woke, he understood why. Automate was such a powerful skill that it required all three skill slots with all of their upgrades for it to house itself in his body. The Changing Room was useless to him now.

His stomach rumbled and his tongue scraped dryly against the roof of his mouth. "If I don't get water in me sometime soon, I'm gonna pass out and never wake up again."

He hoisted himself up with his spade, picked up the iron ball from the floor, and put the ball in one of his inside jacket pockets, latching it securely in place. It didn't bulge or get in the way of his movement.

Even though he was ready to leave, the Sprawler in Wick made him double check the room and doorways for traps. He even inspected the chest for any false doors that could lead to other rewards. To his disappointment, there was nothing else.

Well, he'd have to make do.

It was curious enough that the two doors in the room were in merchant speak instead of the Misonian script. Wick reminded himself that the writings on the walls weren't letters but parts of larger schematics. He didn't have the time or energy to figure how that played a part with the golems just yet.

One door was labelled Exit while the other said Guardian. Wick walked up to the Exit door and pressed it with a little force. A screen appeared.

Leave dungeon? If you enter again, you will be sent directly to the Guardian challenge room.

Yes/No

"Oh, how fun is that," Wick said without humor.

He had hoped that by completing the first trial again, he could reap more rewards, but that wasn't an option apparently. On top of that, he would be sent to the room by the adjacent door.

Wick cautiously pressed his hand against the Guardian door. This screen was just as straightforward.

Enter Guardian challenge room? Once entered, you may only exit by passing the dungeon. If you die, the dungeon will recycle your body, energy, and spirit.

Yes/No

"How about Hells no," Wick cursed, calling on the lowest reaches of the Crawl to make it a certainty that he was not going to enter the damned room. The first trial was hard enough. Each time he entered the side rooms, the traps didn't just change, but grew in exponential danger.

He needed to read more on dungeon designs to prepare for what was next. Unlike the other adults, his dad had never made fun of him for scouring the Guild's libraries for new information. In fact, he encouraged it, saying that knowledge would keep him safe.

But Wick didn't want knowledge for safety, he wanted it for power. He didn't give a plumin's hoot about impressing others with his vocabulary. Blotting out the dark stain of his own ignorance was enough for him.

Wick walked back to the Exit door and said, "Yes."

The room fizzled around him, becoming less solid. It wasn't anything like using a wormhole, thank the stars. The dungeon was quickly replaced with the scenery of the outside entrance to the dungeon.

He noticed the chest was still solid, and before the dungeon winked out completely, Wick ran to the chest and lifted it up. The dungeon was gone, but the chest was still in his hand. One more for the hoard.

Wick may have gained new powers and abilities that would change his life forever, but he was still a Sprawler at heart. Sprawlers looted for all they were worth.