[participant in the Royal Road Writathon challenge]

As the months since the monster attack fly by, I spend more and more time submerged within the confines of my soul space, working on my battered Class Skill as though my life depends on it. And who knows? Maybe it does. I’m no soul expert; I don’t want to risk unknown side effects. Despite the upgrade in title, my [Heat Manipulation] Skill is still afflicted with small cracks from the abuse I put it through, looking like a glass chandelier that didn’t survive the annealing process intact. Although sparing, gentle mana use seems to help with recovery, pushing too hard strains everything again, causing new cracks to spider web across the Skill structure. It’s the most terrifying balancing act I’ve ever done.

My mana moves through my channels more slowly than I like, but it chafes less now than it did in the first few weeks after the overstrain. The good news is that my mana pool is deepening consistently with each day of practice.

Sweat beads across my forehead, dripping into my eyes and stinging, but I refuse to let it shake my concentration as I visualize crisscrossing, red-orange bands of the heat above me, and intricate blue-white circles of cold beneath me. My haggard breathing remains steady, no longer impaired by the injuries to my ribs and lungs, which have finally healed.

I draw the energy from the lower patterns into my body, guiding the Skill so that only the lines I’ve drawn on the floor of my room are affected. The ambient heat doesn’t change—much, at any rate—although minor fluctuations show that I still haven’t attained complete mastery over the ability. The heat leeches from the circles and into my mana channels directly, transforming into a purer form of energy, before I send it into the fiery swirls overhead. Pull too much, and I scorch myself from the inside out, but I haven’t found a more efficient method for manipulation than allowing my body to serve as a conduit between the opposing patterns.

Without innate resistances granted by the Skill, I can’t survive such intense temperature extremes. Previously, I always flexed my Skill in tiny, inexpert ways to deal with the heat from the furnaces. All that ever accomplished was cheating myself from gaining any level of mastery over true hot and cold, although it was certainly far more comfortable.

I grit my teeth, pushing the Skill a little further before the burn in my channels signals the end of today’s session. I release my grip on [Heat Manipulation] with a slight smile, satisfied with the day’s progress. I’m thisclose to completing the full energy transfer between the two complex patterns, and I finally feel like I have a path forward.

Now that I don’t need to concentrate as hard, I squat down and catch my breath, not as concerned with regulating my air intake. Not for the first time, I whisper a word of thanks for the kick in the pants from Ember. I’m growing again, finally.

It’s tough to temper my enthusiasm, but I suspect that I’ll gain a new Skill soon thanks to my new methods of training. I’ve been observing the senior [Artisans] and [Gaffers] around the studio while they work, but I sink into the strange void of my inner space to see if I can catch a glimpse of the movement of mana as they engage their glassmaking-related Skills. So far, this hasn’t produced any fruit, but I have a plan.

Watching isn’t enough. I’m convinced of that. So, I’ll have to make as many new glass objects as I can—tools and basins and jewelry; all sorts of things, from the mundane to the utterly fantastical—while I try to coax the mana within to assist the process.

It will work. It has to.

Mana exercises complete for the day, I turn my attention to the basic combat forms book Ember loaned me. I complained, cajoled, and cut deals for putting in extra work hours until she finally caved and agreed to “teach” me how to fight. I let out a soft, defeated laugh as I thumb through the dog-eared pages until I find my bookmark, marveling at how I’ve been played. No matter how much I insist, Ember is unbending. She agreed to my training content, but not the methods I prefer. Instead, I have to study a dozen different manuals and prove my competency before she’ll even let me touch a weapon.

Some progress is better than no progress, I tell myself as a shield against crushing disappointment. I may take a few years at this rate, but that doesn’t really matter since I won’t even have a secondary Class option until after my first threshold. Trying to gain another Class and combat Skills before I upgrade my current Class and earn a second Skill seems foolish, now that I think about it.

Without any other recourse, I dig into the reading for the evening, committing as much theory and tactics to memory as I can. Stances, spacing, how to take initiative and understand tempo—which kind of footwork to use against which types of opponents. The problem is that it’s all targeted toward soldiers: marching drills, shield work with overlapping tower shields, and how to communicate via trumpet on a large battlefield. None of it seems applicable to fighting off the mana-empowered monsters in the surrounding regions. Inevitably, my mind wanders. I need a target, or a sparring partner, if I’m ever going to inculcate the ideas. Visualization is only going to take me so far.

Maybe I can dream about fighting, I joke to myself as I transition to getting ready for bed. All I need to do is hold the ideas in my mind from now until I pass out. In the washroom, I jab my toothbrush in the air like a spear thrust, spraying flecks of foam from the cleaning agent onto my mirror and eliciting a self-deprecating chuckle. At this rate, the only monsters that need to fear me are bad breath and tooth decay.

I clean up and tuck myself under thin covers, shivering mournfully. I cross my arms and rub my hands across my opposite biceps, hoping to create enough friction to warm up. “I’d love a good, thick pelt from a Shadow Jaguar about now,” I murmur into the darkness.

Several moments later, tiring of the cold and misery, I pull the heat from the corners of the room and redirect it into my body, cursing my stupidity for forgetting—again—to practice my foundational Skill. How am I going to progress if my mindset never adapts? My default behavior needs to update, so that I begin to reach for my Skill before anything else. Equal parts warm and annoyed, I drift off for the night.

Alas, I do not dream of fighting.

=+=

In the hot shop the next morning, my childhood best friend and self-proclaimed pot-stirrer, Mikko, comes to visit. How I ended up with two friends who tease me constantly is a mystery, but surely I’ve done nothing to deserve the persecution. He and Lionel must be in cahoots.

Mikko works in the blacksmith forge nearby, and looks the part, all bulging muscles and fiery hair, with permanent semi-circular soot stains on his face where the eye pieces don’t protect him. His uncle is one of the [Gaffers] who took me in after my father died, so we’re more like brothers than mere acquaintances.

Mikko elbows me in the ribs as I try to scooch past him to get a fresh batch of glass, chuckling as I grimace at him. “You’re in the way, you great lummox. Some of us have things to do around here.”

“Nuri, Nuri, Nuri. Is that any way to greet a friend?” He snickers at my sour expression and follows me back to the workbench I’ve commandeered for the day. “Heard you’re popular with the local wildlife.”

“Old news, Ko, but you’ve got it backward. Those cats couldn’t stand the taste of me. Too tough for those monsters! That’s why they spit me back out.”

Mikko rolls his eyes. “Not the Jaguars. I know that was ages ago. You really think my head is made of iron ingots?”

I simply spread my hands wide, shrug, and give him a smarmy grin.

He sighs dramatically and tries to gently punch my shoulder, but the impact is hard enough to bruise muscle and make me stagger. I wince, although it probably doesn’t register to him that he hurt me. Mikko has [Strength of the Forged Gods], [Iron Skin], and [Greater Endurance]. He can crush an iron cannonball with his fingers—I’ve seen him do it as a trick to impress girls at the tavern. He has to expend mana to activate the burst of power, but over time, the constant process of soaking his muscles and bones and ligaments and tendons in excess mana has passively strengthened his already massive frame.

I rub my tender shoulder, hissing a sharp intake of air through clenched teeth to keep from crying. “Wanna walk that one back, Ko? You’re making it even easier than usual for me to point out your advanced stupidity.”

“Listen, flux-brain,” Mikko responds with a chuckle, falling back on an old favorite insult, “I’m talking about the birds roosting on top of your cabin all night, not you running around like a chicken with its head cut off. Imagine running from those shadow furballs! No, I’m concerned about the wildlife in the surrounding countryside. Do you even realize you’re throwing off the local ecosystem because birds aren’t migrating during winter any more?”

“You’re making this up,” I scoff, but the look on Mikko’s face is too sincere to be a joke. All at once, it clicks into place for me. “The heat transfers! My rooftop must be cozy. Why leave the area if they can enjoy the lap of luxury here?”

“See? I’m a caring person; you’re ruining delicate balance!I hate to admit it, but I think I envy the birds. Dad keeps the house too cold. That’s why I spend extra time at the forge lately.”

“Is this your way of saying you miss me and you want me to move back home? I’m touched.”

Mikko makes a face like he bit into a lemon. “Only for the winter. You’re too annoying to keep around for much longer than that.”

I frown. “What do I get out of it?”

“The satisfaction of knowing your best friend is safe from freezing to death!”

“You know my Skill isn’t [Heat Generation], right? It’s [Heat Manipulation]. The energy has to come from somewhere. If I heat up one part of the house, it means freezing the rest of it. Guess whose room will become the new icebox.”

Ember stalks by just then, fixing me with a glare that promises she’s going to start docking my pay if I loaf around for much longer. I wave back impishly but she doesn’t dignify me with a response.

“Of course I know about the cold,” Mikko says, returning to our conversation as though Ember never stopped by. “Dad says he’ll butcher one of the cows and freeze a side of beef with the side effects of your totally awesome, and not lonely at all, only child of a Skill.”

Somehow, when Mikko makes fun of me, having only one Skill to my name doesn’t sting quite as bad. It’s still not as funny as he thinks it is, but I’m able to laugh it off. He’s infectious that way, always spreading mirth while I wallow in self pity but put on a brave face. Well, that’s not usually true. I have just been a bit dour lately compared with my regular self.

Apparently sensing my mood shift, Mikko pulls out a rolled-up scrap of paper and shoves it toward me with an uncharacteristically serious expression. “Heard through the grapevine that you need a weapon and a training dummy. Look over my preliminary sketches and diagrams and let me know if you like the proposal. I still think you’re crazy to try to pick up a combat Class after your advancement, but I wouldn’t be much of a brother if I didn’t try to help you.”

“Iron is a little tougher than glass at my level,” I admit, somewhat grudgingly.

Mikko snickers, knowing how much it costs my pride to make that kind of admission. I’ve been whining for years about how much I wish I could develop a mana-imbuing Skill someday. He claps me on the shoulder—thankfully, not hard enough to send me flying into the furnaces or nearly break my bones this time—and salutes Ember before stomping away on his huge booted feet back to his own workshop, a jaunty whistle on his lips.

I tuck the paper into my pant’s pocket, safely hiding it behind the sturdy leather apron I always wear when I’m in the glassworks studio. I’ll never hear the end of it if I burn up Mikko’s designs in a moment of inattention, although I try to actively use [Heat Manipulation] all around the clock these days. Speaking of the clock, I glance over at the tyrannical time-keeper, gauging how much longer I have until I can dash home and go over the schematics. Mikko might lack some delicacy, but that doesn’t mean he’s not inventive and competent at what he does. An iron automaton could be exactly what I need to push my abilities to the next level.

Lionel waves a hand in front of my face a moment later. “Daydreaming will get you killed, buddy. Come give me a hand with the spiral water clock order. You have the steadiest hand in the studio for applying the secondary color.”

I grunt in acknowledgement and follow Lionel to his workbench. I have other plans for the day, but flattery is nice, so I’ll help Lio for now. He’s always had my back when I need help, anyway.

The approach to his workbench is littered with cracked, cast-off shards of blue and green glass, in greater volumes than I usually see. I arch an eyebrow at Lionel. “Cleaning crew off for the day? Or are you just making more of a mess than usual?”

“I can’t seem to get this to work right,” Lionel sighs. “Compatibility should be fine, but as soon as I enable [Quick Cool], the artwork cracks. I think I need your temperature control to fix a problem with the coefficient of expansion.”

“Yeah, that’s not going to work,” I reply instantly, killing Lionel’s hope. “I can’t break the rules of glassmaking by manipulating heat. Merging our Skills isn’t going to get around the fundamental problem. You need someone with expansion or compression Skills to get around the difference in elasticity—or a glass creator. Good luck finding a living legend.”

“Shatter that,” he grumbles, falling back on the most popular invective in the glassworks studio. Ember doesn’t like swearing around the shop, so we swap out the coarse language for glass-related expletives. “You’re sure there’s no way around it?”

“Seriously? How did you graduate before me? You have to use different glass; that’s the way around it. You’re just being lazy.”

“Ugh. Help me prep a suitable batch and colorize it, at least?”

I chuckle. “Fine. What are friends for?”

“I wouldn’t know. I only manipulate chumps into helping me.”

The teasing doesn’t stop, but we get to work sorting through soluble salts and various glass types to find a suitable match for the base. I pull a few bags of ingredients from the back of the storehouse, relying on the charts to give me a general idea of compatibility. They’re more expensive than the glass Lionel wanted to match, but he should still make a tidy profit on the finished order.

I flare my [Heat Manipulation] to speed things along while Lionel fetches the chips to dip the hot glass into once we’re ready to recolor the batch. When Lionel is ready with his desired color, I keep the temperature consistent so he can turn the rod and pick up the chips. Slowly but surely, the mixture deepens into a royal plum. I always find this process hypnotic.

I have to stay focused on the task at hand, however: practicing mana manipulation every second of the day with the goal of unlocking new Skills. No longer despondent about my single Skill, I am nonetheless determined to acquire more, because they will be proof of my dedication to the craft. I squint at the Skill, trying to follow the flow of energy, but nothing appears visible no matter how much I burst or restrain my mana.

Lionel frowns at me whenever the heat in the area fluctuates, but I explain what I’m doing, and he grudgingly nods along with a bit more sympathy. My motivations are shifting, deepening. I’m serious about self-improvement, about mastering magic and glass, rather than driven by the need for a list of impressive-sounding new Skills. The end result might look the same, but the process and purpose are radically different.

“I suppose this is what it means to become an adult,” I muse, straining to see the mana as it swirls around within my soul, imprinting my will upon the world around me.

“I’m tempted to make a joke right now about your maturity, Nuri, but I’ll let that one slide. You’re welcome,” Lionel says with a flourish and a bow. “I am a gracious taskmaster.”

One of the assistants comes by with a punt when Lionel is done with his project, and I slip away while they’re busy detaching the abstract glass art. I’m way behind now on my own orders for the day, but Lio’s in good spirits, so it’s worth the time.

I reach for mana as I pick up my tools from the workbench, trying to pull it up into my eyes by sheer force of will. In order to manipulate mana, I must first learn to sense different types of energies and Skill structures. The hours grind by in an uncomfortable, unfruitful rhythm. Melt the glass, check for energy flows. Shape a blob of nothing into an elegant horse, check for energy flows. Watch a [Lampworker] draw glass into a fine spiral and [Quick Set] it into a fancy chandelier, check for energy flows. Blow through the rod and meticulously expand a bubble of glass? Of course. Check for energy flows.

Sweat builds up on my forehead throughout the day, despite [Heat Manipulation], but I don’t see anything. My eyes burn by the time I finish helping Lionel, and I barely have the energy to wrap up my own specialty project: two perfectly round globes, one red and one blue, made with a temperature-resistant variant of glass that requires three times the heat to melt. They’ve taken all week to craft in my spare time, since we only get to requisition materials for one free custom piece per season. I’m pushing the limits by creating two objects, but Ember will probably let it go since they are training aids to help with my [Heat Manipulation].

Lionel stops on his way home to congratulate my success for not ruining the notoriously difficult-to-work-with glass type, making appropriately impressed noises of approval. He’s my only friend still working past dinner time, so he’s the first to get a short demonstration of the massive increase in challenge it is to move heat and cold between them. He claps sarcastically at the end of the show, since nothing happens visually, and calls goodnight over his shoulder as he bolts for the door.

Utterly spent, I finally bid farewell to the glassworks studio and stumble home. I haven’t succeeded in unlocking mana sight, yet, but my eyes still itch with a weird form of mana-burn. I take it as a sign that I am on the right path.

“Mana,” I grumble, kicking off my boots and flopping down on my bedroll with a scowl. Whose bright idea was it, anyway, to try to grasp hold of the unknown energy. The power that binds the whole world together is as mysterious and intractable as ever. An entire day of hard work, and I have nothing to show for it.

My internal flow of mana when I engage my Skill is all I can ever see, and even then it’s inconsistent. Most often, the Skill simply takes over, and I do nothing more than provide a nudge. Manually activating and guiding heat transfer and temperature exchanges from start to finish is probably impossible, although my fine control is slowly improving. But anything more? Forget it! External mana feels as far away as the moon itself.

After a few more extravagant minutes of allowing myself to indulge in complaints, I roll back to my feet and scrounge up some dried bread crusts for a plain dinner. I have no room in my schedule to cook anymore, since I need all the time I can get when it comes to studying and fighting. I mentally kick myself for moving out from Mikko’s place last year in some desperate attempt to prove my independence. I could be sinking my teeth into a juicy steak right now if I’d stayed. But no, try as I might, I couldn’t shrug off the desire to prove that I didn’t need any help to become a great artisan, and now I’m paying the culinary price.

Mikko’s schematics pop back into my mind. I am ashamed to admit that I have momentarily forgotten about his offer, too caught up by the annoyance of yet another failure to lay hold of the secrets of the universe. I slip out the crumpled piece of paper, thread a little heat into a slim steel stylus I keep handy, and smooth out the folds and crimps like a [Laundry Worker] ironing a shirt.

“What crazy scheme have you snagged yourself in this time,” I mutter, poring over the surprisingly dense and sophisticated sets of circuitry and enchantments. As the puzzle pieces slowly fit together, I let out a long, low whistle. When did he get so good! The level of sophistication in the servo design looks like it will grant the automaton flexible movements and explosive power, while the weapon slots promise a world of pain if I misstep while training with the moderately-sized metal murdering machine.

The longer I read the second page of notes, and decode the technical jargon to separate Mikko’s usually functional devices from Mikko’s flights of fancy, the more the idea takes root. I want it. I need it! This training partner will help me bridge the gap between my current capabilities and the limitless potential I want to unlock. The more the full scope of Miko’s plan hits me, the more I can’t help but grin. Now, there is the kind of help I don’t mind accepting.

Doubt creeps in, though. Mikko may have hit the first threshold earlier this year, but could advancement really make such a huge difference in skill? I tap my chin with the end of the stylus—which I have reset to its regular temperature to avoid burning myself—and ponder where Mikko gained the skills to pull off this masterpiece. I keep talking to myself as I pick at the project, speaking loudly enough that my neighbors can likely hear me protesting how unfair life is at times.

“This seems like patterns for enchantments, but at a higher level than I have ever seen. Has Mikko secured a sponsor? That might explain all the talk about how it is a gift to me. How else is he going to pay for the advanced enchantments, let alone parts, labor, and forge time. The only way he can afford this is if a benefactor is footing the bill. How do I get on the payroll!”

I’ll have to visit his family on my next day off. In the meantime, I have to try to complete the entire sequence of energy transfers tonight before running and conditioning. I am growing so close to a breakthrough in mastery with my Skill, but I am still flubbing something. Maybe I should just swallow my pride and ask Ember for advice. She could put me on the right track in seconds, I’ll wager. I can already hear her scolding me in my imagination; I never pay enough attention to the finer details of the Skill. I need to practice with precision and consistency, not brute-force my way to a favorable outcome.

I flip the schematics over, pick up a grease pen, and start scribbling ideas. If I gain enough strength, then I can brute-force whatever I want. Until then, I need to get clever about how I utilize glass. Surely there’s a way to advance in combat power through glass-making Classes and Skills. A few moments later, my furiously writing grinds to a halt. I review what I have so far:

Surround enemies in giant ball of molten glass to burn, crush, and suffocate them to death Transmute trace alchemical elements within target’s bloodstream into glass, bleeding them from within Master mana-imbuing, create my own versions of Hellfire and Brimstone (but spears for reach?) and become a famous fighter Flash-freeze an entire battlefield with a snap of my fingers, then channel the heat transfer into a ball of glass and fling it at my enemies so it explodes

None of these seem like viable options in the next couple decades. I sigh, put away the big dreams, and pull out the two glass orbs I made earlier at the studio. It’s time to push my Skill to the next level, no matter how hard it is. I grit my teeth and activate [Heat Manipulation], and the mana burns through my channels. My eyes feel like someone took sandpaper to the surface of my eyeballs. Undaunted, I push against the natural heat resistance of the shimmering glass globes. What’s a little pain compared with a lifetime of power? I’m sure Ember will approve of the sentiment.