Alph reached the Grimforge Smithy before the ten-bell chime. Varrick stood in the main hall, his burly frame silhouetted against the dying light from the forge. He merely nodded as Alph entered, a flicker of something akin to relief in his deep-set eyes.

  "Soup's in the kitchen, if you're hungry," Varrick rumbled, his voice softer than usual. He didn't wait for a reply, turning and heading toward his own quarters.

  Alph spooned the lukewarm soup, the thin broth weighing in his gut. The warmth did little to soothe the raw tension coiled beneath his ribs. He set the bowl aside, then mounted the narrow stairs to his room. He slumped onto his cot, letting out a long, ragged breath. Closing his eyes, his thoughts pulled him deep into his Mind Garden.

  The moment Alph entered the starry expanse of his Mind Garden, he sensed the presence of the Shaper. The vastness around him was as silent and infinite as always, but Alph felt the invisible gaze of the Shaper, like a patient gardener examining a peculiar bloom.

  "Shaper," Alph called, his voice a ripple in the cosmic sea. "I'm here."

  A whispery voice replied, resonating through the celestial void. "You return with questions, young sprout."

  "I observed fighters today," Alph began, images of the combatants searing bright against his mind. "Why are there so many variants of the Tier 1 Fighter profession?"

  A soft chuckle echoed, a sound both alien and comforting. "Ah, a question born of human misconceptions," the Shaper remarked, amusement threading through his words. "Tell me, Alph, what do you know of advancing from Tier 1 Fighter to Tier 2?"

  Alph furrowed his brow, recalling the information he had gleaned. "Mastering two or more abilities of your current tier," he replied thoughtfully.

  "Precisely," the Shaper confirmed, a note of approval enhancing his voice. "There is your answer."

  Alph blinked, bewildered. "I don't see... How does that explain the variants?"

  The Shaper paused, letting the silence stretch between them like a taut wire. "Humans train with one weapon to build a foundation. Mastery of a second skill becomes easier once that base skill is solidified. If you start with two different weapons, your training time would double."

  The Shaper's voice, a soft current in the cosmic void, swept aside the distinctions. "These names, Axe Fighter, Spear Fighter, they mean nothing here."

  A pause stretched between them, filled only with the hum of distant stars.

  "Your people created these names," the Shaper continued. "Perhaps warrior families passed them down through generations. Or some scholar recorded these combat styles for future students."

  "At their essence, all are simply Fighters who awakened to martial arts. The weapons they choose? The styles they master?" The Shaper's tone turned dismissive. "Just fuel for the same star node here."

  Alph somewhat understood. The categories were more fluid than he had assumed. "Then what about the Berserker?" he asked, recalling the raw power of the arena combatant. "That seemed different, not just a style."

  "Ah, the Berserker," the Shaper hummed, a new note of interest in its voice. "Yes, that is a true variant profession. A distinct node, one that could replace the Tier 1 Fighter for a normal being."

  The phrase, normal being snagged Alph's attention. "What do you mean by that?" he asked, a prickle of unease creeping in.

  The Shaper's chuckle sounded again, "Your constellation, Young One, is not an arrow. It is a loop. A normal being's progression is a linear path, one node leading to the next, a clear upward trajectory. Yours, however, is a swirling vortex, a self-sustaining cycle where each node influences the others."

  Alph instinctively glanced at his own constellation, the glowing points of light swirling in the starry expanse. He saw the pale green-amber colored node, vibrant and strong now, but once, it's place was occupied by the Tier 0 Scout.

  "Like the Hunter node," he murmured, the realization dawning on him.

  This tale has been unlawfully lifted from Royal Road. If you spot it on Amazon, please report it.

  “Correct,” the Shaper hummed. “Train in the Tier 1 Fighter abilities, and the inherent pull will take hold. That base Tier 0 node, already humming within your constellation, demands a merger. It is a natural evolution, Young One, strengthening the structure you already possess.”

  The Shaper's voice took on a more cautionary tone. "But if you were to train in Berserker abilities, the outcome would be less certain. There is a possibility of not igniting at all, due to a lack of compatibility with your soul. Or, worse, igniting a Tier 1 node that simply adds to your constellation, creating further imbalance. Your loop, Alph, is already a delicate ecosystem. Introducing an entirely new, unaligned element could have unforeseen consequences."

  Alph stared at his constellation, the vibrant lights now seeming less like a source of power and more like a precarious balancing act. The idea of further imbalance, of his unique progression becoming a burden rather than a boon, sent a chill through him.

  "So, what you are telling me is that I can't be too careless when choosing what to train in?"

  "It appears so," the Shaper sounded a bit hesitant, "Young One!, Do you understand, your situation is unprecedented in the known history? There are no anecdotes for a situation like yours. Everything is a gamble."

  Alph understood the implications, "I am aware." He sighed, "That's why I was being cautious enough, but…" his voice trailed off as he gathered his thoughts.

  "Anyways, thank you for clearing my doubts. I have the skills picked out to practice for Fighter node. Could I trouble you to keep an eye on it's reactions?" He glanced at the distant Tier 1 Fighter node that was unlit at this moment.

  The Shaper hummed in agreement, its sound reminiscent of a large bronze bell echoing through a quiet church.

  Alph felt relieved, "Thank you again. I will head back to rest."

  "May you persevere in your efforts, Young One." The Shaper's resonant hum faded as Alph's awareness snapped back to his body.

  The twelfth bell had yet to chime. Alph listened, straining for any creak from the floorboards above or the basement.

  Nothing, they both should be asleep by now.

  He pushed off his cot; the straw rustled softly, and he eased out of his small room. In the main hall, his fingers closed around the cold, haft of the heavy, two-sided axe Varrick kept on the counter for display. He left through the rear door into the open backyard, where he knew there was a training dummy.

  Alph stood before the training dummy, a crude effigy of straw and wood planted near the perimeter wall. The heavy axe felt cold and alien in his hands.

  He closed his eyes, listening. Far off, the sharp clatter of hammer on anvil cut through the dark. Other smithies still operated, their bellows roaring still. Perhaps an artisan chased a magnum opus. Or raced against a deadline.

  His own efforts would blend into the symphony of nocturnal labor. No one would notice a few extra thuds.

  He opened his eyes, the image of the Axe Fighter burned into his mind. The gladiator’s movements, heavy and deliberate, yet surprisingly fluid. Alph pictured the slow, arcing overhead swing, the sheer force of it. He took a breath, trying to channel that primal energy. He raised the axe, mimicking the stance, the slight shift in weight, the coiled tension in the shoulders.

  The axe arced wide, a wobbly, hesitant motion. It met the straw-stuffed form with a soft thwack, barely rocking the dummy on its post. Alph's brow furrowed. The heavy steel felt foreign, disconnected from his intent, a dead weight in his hands.

  He reset his stance, adjusted his grip, and swung again. This time, the blade veered, scraping against the dummy’s shoulder instead of its head. A hot surge of frustration tightened his jaw. He lacked the gladiator's coiled power, the seamless transfer of weight that transformed a mere swing into a devastating blow.

  He repeated the motion, again and again, each attempt a little closer, a little more refined. His muscles burned, his breath came in ragged gasps, but he pushed past the discomfort. He focused on the memory, replaying the Axe Fighter’s movements in his mind, trying to inhabit the gladiator’s body, to feel the weight distribution, the explosive release of power.

  He closed his eyes once more, letting the image consume him. He felt the phantom vibration of the axe, the impact, the sheer, brutal force.

  The memory coalesced, the weight distribution of the gladiator’s stance finally slotting into place. His eyes snapped open, the cold focus replacing the ragged frustration. He leveraged the heavy steel, the axe transforming from dead weight into a charged conduit. Coiling his core, he drove the weapon down, a slow, deliberate arc, every muscle fiber synchronizing with the violent intent.

  The axe cleaved through the air with a whistling sound, a stark contrast to his previous clumsy attempts. It struck the dummy square in the head, a resounding crack that echoed in the yard. Straw and wood splintered, a clean, decisive blow that sent the dummy reeling back on its makeshift stand.

  Alph gasped, the tension draining from his body in a rush. Sweat plastered his hair to his forehead, and his arms trembled from the exertion. He looked at the damaged dummy, then at the axe still clutched in his hands. The blow had been powerful, certainly more so than any of his previous attempts. But a frown creased his brow. The dummy, though damaged, still stood. The Axe Fighter’s blow had been strong. His own strike, while effective, felt… lacking. The force applied, the energy expended, seemed disproportionate to the outcome. There was a gap, a chasm between the raw power he felt and the actual damage inflicted.

  He shifted the haft once more, adjusting his grip, his mind already dissecting the nuances of the strike. He needed to find that missing piece, that subtle adjustment that would bridge the gap. He envisioned the cleaving arc of the Axe Fighter from the arena once more. That was the resonance he chased. Alph filled his lungs, the scent of sawdust and cold iron sharp in his nose, and settled his palm against the grain of the haft. He lifted the weapon again.