Two months had passed since Dain first dragged the Witch into the cave, and now the place looked less like an abandoned beast’s den and more like a crooked house.

  A crooked house he built, at least.

  Five wooden boards were stacked on top of each other to make the bed in the back of the cave. He took the old cabinet from Marna the baker, who’d been planning on throwing it out, and repaired it to a semi-usable state. A few wooden frames were nailed to the walls purely for decorative purposes—not that the Witch filled them with any paintings—and the round table in the center of the cave was also nailed to the ground, though it was still a little wobbly and uneven. The table was his handiwork. He wasn’t a very good carpenter.

  He was probably still a better carpenter than the Witch, though, because at least he knew the table he made wasn’t supposed to be sat on.

  “... You’re not supposed to have that.”

  The Witch stopped trading herbs with the four flowery hands coming out of her Altar for a second to stare at him. He shuffled where he leaned against the wall, still unable to look her in the eye for more than a moment.

  “Supposed to have what?” she said.

  “That.” He jabbed his chin towards the Altar on the table, towards the four grasping hands. “Hugo told me that after the war, they outlawed all personal Altars. Said it was too dangerous. Said if anyone’s caught with one, they’d be sentenced to death by the Curator Church.”

  The Witch resumed trading, whistling low as she counted the potions the hands came back out of the portal with. “You really are curious about relics, then.”

  He scowled at her, silent.

  She sighed, cracked her neck, and dangled a pouch of mossthistle over the portal to make the hands grasp for it. “Listen, Boy. That treaty? Those rules? They mean jack shit to people like me. I’m a seeker. I seek relics. I’ll do anything to get even more relics under my cloak. So what if the Church calls me an enemy of the world?”

  “You’ll be killed.”

  “They’ve certainly tried.”

  Dain crossed his arms, glaring. “And what if I tell the town? Maybe I’ll get a reward for reporting you. Maybe they’ll give me coin so I can get proper dinner instead of scraps tonight.”

  That made her pause. Not long—just a breath—but long enough for him to notice, and long enough for her head to tilt.

  “You won’t,” she said simply.

  “Why wouldn’t I?”

  “Because you’re like me, and I trust people like me.”

  Something twisted in Dain’s gut at that. He looked down at the floorboards he’d nailed together to make the ground slightly more even, tracing the cracks with his eyes so he wouldn’t have to meet hers.

  His throat burned, and he hated it.

  “I’m nothing like you,” he muttered. “You’re rude. Picky. Lazy. Can’t even cook for yourself.”

  “Keep telling yourself that. You’ll be back here tomorrow,” she hummed, feeding another bundle of herbs to the flower hands. “Now, be a good boy and go fetch me more materials. I’m done with the herbal potions, so now I need earth materials for metal pills.”

  First things first, Dain checked the door latch twice. Then a third time. It was a habit born of too many children in Sorowyn Carpentry thinking doors were just suggestions to keep out of his room.

  And just because Anisa and Yasmin won’t sell me to the nearest Templar doesn’t mean someone else won’t.

  Once he was absolutely sure nobody could enter his room, he laid his Altar across the desk and sat by it.

  Cracks mapped the wooden board like dry riverbeds. If he pried a portal open one more time, the grain might just split clean down the heart. He set his palm on the wood and felt how tired it was. So was he. But if the second part of his new title ability wasn’t a joke, he wouldn’t have to lug a board around anymore.

  Inventory first.

  He unbuckled his satchel, loosened the knot on the salvage sack, and poured his small kingdom of materials onto the desk: ten board-sized gargoyle golem plates, about a dozen silverplume feathers, the two metal bars—aethersteel and bloodsilver—as well as the box of soulfire metal he’d bought from Karr, and he still had the mechanical core from the first golem he’d defeated.

  Glancing up at the end of the desk, he saw Wenna had left a bottle of alcohol bright with a little flower cord tied around its neck.

  Aw.

  But the bottle’s the real prize.

  He picked it up, bit the cork, and drank. The bite ran down to his ribs and glowed there, but he didn’t savor the taste and just guzzled it down.

  The quality of the bottle offered would also affect the quality of the Manabrew Potion, after all.

  Once he set the bottle down and wiped his mouth, his silverplume wings unfurled by themselves, feathers bristling as they curled forward like a fretful pet.

  “I missed you too,” he murmured, stroking the nearest feather with his thumb. The wing shivered under his touch. “Went and slept like a rock, I know, but I’ll keep you polished. I promised, didn’t I?”

  They purred—well, the winged equivalent of it: a soft hush of quills sliding against quills.

  “Right, then,” he muttered. “Let’s do it.”

  He swept the Altar off his desk and leaned it against the wall, heart tripping. Then he faced his desk squarely, raised both hands, and clapped.

  Nothing at first.

  He closed his eyes and tried again, not so much clapping as… asking. He prayed for Belara to hear his call even without the presence of an Altar in front of him. He pictured the portal opening for four pale hands to slither out of it—and to his own surprise, the air started swirling in front of him.

  He opened his eyes to a reddish-purple ring blooming across the desk—exactly the size of his Altar—and soon, Belara’s hands clawed their way out of the portal.

  … No way.

  It actually works.

  He could feel his grin starting without permission. He didn’t need an Altar anymore. He was the Altar, and while he wasn’t sure when and where and how many times he could open a portal to Belara with a simple clap, he’d just have to test it extensively afterwards.

  Belara’s hands waited.

  He tried to be a responsible, inquisitive adult for half a heartbeat before turning his double-iris eye at her hands, trying to read her Tag. Black letters in a rectangular frame appeared in the corner of his vision and immediately scrambled themselves into soup.

  His right eye throbbed, and his stomach gave a slow, unhappy roll.

  The four hands wagged a mutual finger at him like a scolding aunt.

  ‘Don’t do that now’, she seemed to say. ‘What kind of mortal pries into the nature of a god?’

  “Alright, alright,” he said, lifting both palms apologetically. “Just curious.”

  Then the hands fluttered their fingers in a very impatient gesture that meant ‘offerings’.

  “First things first,” he said, picking up and sliding his oreblade cane across the desk. “My new Title restricts usage on all normal relics, so I can’t turn this cane into its oreblade form anymore. Take it as the base offering?”

  Then he offered half the gargoyle golem plates—five of them fanned like cards—and cracked the box of soulfire metal open to show Belara the burning purple lump of metal, cushioned by fire-resistant velvet.

  You could be reading stolen content. Head to Royal Road for the genuine story.

  “These are the main offerings,” he said. “The metal plates are from an Uncommon-9 golem, and the soulfire metal that burns perpetually is probably high Common grade too, so I’d prefer a fire-type Elementum-Class weapon. Also, here’s a bar of aethersteel. Make the relic lighter for me, please?”

  The hands palmed the offerings one by one and withdrew. While he waited for them to return, he took off his prosthetic and lined it up with the bar of bloodsilver, pushing those forward as well.

  “Also—”

  The hands snapped up his prosthetic and bloodsilver before he could even finish, and within ten seconds, they tossed two relics back out at him.

  His prosthetic didn’t look much different from when it went into the portal, if not for there being a slightly silver tint to the originally gold feather-patterned carvings.

  ***

  Name: Windscar Prosthetic Arm

  Type: Active Elementum-Class Cursed Relic, Common-5

  Attribute Addition: +2 Might, +1 Resilience

  Ability Description: When mana is channeled into the prosthetic, the holder can release a swirling burst of wind. The cost of each activation is at least 1 mana, and the more mana channeled into the prosthetic, the stronger the wind. The prosthetic has slight frost resistance, and if damaged, the prosthetic will slowly regenerate over time.

  However, use of this prosthetic will also draw breaths from the holder's lungs, making them more and more light-headed and nauseous with extended use.

  ***

  It was a higher grade now, all because of one additional line in the ability description: the prosthetic would now regenerate slowly if damaged. A good ability to have. He’d rather not have to open a portal mid-fight just to have Belara fix it for him.

  The other relic that she tossed back out of the portal, though, was a much, much different relic. The sheath of his oreblade cane had been made of pure blackwood and capped with an iron handle, but now the entire cane was lighter, made of black metal, and a silver owl head was carved on the handle with purple glass eyes.

  Strangely enough, though, the owl was missing its left eye, and it had two irises in its right eye instead.

  ***

  Name: Firelight Oreblade Cane

  Type: Passive Elementum-Class Cursed Relic, Common-8

  Attribute Addition: +2 Might

  Ability Description: The holder can transform the cane into a light silver oreblade at will, which can then be ignited with firelight at will to temporarily sharpen the oreblade. Firelight has the heat of fire, but is not wild and uncontrollable like fire. The passive drain is 0.4 mana regeneration per hour.

  However, firelight ignition will gradually burn the holder starting from the point of contact.

  ***

  … What the hell does ‘firelight’ even look like?

  It simply wasn’t an element type he’d heard before, so he first unfurled the cane into its silver oreblade form—that part hadn’t changed, at least—and then willed it to ignite.

  Bright purple light ran up and enveloped the blade, edged red like blood. He immediately flinched from the waves of heat emanating from the firelight, and the skin on the back of his hand prickled faintly.

  Ow.

  He killed the light at once, and it was like even the residual heat vanished from existence altogether.

  “Alright,” he muttered, flexing his fingers. “You bite back.”

  A fire-type Elementum-Class relic was exactly what he wanted. It still wouldn’t pierce through that gargoyle golem’s lightning barrier—the fact was, even if he had a lightning-type relic, it wouldn’t be high grade enough to negate the barrier—but a fire-type relic would prove useful against flesh and plant-based magic beasts, which were… most of them in the world.

  Belara’s hands gestured at him.

  “Oh, I’m not done yet,” he said cheerfully. He quickly shoved forward the empty alcohol bottle, the rest of the gargoyle golem plates, and the remaining silverplume feathers. “Manabrew Potion please. I could use a bit more mana.”

  Belara’s hands snatched everything like starved dogs, vanished, and came back with a long alcohol bottle with sparkling purple liquid inside. He grinned and popped the cork, reading its Tag before the first gulp just to be sure.

  ***

  Name: Cursed Manabrew Potion

  Type: Consumable Apotheca-Class Cursed Relic, Common-7

  Attribute Addition: +14 Mana, +0.7 Mana Regeneration

  Ability Description: When consumed, the potion will increase the drinker’s mana and mana regeneration.

  However, the drinker will taste a slight tinge of metal whenever they consume anything for the next five days.

  ***

  … I’ll taste metal because the offered materials are mana-infused metal plates?

  That’s not too bad.

  I should start keeping track of what cursed effects different recipes of Cursed Manabrew Potions have, though.

  Shame the Uncommon grade metal plates weren’t giving him Uncommon grade potions, though. He supposed they were simply the least valuable parts of the golem.

  Now, if he’d offered up the mechanical core as well, he probably would’ve gotten an Uncommon grade Cursed Manabrew Potion… but that would’ve been a dumb thing to do. He could use the mechanical core for a construct relic instead, which would be far, far more useful than just a few more attribute levels.

  Still don’t know what I want for my construct, though.

  Do I want a familiar? A cat construct that I can cuddle with? A hound construct that’ll bite and fight alongside me?

  It'd been a week since his last potion—his second potion—and he still had yet to figure out what his upper limit was. If there was even a chance that his natural tolerance level was four potions a month—one potion a week, essentially, which was a human's highest possible natural tolerance level—then he wanted to know.

  He needed to know.

  So he simply chugged this third potion and checked his own Tag once more for consolidation.

  ***

  Name: Dain Sorowyn

  Grade: Common-6

  Cursed Title: Collector

  Title Ability: Eye of Belara

  Acquired Skills: None

  Might: 14 (+4)

  Swiftness: 13 (+2)

  Resilience: 12 (+1)

  Clarity: 25 (+1)

  Mana: 58/58 (+3.3/hr)

  Relics: Windscar Prosthetic Arm (Common-5), Bloodlight Eye (Common-2), Firelight Oreblade Cane (Common-8), Silverplume Wingcloak (Common-4)

  ***

  ... I still don't feel 'sick' in my mana core, though.

  Does that mean my upper limit isn't three potions a month?

  Could it really be four potions a month?

  And oh, he was getting really excited now, because as far as he knew, the only people in the world who could tolerate one potion a week without contracting serious mana core sickness or dying outright were the most infamous seekers—Orland the Everbright amongst them.

  Which, of course, begged the question: was it him who had naturally high tolerance levels, or was it the Cursed Manabrew Potions Belara was giving him?

  ... Won't know if Belara won't tell.

  Just gotta keep drinking until I feel like I'm gonna die. Then I'll know what my upper limit is.

  But, for the time being...

  Common-6. He let his grade roll in his head for a moment, testing the weight of it.

  Not bad.

  Actually… pretty damn good, considering it wasn’t that long ago when I was only Common-2.

  With his twice-upgraded Windscar Prosthetic Arm, the Bloodlight Eye in his palm, the Silverplume Wingcloak on his back, the Firelight Oreblade Cane, and a Title he’d never heard of, he supposed it was only natural the Curator Gods now measured him a cut above most normal humans.

  As the portal guttered shut in silence, leaving him alone with his grin and his relics, he decided he could probably push it. If he continued gathering materials on his way to Braskir, he might be able to reach Common-7, maybe even Common-8 if fortune leaned his way.

  Uncommon grade would be fantastic, but that wasn’t likely.

  On this continent, at least, being Uncommon grade meant you walked with a nation’s elite soldiers. Not quite captains or generals yet, nor like the jewel-shined royal guards—those were typically reserved for Rare or Exquisite grades—but making the leap from Common-9 to Uncommon-0 meant more requests on the Seeker’s Guild job board would be opened up to him. Right now, he couldn’t even take on an Uncommon grade request if he wanted to.

  I still have three more Tags in my pocket, too.

  He turned them over in his pocket, thumb rubbing the golden sheets of paper. Promoting his One-Title into a Two-Title this early was out of the question. The materials required to promote a One-Title into a Two-Title had to be high Uncommon grade at the very least, and all things considered, Obric was a relatively peaceful country. There weren't a ton of high Uncommon grade beasts here. He'd have to at least venture deep into Auraline for materials he'd be satisfied offering to Belara for a promotion.

  And I don’t see high Uncommon grade materials being sold in a random market in Braskir, so Two-Title’s a dream I’d just have to fold away for now.

  But acquired skills… those he could touch. And if Braskir was as large and fat with relic stores as he’d heard, he’d be able to buy more Tags in time. That made it worth spending this one he currently had on an acquired skill.

  Acquired skills, unlike title abilities, were essentially skills anyone could learn given enough time. That meant skills like sharpshooting, needlework, and lute dexterity were examples of acquired skills. He could learn them the ordinary way if he just devoted his time to them… but he’d much rather skip the training and just acquire them instantly.

  He already had a shortlist of acquired skills he wanted to have down the line, but right now, he wanted a swordmanship skill the most. He’d rather not cut himself to ribbons using his firelight oreblade. Giant magic beasts may not care so much about footwork and sword techniques, but the basics of sword balance, power leverage, and not tripping over his own blade were all included in swordmanship skills, so…

  I’ll still take a sharpshooting skill for my prosthetic or a balancing skill for my wingcloak, but I should look out for the materials required for a swordsmanship Skill Tag first.

  Once he was done trading for the day, he pushed away from the desk and dropped onto his bed. Options lined themselves up neatly in his mind: more relics, acquired skills, and upgrades if Belara kept humoring him. Plenty of roads forward.

  But for the first time in a long while, he felt… not pressed.

  Relaxed, almost.

  He wondered if it was because he’d finally given his secret away—to people who ought to be the last people in the world he trusted, no less, but… maybe it wasn’t all bad.

  Maybe he should trust a person or two, if only to lighten the burden on his head.

  … Was this what she’d felt back then when she first showed me her Altar in that drab, stupid cave?

  His eyelids grew heavy.

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