Oz approached his studies as he might an opponent in a tunnel fight. It was a matter of bearing down the opponent. Overwhelming power forcing it down till they conceded defeat.

  He did not study, he wrestled the words until they stopped squirming. Oz did not enjoy learning from books, he learned by doing. Written text and lectures bounced off him while he soaked up skills like the practical parts of rune craft, like a dwarf before premium whiskey.

  It just was never interesting, it never felt like it applied to his life. Even the more esoteric and theoretical parts of rune craft never did anything other than confuse him and get in the way of carving runes.

  Books did not appeal to Oz, not compared to those bookworms he had known, and wished he had at least a little of their interest.

  Be careful what you wish for flashed through his mind as he opened the first book and the Ozzer engaged. The otherworldly entity had a thirst for knowledge that even a parched dwarf before a brewmaster’s private reserve would be hard pressed to match.

  Oz felt the world drop away. A state that normally was accompanied by the sound of stone chipping or weights rattling. His breathing slowed and the world stopped existing.

  He even forgot to pet Chops.

  Oz had stepped into the library to return the book and check out the suggested reading list. It was now four hours later and he had only stopped reading because he had finished a book and before he could grab the next his bladder had taken the opportunity to tackle him, demanding immediate action or dire consequences.

  He had somehow completely ignored the alarm clock.

  As Oz stumbled back to the table he had set up on, not daring to open any other books in case he got sucked back in, he noticed other oddities.

  First was the dictionary he had open to one side, he groggily remembered struggling with some of the words. While the blessing helped with this, having a dictionary smoothed out the last of the confusion. His fugue state had been so all encompassing he had gone and obtained other books to maintain it. Oz was now burdened with the meaning of words that ranged from ‘ossification’ to ‘magical influx’.

  He knew that learning what a cravat was could not lead to anything good.

  The other thing that shocked him was that the Ozzer guy had even been taking notes, a matter of heresy as far as Oz was concerned, why create more things to read. Why not just read the same things again. The Ozzer did not subscribe to this philosophy and as Oz sat down and looked over the notebook he had been issued not a few hours ago he found page after page of detailed notes.

  Oz examined the notes with the same attitude as a man who had woken up to find himself in the centre of a ritual circle of blood and eldritch runes of alien otherworldly design. The text began, ‘notes on The Principle Purpose and Philosophy of the Modern Dungeon’.

  The book covers a broad range of topics lightly. The core goal is to explore the main goal of dungeons, which is the collection of essence, the essential fuel of the Alloy Republic. It outlines how dungeons collect this essence through ‘farming’ delvers who, by using their powers in the dungeon, bring in essence that can be harvested.

  The philosophy aspect focuses on how the modern approach is to do this in a symbiotic approach. More powerful delvers means more essence, so dungeons are designed to help raise the skills of the delvers. This leads to strict adherence to the concept of the ‘difficulty curve’ and designing the dungeons to offer challenge and reward in equal measure.

  The end goal of the modern dungeon is not just to collect essence but work as part of a network of dungeons that have the overall goal of raising the average power and skill of delvers, ensuring that the network as a whole can grow and gather more essence.

  Oz looked on in horror. The notes had summaries of the notes he had been taking. The Ozzer guy wrote notes about his notes, what a lunatic.

  And why bother taking notes. Oz could feel all the information sticking in his mind, just waiting to be accessed again. Wait, how did this reward the delvers again. He started to turn the page before slapping his hand down. He was not about to be sucked in again.

  He really needed to go to talk to Brackham.

  It was a few hours later. Oz had managed to request some time with the Archchancellor through Lily. He had filled the in-between time giving Angie some combat training. Her form was terrible, and Oz was not the best teacher, however he knew enough to help start the process of learning. He had skipped the first stage of every training montage though, no need to get her to run in circles. If there was one thing Angie could do it was run.

  They had wrapped up the training, and Oz had showered and then headed over to meet Brackham. The Archchancellor’s office pressed on him already, dark wood polished so smooth it was practically a mirror, the walls crowded with portraits of severe, hollow-cheeked predecessors whose eyes glinted like they were waiting for someone to disappoint them.

  Oz avoided looking at the specimen jars beside the trophy case. Trophies shone for the accomplished, formaldehyde waited for everyone else.

  So it was that he found himself back in the opulent office, gesturing wildly at his notes, while also trying to explain what was wrong with his soul space and the fact Defiance had ‘blessed’ him.

  “Let us start with the easiest challenge. You slipped into a fugue state, completely losing track of time and what you were doing, and this ‘Ozzer’ took over. In which time he made very neat, detailed and helpful notes of one of the key texts for your studies here” The Archchancellor looked over the paper with an approving eye.

  Oz ignored the sensation of the Ozzer preening at the compliment.

  “I do not know what came over me, I just opened the book and then four hours later I came to covered in ink splotches and with my body screaming at me. I skipped lunch and almost missed my training with Angie.”

  “And do you remember it all. Did you feel compelled” Brackham asked, his voice smooth as oiled parchment. The faint clink of something glass shifted behind him, Oz’s senses told him something was moving in one of the specimen jars.

  “No, it was just so interesting. It was like when I used to find a new rune that I wanted to master, or the first time I got some really good cold-way flint, I was knapping blades till the sun came up.” As Oz explained that the Archchancellor visibly relaxed.

  “So this state of focus is normal for you”

  “Yes, sort of, maybe…” Oz squirmed as he thought back to how he got in his gym or when working on his clan knife. “Not like this, never about books, I always had to be doing something, like exercise or rune scribing.”

  “And during those projects did you ever take notes” Brackham leaned back in his high-backed chair carved with curling bat wing motifs, his long fingers steepling in a way that made the gold rings on them catch the candlelight like fangs.

  “I do not take notes but I might have kept a journal…” Oz watched as the Archchancellor raised an eyebrow at him, a slight smile forming on his lips revealing his fangs.

  A faint, indignant grumble echoed through Oz’s thoughts, something about “methodology” and “proper experimental documentation”, which Oz ruthlessly shoved aside. He did not appreciate being ganged up on by the voice in his head.

  “That is different, I had a diary of exercises and what I was eating. And for runes you have to journal down your progress otherwise you do not know where you might have gone wrong.” Oz spluttered defensively.

  Reading on this site? This novel is published elsewhere. Support the author by seeking out the original.

  “So you keep diaries and a journal. But notes are not acceptable.”

  “I… er. By the Nether, I have been a bit of a slaghead have I not”

  “No, it makes sense, there is a lot changing for you right now. We knew the Bleed could cause shifts in your focus, it just seems that this took you by surprise. Considering everything else that you are dealing with you are doing well to keep yourself grounded.” Brackham’s voice remained gentle, but his eyes, dark like dried blood, assessed Oz with academic hunger.

  The vampire could practically taste the various studies just waiting to be written on the young man.

  “Books never did much for me,” Oz said, folding his arms as though bracing for an argument. And not just from the Ozzer who was very defensive of its desire for literature.

  “Rune theory especially, felt like someone trying to explain how to swing a pickaxe without ever lifting one. I wanted to be a ranger. Out in the field. Doing things. Not squinting at diagrams that tell you obvious things like ‘do not sleep in shimmer shade’ or how to spark a fire from scalp grass.”

  Brackham’s expression did not shift, though the candlelight along his fangs brightened faintly. “To be a ranger, you would in fact need to read entire tomes of policy. And follow them.”

  Oz snorted. “Rules I can handle.” His jaw tightened with a pride he did not show often.

  Every dwarf clan had a specialism, and clan Grimbrow’s was in protecting land claims. The clan produced the kind of fighty lawyers you hired when you wanted a boundary dispute won so thoroughly the other side reconsidered owning land at all.

  Grimbrows would knife fight in the tunnels in the morning, dust themselves off and present airtight legal arguments in the afternoon. Oz’s father liked to brag that the clan once collapsed an entire section of a courtroom into a tunnel to handle a particularly bent judge.

  Oz himself, sadly, had got more of the “knife fight” and less of the “airtight legal argument.” He knew just enough law to avoid actual consequences for the brawls he did end up in, which, in Greywater terms, practically made him a responsible citizen.

  “My dad drilled it into me, know the rules better than the bastard trying to break them. Otherwise you lose your land claim and your teeth.”

  Brackham steepled his fingers, resting his chin atop them. “Your school reports suggest some… spirited interpretation of ‘following the rules’”

  Oz shrugged, guarded now. “I do not pick fights. But I finish them if someone else starts.” A beat. “And sometimes I say things that set people off. Not on purpose.” Another pause, shorter, accompanied by a scowl. “Was not exactly a friendly place for someone like me.”

  Brackham tilted his head. “Because of your heritage”

  “Because I was the only kid with dwarf blood for miles,” Oz said simply. “Anyway, I am not here to talk about schoolyard rubbish. What has this got to do with the voice in my head who takes notes like he is being graded on them”

  Brackham gave a soft hum, almost pleased. “I wished to understand why someone with clear discipline and intellect recoils at note taking as though it were an affliction. Your background provides context.”

  “Well I am still in the dark.”

  “This ‘Ozzer’ clearly has a profound interest in magic. It seems to have given you a new focus, and some quite refined habits of study. But it has not changed who you are.”

  Oz groaned. “But… the books.”

  “You have demonstrated that when something aligns with your goals, you commit yourself entirely. Would you agree”

  Oz nodded. “Yeah.”

  “And you wish to be a ranger. Excellence here is the only road to that.” Brackham gestured lightly, the motion elegant and old. “So, can you see how rigorous academic study might serve your ambitions”

  Oz hesitated. “I mean… yes.” He thought back to the library, expecting to choke down bitter medicine, and then the shock of finding it went down smooth, like a finely brewed ale after a long day. He had braced for a fight only to barrel straight through.

  “It is still strange,” he muttered.

  “I will not deny that,” Brackham said. His tone was patient, but there was an old, scholarly curiosity beneath it. “But I am relieved you brought this to me. I see no sign you are losing yourself. A soul meld is unusual but far less worrying than the alternatives.”

  Oz grunted. “Better than saying my soul has been bodged together.”

  “Now, let us turn to the more esoteric concerns,” Brackham said, smoothing an invisible crease from his sleeve. His tone shifted, precise, professorial, the kind of voice that had probably lectured through plagues, wars and at least one assassination attempt. “I cannot speak much to the oddity of your soul space. But the structure you describe, it resembles what mortals experience far more than what beings of our realm should.”

  “I do not really understand the difference.” Oz leaned back, wary. Topics like this tended to make his head feel like someone was packing gravel behind his eyes.

  “We are beings with an essence core,” Brackham said. Behind him, the portraits of past Archchancellors seemed to lean in, hungry for the lecture. “Through that core we access the Weave. It is the Weave that empowers us, shapes our bodies, allows our skills, strengthens our essence.”

  “I thought I had a mana core”

  “A common misconception.” Brackham lifted a hand, graceful as a conductor. “Your skills break essence into mana. Mortals, however, bear true mana cores. Their cores connect them to what is typically called ‘the System.’” He paused, eyes sharpening. “I have never heard of a denizen of our realm possessing full access to it. Partial access like your situation indicates has precedence. Though I will have to go look up the specifics. The nature of mana cores is not my main area of study.”

  Oz frowned. “We harvest their mana though. Why bother if we have our own”

  “Oh, theirs is much purer,” Brackham said, almost wistful. “Refined. Predictable. Our mana is volatile. Unsettled. It takes a great deal of time before it is safe to use.”

  “So has this made my core different. Am I going to start producing this stable mana. Is that a problem”

  Brackham lifted one brow. “Your core is unchanged. The Ozzer’s connection to the System, likely through that malformed blessing, merged with yours. It granted you partial access. Threads of the System, not the whole tapestry.”

  Oz grunted. “But how big a problem is that. The blessing is nice and all but—”

  “The blessing tells us precisely what it grants and what it does not.” A flicker of excitement crossed Brackham’s face, scholarly and hungry. “The Weave and the System communicate. We have long suspected this. Your enhanced dungeon loot boon is evidence. Your case is unusual but not alarming.”

  “Right,” Oz muttered. “What about Defiance? That is not a mortal thing is it”

  “That,” Brackham said, relaxing slightly, “is thankfully simple. We of the dungeon realms cannot be blessed by gods. Neither the System nor the Weave can remove a blessing either. When the Ozzer was brought here, the god’s connection severed but the blessing remained. Your Authority and your affinity for Defiance filled the empty space.”

  Oz described the blessing as best he could. Brackham listened with the stillness of an ancient predator.

  “How worried should I be about these Principles” Oz finished. “It sounds like it expects me to kill slavers. And those Devilcars looked like they wanted to burrow into the floor to get away from it.”

  “Defiance is very old,” Brackham said. “Older than the Republic, though it strengthened us when we tore ourselves free of the Demon King. It waned in popularity over the centuries, but shrines remain. Adherents remain. Its Principles are woven—lightly—into our laws. Many of the old dynastic families seem to have forgotten its role in our freedom.”

  Oz snorted. “Yeah I see that. It does not sound like it will get along with Dynasty students based on what I have heard.”

  Brackham gave a thin smile, the sort that suggested he was already drafting three documents in his head. “That is true, though I suspect it will be more their discomfort than yours. Now, I must prepare a few exemptions for you.”

  Oz blinked. “Exemptions”

  “Of course. You are not the first student whose class features present behavioural complications.” Brackham’s tone was sympathetic in the way only an immortal academic could manage, understanding but faintly amused. “The first exemption is for your uniform. Your cravat appears to be attempting a slow, strategic strangulation.”

  Oz tugged at the offending cloth. “I can take this off? Thank the Nether, I thought it was tightening every time I breathed wrong.”

  “Yes. Some style armaments simply refuse to cooperate with institutional dress codes. The uniform will adapt around your Authority once the exemption is filed.” Brackham dipped a quill into ink, his handwriting precise to the point of artistry. Behind him, the portraits of former Archchancellors seemed to watch critically, as though judging his pen technique.

  “And the other one” Oz asked.

  Brackham continued writing. “A conduct exemption. It formalises that you are bound by a personal code derived from your Authority, Defiance in your case. Now, this is not permission to cause problems…” He glanced up, eyes sharp as a scalpel. “But if problems are brought to you, and your blessing insists you address them, the Academy cannot hold you entirely accountable for that instinct.”

  Oz squinted. “So… do not use it as an excuse to punch people”

  “Quite. I expect you to apply the minimum amount of violence required to solve any conflict.” Brackham paused, then added dryly, “Knowing the ego on those likely to cause issue I should still warn Lily.”

  Oz stared at the small document that effectively sanctioned his violence. “You know this is a weird sch—Academy.”

  Brackham set down his quill and leaned back in his ornate chair. “My dear boy, you do not know the half of it.” For a moment, the firelight caught his eyes as they relived dark memories. Oz was certain he was missing far more than half.

  “If your time here is anything like mine,” the vampire added calmly, “the exemptions will be the least strange paperwork you encounter.”