What was she doing?
He should have asked more questions. Demanded answers. Instead, he had let himself get distracted, speculating about her intentions and debating whether he should have mentioned that he was in a relationship. Which still felt unreal. And it had completely ruined his ability to focus.
Now the circle blazed brighter and something happened.
The hair on the back of his neck prickled. The air felt wrong. Tiny lights appeared, drifting like fireflies caught in an unseen current.
Mirabelle stopped chanting and tilted her head, as if listening. Then she pulled out her notebook and began to read in a calm, formal voice.
“By entering this circle, you accept the following terms and conditions. You will exchange counsel and knowledge for the sole payment of restored temporary access to your own lost memories, returned to the best of the summoner’s abilities. You may not bind or control your summoner. You may not manipulate him into fulfilling your wishes in any way or form, magical or otherwise, except through open and truthful verbal negotiation. Do you accept these terms and conditions?”
Weylan heard no reply. After a few seconds, Mirabelle nodded.
A humanoid silhouette formed beside her, half-shaped and shimmering, and leaned in to whisper into her ear. Mirabelle answered just as quietly, her words too soft for Weylan to catch.
Then, in a sudden flash, the figure surged forward and vanished into her body.
Mirabelle’s eyes flared like mage-lights. She blinked, swayed slightly, then steadied herself. With a snap of her fingers, the illusion collapsed and the summoning circle faded into nothing.
“Let’s get back home,” she said.
Weylan raised a hand. “Wait. I’m not letting you enter the academy unless you can prove you’re still you. And not possessed by a ghost, a demon, or some eldritch abomination.”
Mirabelle blinked. “How do you even know about eldritch abominations?”
“Well, Darken mentioned them once. I’m not sure if he was joking. Something about the copyright running out so the devs could use them whenever they want. He talked like I was supposed to know what any of that meant. He can be strange sometimes.”
She laughed softly. “Sometimes?”
“You won’t distract me that easily,” Weylan said. “Prove your identity, or I’m getting Kaelthorne to call an exorcist. Or I’ll have Alina beat you with a stick.”
Mirabelle sighed and rubbed her temples. “Fine. Fair. What would convince you?”
She studied him for a long moment, her expression shifting through irritation, amusement, and something faintly smug.
“Alright,” she said at last. “Clever proof, then.”
She reached into her sleeve and produced her notebook, flipping to a page Weylan recognized instantly. Not by the writing, but by the ugly burn mark in the middle.
“You did that,” she said, tapping it. “You tried to test whether shadow mana could be infused into runes I’d drawn. Without asking. It caught fire.”
Weylan winced. “You said you forgave me.”
“I said I wouldn’t be angry anymore,” Mirabelle replied. “Different thing.”
She closed the notebook and looked straight at him. “I also said your apology was terrible, your excuse worse, and that if you ever experimented near my things again, I’d let Kaelthorne use you as a live demonstration for how to stop casters from using spells by hitting them.”
“…You did say that,” Weylan admitted.
“Word for word.”
She then took out her holy amulet and intoned a brief ritual at one of the candles. It flared gold for a moment, then settled into a slightly bronze hue.
He rubbed the back of his neck. “The hearth’s blessing. Your goddess probably wouldn’t let an ancient ghost lady cast spells in her name. So you’re really you?”
“Yes.”
“And you didn’t just invite something ancient and unknowable into your head?”
“Weylan,” Mirabelle said flatly, “if I had, I wouldn’t have bothered with terms and conditions.”
He snorted despite himself.
She softened a little, giving him a sideways look. “Also, if I were possessed, the first thing I’d do is stop pretending your relationship status isn’t painfully obvious.”
His face warmed. “That’s not proof.”
“It’s devastatingly in character,” she replied.
They stood there for a moment, the forest quiet again, the last traces of magic fading like a held breath finally released.
“Come on,” Mirabelle said, turning back toward the path to the academy. “Before someone notices we’re both missing and decides to ask awkward questions.”
Weylan followed, still uneasy, but no longer afraid.
“…You’re going to tell me what you traded for that memory access, right?”
Mirabelle smiled without looking back.
“Eventually.”
* * *
Back at the academy, Weylan went straight to bed. He dreamed of burning blue eyes and whispering shadows.
In the morning, he checked his equipment and began making a list of what he would need for the upcoming hunt. Rope, climbing hooks, wood axe, tinder. How many tents would his team need? How would they distribute the supplies? How many rations? Would the academy provide a wagon, or pack horses for the heavier loads?
It was getting colder. Extra blankets, then. How many could they realistically carry?
Did he need additional weapons? He looked at his sword-staff, assassin’s dagger, and eating knife. Maybe some spears for the priestesses? He would have to ask.
He thought back to what had been lacking most on previous expeditions.
Ranged weapons.
That had been a weak point for every team he had been on. Ulmenglanz had obtained a skill crystal containing the crossbow skill in the Dungeon of Alchemy, and he remembered seeing her train at the shooting range.
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The priestesses… well, they wouldn’t shoot him in the back by accident. Not very often, anyway.
He rummaged through his chest and found the box containing the Assassin’s Hand Crossbow he had acquired in the same dungeon. He opened it and began assembling the weapon.
An impressed whistle sounded behind him.
He flinched and turned to see Aldrich staring at the crossbow. “House servants sure use different weapons in the south.”
Weylan shrugged. “I got it in a dungeon.” He lifted it slightly and showed the dungeon mark etched into the side.
Aldrich glanced at it for only a moment. “The mark of the Dungeon of Alchemy! I’ve been there.”
“Really? Which floor?”
“I was part of a training team that cleared the first floor. I was low level back then. Those sneaky squirrel bastards nearly got me. I liked the overall theme, though. And everyone agreed the dungeon instances are perfectly organized.”
He looked up at Selvara’s approving croak.
Weylan spoke quickly, drawing attention away from the raven. “I hated the bloody mist.”
“Yeah. That was annoying. There are only a few possible variations of the pillar sequence, though.”
Weylan blinked. “The what?”
“The sequence where you hit the pillars with any spell to deactivate the mist. Didn’t you read the information package they provide in the dungeon village?”
“I was teleported in by a token. Arrived directly inside.”
“Oh. Well, you should have gotten that beforehand. I cannot even imagine fighting the scourge squirrels in the mist the entire time.”
“And then there was the boss monster.”
Aldrich groaned. “The one with the potion injectors? That thing was outright unfair. Broke my leg before I even landed a hit. The knights in my team had to kill it about three times over.”
Weylan shrugged casually. “I just fed it the rest of my potions.”
“I don’t feel comfortable knowing house servants are trained in poison use.”
“Oh no. No poison. Stamina, antidote, and healing potions.”
Now it was Aldrich’s turn to blink. “What good would that… Oh. Poison toxicity. Underhanded, but clever.”
Weylan accepted the rare praise with a nod. “The second floor was worse. Traps everywhere. And ape monsters constantly trying to sneak up on you.”
Aldrich nodded thoughtfully. “I heard. We did not have a rogue good enough to even attempt it.” He paused. “Do not tell me you cleared the second floor too?”
Weylan remembered the alchemical laboratory themed level. Tripwires and traps disguised as experiments. The fight against the ape minion boss and its choir. And the nightmarish speed run through the third floor. Just him and a tiny dungeon fairy clinging to him for dear life. Nearly dying to the third floor’s boss while praying they had managed to interrupt its regeneration and boosting phase.
He gave a dry laugh. “No. That would have been suicide. Anyway, do you know how to use this thing?” He gestured at the hand crossbow.
Aldrich grimaced. “Of course not. That is hardly a knightly weapon.”
“Then I’ll head to the shooting range. Hopefully one of the instructors can give me a few pointers.”
He left the dorm and nearly collided with a book goblin hurrying inside.
“You! Shady one! I have letter!”
“Good for you.” Weylan tried to step around him, but the goblin blocked his path and produced a sealed envelope, waving it insistently.
“No! Letter for you! Came by messenger through spawnpoint. Must be important.”
Weylan took the letter and recognized the seal at once. The seal of the city of Mulnirsheim. Only the baron and his steward, his master, used it.
He tried to thank the goblin, but the creature was already sprinting away.
Weylan turned a corner, ensuring no one could look over his shoulder or spy on him, then broke the seal and opened the letter.
Dear Weylan,
As your master, I have received both a modest influx of experience and an official notification informing me that my apprentice has elevated one of his class skills to Master tier. Allow me to extend my sincerest congratulations on this remarkable achievement, particularly at such a young age.
I had been greatly looking forward to advising you on the appropriate selection of a mastery feat. To my considerable surprise, however, I was instead informed that you had already made this choice independently.
Be advised that, should such an unprecedented breach of decorum and of the sanctity of the master-apprentice bond ever occur again, I will not rest until I have assisted you in elevating your cooking skill to the very same tier. You surely recall the one I mean. Yes, the one involving the cheese grater and the salt.
To this end, I have already procured a newly released and highly innovative upgrade guide, employing techniques so ingenious that even revenants, despite their dulled sensory perception, are reportedly capable of advancing the skill through its methods.
On this occasion, and on this occasion alone, I shall refrain from punitive measures, as your choice was a sound one. I admit I was initially taken aback, but upon reflection and in light of your… distinctive style, it suits you rather well.
Rumors suggest that your academy will no longer remain the comfortable and tranquil bastion of learning it once was. Instead, there are whispers of some manner of hunt. Given your customary luck, I fully expect you to encounter a hoarderscale-dragon hybrid, a hydra, or some other entirely unreasonable creature.
With considerable reluctance, I therefore grant you permission to advance up to level eight at your own discretion. You may, in dire emergencies, even select feats below Master tier if circumstances demand it. Be assured that I will require a full and precise account of the nature of any such emergency at our next meeting.
However, under no circumstances are you to select any option for your cooking skill other than the specific feat whose name includes the name of the skill and the word “unlock.” You will deeply regret choosing any of the vastly inferior alternatives.
I wish you the best of luck. May the gods look favorably upon your adventures.
Sincerely,
Steward Jago
He gulped. That sounded like he would still receive quite a scolding when he returned. And what feat had his master meant, anyway?
He opened his menu and scrolled through the Journeyman feats for the Resist Pain skill. There were options to increase resistance to specific types of pain, fire, ice, acid, or even pain caused explicitly by torture. He saw little practical use in any of them.
One entry stood out: “Resistance Unlock”
The description was spectacularly unhelpful. It contained only a single line:
“Unlocks resistance skills.”
That was it.
Well, his master would not insist on a feat without reason. Weylan selected it and waited.
Nothing happened.
No sensation. No notification.
He shrugged. Maybe it only did something in combination with other skills. He would ask Kaelthorne later.
* * *
At the shooting range, he slowed in surprise. Many students were already hard at work. A neat row of targets stretched ahead, their centers bristling with bolts and arrows like wounded porcupines. Slings snapped, bows twanged, crossbows thumped, and the occasional thrown weapon cut through the air in a steady, relentless barrage.
Ulmenglanz and the three priestesses occupied the leftmost range together.
They trained with a seriousness that sat slightly at odds with their unfamiliarity with the weapons. Sleeves were rolled up, holy symbols tucked away, brows furrowed in concentration. All three struggled with crossbows, their reloading times long enough that they shared a single target.
Faya lagged half a step behind the others.
Her feet were planted firmly, jaw clenched, arms trembling as she tried to draw back the crossbow string without bracing the weapon against the ground. The bow flexed. The string did not move. Her expression hovered between stubborn defiance and the creeping realization that physics might be a personal enemy.
Weylan slowed, instinctively quiet, watching for a moment.
Then his boot scraped lightly against the gravel.
Faya looked up at the sound, a few loose strands of hair slipping free behind her ear. For a heartbeat she froze, hands still locked on the string, cheeks faintly flushed. Her eyes met Weylan’s, and the tension in her posture shifted from physical strain to startled embarrassment.
The crossbow slipped slightly in her grip.
“…I’ve almost got it,” she said quickly, as if daring reality to contradict her.
Weylan glanced at the weapon. “I’m not an expert, but I think you’re supposed to brace that type of crossbow against the ground while reloading. There’s even a part where you put your foot in to hold it steady while pulling the lever.”
The blonde priestess rolled her eyes. “I know that. It just takes too long that way.”
He raised his hands in a defensive gesture. “Sorry for doubting you. Please, continue. I’ll look for a free range.”
He passed Sir Cloverton, who had been placed safely behind the archers on a folded blanket atop a table. Weylan almost envied him. He scratched the dozing animal behind the ears and immediately felt Malvorik’s attention stir.
Weylan checked his surroundings. Everyone nearby was focused on their own practice. He lifted the verdant hare into his arms, continuing to pet him while giving a brief summary of the past day’s events.
Selvara fluttered down from a tree at a safe distance from the flying projectiles and landed on his shoulder. She greeted him with a soft croak, clearly unwilling to speak with so many students nearby.
“Selvara says hi. I’ll leave you here and train my crossbow skill.”
“What? Did he level up as well?”
“I thought you planned to wait for us before opening that again.”
“What did you buy?”
Weylan chuckled, said his goodbyes, and set the hare back onto the table. Selvara hopped down beside him, nuzzling the hare with her head.
He spent the rest of the day training.
Skill increased: Crossbow (Apprentice VII)