The smell hit first.
Burnt hair. Smoke. Copper blood.
Rem sat on the cave floor with his back against stone, chest sawing. He pinned his right hand to his ribs. The pain didn’t stab anymore. It thudded. Each heartbeat shoved pressure up his forearm and into his shoulder.
He forced his eyes open.
The lantern burned steady on the ledge. His windbreak still held. The cave looked unchanged, calm in a way that didn’t belong to what he’d just done.
He looked down.
“Ah.” The word came out wet.
His hand was open in his lap.
Blood didn’t drip. It ran. It filled the cup of his palm and rolled over his wrist in sheets, tapping the stone in fat drops. A charred splinter, thick as a pencil, stood buried in the meat under his thumb. Smaller shards freckled the skin around it, black and stuck. His index finger sat wrong, bent where it shouldn’t bend.
The smell of cooked meat pushed up the back of his throat.
He shut his eyes hard and took one breath through his nose, slow, trying not to gag.
Stop the bleeding. Stay awake.
He shifted and reached for his satchel with his left hand. The movement yanked his right arm and lit it up. He swallowed the sound that wanted to come out and kept moving. Buckle. Flap. Glass clinked together as he dug.
Green—back. Red—out. He twisted the vials until he found the right label.
Health. Basic. Level three.
His jaw tightened. He should’ve brewed the next tier weeks ago. He’d been hungry and careless, and now even his safety net came up short.
“Okay,” he said, low. “Okay.”
He stared at the splinter.
If he drank first, the skin would close over it. The muscle would trap it. He’d carry dead wood inside his hand until it rotted him from the inside.
It had to come out.
He forced his palm open and held it up in front of his face. His fingers shook. He reached for his merge domain.
The blue box snapped into place around his hand.
He selected his hand and his power and locked it still.
The shaking stopped. His hand went rigid, held in place by his own will.
“Don’t be a coward,” he hissed. The breath rattled in his throat.
He caught the splinter with his power and pulled along the path it had taken in.
Pain tore through him so hard his body tried to fold away from it. A scream ripped out, raw, bouncing off stone. He kept pulling.
The charred spike slid free with a wet drag.
He dropped it. Blood surged, faster, warm against his skin.
He searched with his eyes for the smaller pieces. Found two. Drove his focus down and hooked the first.
Pop.
It came out coated, slick and blackened at the tip.
He went after the second with the same brutal patience.
Pop.
The last piece slipped free. He flung the wood away and didn’t watch where it landed.
Now the smaller debris. Charcoal specks embedded in skin and burn.
He scraped at them with his will, prying, lifting, tearing them out of soft tissue one by one. His breath hitched. His teeth clicked once as he lost control of the tremor in his stomach.
Blood poured. His ears filled with his pulse. The edges of the cave blurred.
He dropped the domain. His hand fell into his lap, limp and shining.
The vial was cold in his left hand.
He raised it and drank.
Liquorice.
Heat hit his stomach and punched outward. It sprinted through him, hunting. When it reached his hand it didn’t soothe. It grabbed.
His index finger snapped straight with a crack that made him choke.
He screamed and curled tight on the stone, shoulder pressing into the floor, knees drawn up. His right hand clenched on its own, then loosened, then clenched again as the potion forced bone and tendon to obey.
Skin bubbled and knit. The open puncture sealed in seconds. New tissue pulled itself across burns so fast it felt like it was being pressed on with a hot iron.
The pain surged, held, and then cut off all at once.
Silence fell back in. The lantern hissed softly.
Rem lay on his side, panting. Sweat ran off his temples and into his ear. His heart hammered hard enough to shake his ribs.
When he could move, he lifted his right hand.
It wasn’t perfect. The finger was straight, but the hand looked swollen and angry. The skin on his palm was fresh, raw pink, tight.
He fumbled another red vial from the satchel.
Restoration.
He drank and felt the slower work—warmth moving in pulses, deepening into the hand, loosening what the first potion had forced into place.
He lay there with his hand against his chest, eyes half shut, breathing through the dull ache.
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Minutes passed. His vision steadied. The tremor in his left hand eased, then stopped.
He sat up.
On his palm, scar tissue had set into a star. He flexed his fingers. Stiff. Resistant. They moved.
He wiped his forehead with his sleeve and looked at the novice wand in pieces on the floor.
“Right,” he rasped. His voice sounded torn.
He looked at the lake.
Still. Dark. Cold.
He looked back at the wands.
“Too dangerous,” he said.
He gathered the broken wand and threw it onto the spent pile. He’d burn them later.
He cleaned what he could—blood smeared thin across stone, wiped until his arm ached—then crawled into his bedroll and pulled the covers up.
Not warm. Not cold.
His mouth tasted of liquorice and iron.
He lay there, eyes open, counting his breaths until his hands stopped shaking.
He’d been sloppy. Potions under-leveled. Bag a mess. One bad angle and he could’ve ruined his hand for good. Healing didn’t grow back what was gone.
And if his hand didn’t work, the lakebed didn’t get cleared. The challenge didn’t get solved.
He let out a long breath through his nose.
Slow down.
Solve the puzzle first.
Then plan.
The next day Rem waited until the last skin of ice pulled back from the lake, then dove.
Cold punched through him. He swore and kicked hard, forcing motion before his chest could lock. The water closed around him, squeezing the air out, numbing skin in seconds.
Down.
Silt billowed as his hands hit the bottom.
He grabbed a rock and heaved it aside. Scooped mud with both hands and flung it clear. Fingers sank into muck, scraped stone.
Ten seconds.
He kicked up, broke the surface, sucked in air, and treaded water just long enough to steady his breath.
Then down again.
The shock never faded. Every dive drove needles through his chest. He worked anyway.
Rock. Mud. Stone.
Kick. Surface. Gasp.
Dive.
The groove lengthened one arm’s reach at a time.
An hour later he dragged himself out of the lake, shaking hard enough that his teeth clicked. His lungs burned. His fingers felt scraped raw despite the potion. The groove—two meters of it—lay clean and straight beneath the water.
That was enough.
He stumbled to the fire he’d built earlier, lit it with numb hands, and stood close until the shaking slowed. When his legs stopped threatening to fold, he crossed to the carving on the ledge.
The small stone sphere rested at the start of the line.
Rem put his palm behind it and pushed.
It rolled.
Smooth. Straight.
Click.
The sound landed deeper than before. It carried through the stone and up through his boots.
The cave changed.
Not wind. Pressure. The air tightened, the way it does before a storm breaks. Light at the entrance thinned. Shadows sharpened along the floor.
Rem wiped water from his eyes and looked back at the fire. The flames snapped and leaned, restless.
He turned to the sphere.
It had moved maybe two finger spans farther along the groove.
Two meters.
His throat tightened. The line stretched away into the lake. Forty meters more, at least.
He waited for the fatigue to hit.
It didn’t.
His breathing steadied. His arms felt loose. His mind felt empty. Bored, almost.
That wasn’t right.
He used the duplication box to build another fire—split wood, oil, arranged clean and ready—then faced the lake again.
“Again,” he said.
And stepped back into the water.
That night he slept deep.
The antique hearthstone kept the alcove warm enough. Once, half asleep, he stumbled out into the wind to relieve himself and came back shaking, breath torn out of him by the cold. He lay there afterward, jaw tight, already changing his plans.
In the morning he ate a full meal—dried meat, hardtack—and drank until the canteen ran dry. He checked the sun.
Early. Around eight.
He frowned. He’d slept eight hours. He felt rested.
The lake still held ice along the edges, so he took a shovel and walked the ground instead. Far enough from the cave and the water. Not so far he’d freeze reaching it at night.
The shovel fought him for every cut. Frozen dirt rang under the blade. Rock scraped. His arms burned as he levered earth free a chunk at a time. Eventually there was a hole deep enough to use.
He flattened the ground and duplicated wood—block after block—stacking them into a low windbreak. A simple seat. Solid enough.
Good enough.
By the time he finished, the ice on the lake had pulled back.
He went straight to the water.
Dive. Dig. Surface.
Dive. Dig. Surface.
The rhythm came back fast. Cold bit, then faded. His shoulders burned, went numb, then settled into steady work.
By midday—judging by his stomach and the growing pile of spoil—he’d cleared another five meters.
He climbed out, lit a fire, and ate. When the shaking stopped, he crossed to the carving and pushed the sphere.
It rolled farther this time and stopped at the end of the clean groove.
Progress.
Rem stood there for a moment, watching it.
Then he turned back to the fire. He was tired, but the sun was still high.
Back into the lake.
He worked faster now. The cleared groove showed through the water, a straight line to follow. No hesitation on the bottom. No wasted motion.
By the time he dragged himself out that night, his legs felt hollow. He warmed himself, heated two hearthstones, and carried them into the cave. He checked his supplies, replaced what he’d used, and relieved himself before the cold could talk him out of it.
He lay down and slept before the light was gone.
He woke warm.
That alone felt strange.
He slept through the night and stumbled out into the early cold to use the latrine. The windbreak did its job. He finished quickly, breath fogging, and stretched before stepping down to the lake to wash his hands and face.
The water numbed his fingers.
He splashed his face, wiped his hands on his trousers, then paused.
His chin should’ve felt rough.
He ran his fingers over it again. Smooth. No grit. No catch at all.
That didn’t make sense.
He’d never gone more than a day without feeling it. Three days should’ve been obvious.
Maybe the cold slowed it, he told himself.
He pushed the thought aside and turned back to the lake.
The water still held ice along the rim. He dove anyway. The cold punched through him and drove him forward. He worked out to the middle, cleared more of the groove, surfaced, dove again.
On the third dive, a message interrupted him.
You have acquired the skill: Swimming.
You have marginally advanced your skill: Swimming.
He barked a short laugh into the water and kicked back to the surface.
Figures.
Another message followed.
You have completed this challenge objective.
You may end the challenge at any time to receive your reward.
He ignored it.
He ate, worked, moved the sphere farther down the groove. Past the halfway point now. The stone clicked into place with its deeper sound. The cave answered the way it always did.
By the time the light faded he was done. Truly done. He dried off, pushed the sphere once more, then shouldered his pack and walked back toward the tunnel.
The walk felt short.
At the glyph, the interface changed.
End challenge four and receive your rewards?
He selected no.
A new list appeared.
Select destination:
Storage Locker
Alchemy Workshop
Oldetown (origin)
Babylon
He stepped into the locker first. Dropped his heavy gear. Set the duplication equipment down. Changed into lighter clothes.
Then he stepped into Oldetown.
Sunlight hit him full in the face.
Bright. Warm.
Morning light.
He stopped.
The sun hung too high. Clean and sharp, not angled the way it should’ve been.
That wasn’t right.
He turned slowly, scanning the street. People moved at an easy pace. Shops were open. No one looked rushed.
He’d been inside three days. Four, maybe. He’d eaten nine meals. Slept three times. Healed a shattered hand.
This should’ve been past noon.
He headed toward the lockers and flagged down the first person he saw wearing tech.
“Hey,” he said. “Do you know what time it is?”
She flicked her eyes up and answered without slowing. “Ten forty-five.”
“What day?”
She hesitated, then frowned at him. “Thursday.”
He nodded. “Thanks.”
She walked on.
Rem stood there in the sun.
He did the math again. Slower this time.
He raised a hand and rubbed his chin.
Smooth.
No stubble. No grit. No soreness.
“An hour,” he said under his breath. “An hour and change.”
His muscles remembered the cold. His lungs remembered the burn. His hands remembered the weight of stone and mud.
A chill ran down his back.
He lowered his hand and let it rest at his side.
The sphere. The groove. How far it had rolled.
Moving it hadn’t just marked progress. It had changed something fundamental. Each section cleared had bought him more time inside the challenge.
Not by stretching the day.
By decoupling his body from it.
He’d slept. Eaten. Healed. Worked himself to exhaustion. And none of it showed.
His body wasn’t aging at the same rate as his experience.
He swallowed.
He thought about how much of the groove he’d cleared. How much remained. How easy it would be to keep going now that he understood the principle.
This wasn’t about getting skills or titles.
That was just the distraction.
The real question was more terrifying.
What would you do, if you had all the time in the world?
