In the southern reaches of the Selais Duchy, within the kingdom of Aranthia, there lies a hidden treasure not of gold or jewels, but of bone-white clay. This rare, delicate clay, harvested along the banks of the River Selay, is the lifeblood of the region’s most ancient and cherished craft—the making of Selaisian porcelain. For centuries, the potters of these quiet villages have honed their skills, passing down their art from father to son, generation after generation. Each potter pours their heart and soul into their work, shaping clay into exquisite forms that seem almost too delicate for this world.

  Selaisian pottery is known far and wide, famed not only for its ethereal beauty but also for its value. Pieces crafted before the reign of King Aran, during the time of the Old Dynasties, fetch fortunes in markets across the known world. Some say that a masterwork of Selais porcelain, with its translucent glaze and intricate designs, can rival even Mithril artifacts in their elegant beauty. Collectors covet these fragile works of art, each piece a testament to the unbroken tradition and quiet brilliance of the Selaisian tradition. In their hands, simple clay becomes timeless art that touches upon the divine.

  - The Path of the Merchant by Gelgor Badawi.

  Again, I was reminded that if not for the absence of modern electronics, one might mistake my rooms for a presidential suite in a five-star hotel. This made me wonder who is truly wealthier: the owner of the Palace of Versailles in its prime or someone enjoying the comforts of a modern middle-class apartment. Despite the few hundred years that separate them, when it comes to comfort, convenience, and hygiene, the modern middle-class lifestyle would surely come out on top.

  The local culture, overall, followed an eastern model, making the general environs of the city much cleaner than I had initially expected. While it was certainly backward and primitive compared to my old world, the locals demonstrated a surprisingly clever grasp of plumbing and sanitation. In fact, it was likely the only reason such a large urban center could exist without being overwhelmed by disease. I was sure that magic filled many of the gaps that science and technology would have otherwise addressed.

  Of course, societally, there simply was no comparison, as the bloodthirsty crowds around me attested to. But then again, who was I to criticize them for I was also participating in the barbarity? No, that was not quite right, I thought to myself as I took in my new opponent. I was lowering myself to their level for a higher and greater purpose.

  Before me stood an unremarkable man, slightly taller than average, with a shaven head. His eyes were narrow and slanted, his mouth a thin, ungenerous line. He wore short robes of pale blue contrasted by baggy murky brown trousers—a peculiar fashion choice, to say the least.

  More irritating than his appearance, however, was his demeanor. The man, Tiden Velnar, wore his humility like a badge of superiority. His bow was low, mockingly so, and his modesty grating.

  “I look forward to your guidance in this exchange,” he said in an unassuming voice, clasping his hands together. His words were deferential, but his eyes told a different story—he already considered the match won. His display of virtue was so exaggerated, it bordered on pantomime.

  “I hear you and your kind claim to predict the flow of the future... then surely you can see this match is already lost,” I remarked, not bothering to look at him.

  “With all respect, samasa, it is the journey down the River, not the final destination, that concerns a follower of the Wend and Way. I am eager for your instruction on this,” he responded, smiling coolly. His humility, once again, failed to reach his eyes.

  I sent out a quick Identify even as we were talking. The spell soon returned, giving me some insight into my opponent.

  He was relatively high-level, but, save for his Mana, his attributes were sadly lacking. There was not even a need to use my magic for this round. How on earth did Tai-san lose to such a pathetic individual?

  "By the divine eyes of the gods, let this battle stand as an offering to their eternal glory," the judge proclaimed, his voice resonating with reverence. "In their boundless wisdom, they watch over us, weighing your hearts and deeds. May their sacred will guide you both, and may you find victory worthy of their favor." As he spoke, he raised his silvered sword high, slicing the air between us in a solemn ritual.

  These final rounds of the tournament had taken up more of an air of ceremony rather than simple fights. It had all the pretense of religious theatre that I had come to truly hate.

  The monk stood perfectly still, not bothering to take up a guard, a vacant smile plastered on his face. Even in his stance, he radiated calm, assured superiority. But I refused to let myself get riled up—especially by someone like him. Pathetic.

  He wasn’t chanting, so why did he have so much Mana? It would be wise not to find out. I would not let him utter a single arcane syllable.

  Since he would not come to me, I decided to go to him. I initiated the combat with an Improved Rush Strike, the skill closing the distance between us in an instant. My first attack was a low kick, meant to sweep him off his feet or break his shin bones.

  But to my surprise, my foot met nothing but air. No matter, I reasoned that he must’ve burned through a year’s worth of Luck just to dodge that.

  Annoyingly, he still had not chanted a single word of power, and that smug, vacant smile remained on his face. Fine. I was not about to show weakness, so I returned his smile with one of my own.

  In a real fight, you have to pace yourself. Not every blow can be at full speed or strength, or you would tire out too quickly. But I was not bound by such tepid limits anymore. Every strike I made came with full power. The only thing I had to watch for was draining my Stamina too quickly using my Skills.

  I had long since memorized the exact internal cooldown of Power Strike, down to almost the millisecond. Between Power Strikes, I tried to weave in my new Manticore Claw attack. Manticore Claw cost more Stamina than Power Strike, fifteen Stamina, but the added poison or acidic element made it well worth the price. In gaming parlance, I was developing a basic damage rotation.

  I hesitated to use Entropic Strike, as it consumed a point of Mana, and I was, as always, miserly with my Mana reserves. Holy Strike, of course, with its flashy display, was completely off the table. My biggest advantage was that most of my magic was, by nature, invisible and largely undetectable.

  Yet, infuriatingly, every single one of my blows missed. I would have torn at my hair if I were not in the middle of another attack sequence. The Monk of the River God was always just a hair's breadth away from my attacks. My Stamina pool was vast, but as I slowly began to realize, not infinite.

  "Are you a cultivator?" I asked, casually, my tone as easy as if we were discussing the weather. My fist, however, shot forward, aiming a sharp jab right between his eyes.

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  As expected, he dodged the blow, his movements smooth and effortless. "The monks of my order contemplate the nature of time," he replied, his voice maddeningly calm. "Its flow, our place within it, and within the greater universe." He bowed low, the movement as if choreographed, as he avoided yet another straight punch. "Perhaps you’d care to learn of the Wend and Way?"

  While he prattled on, I made up my mind to ‘cheat.’ I began summoning a spell.

  "Not in the least," I snapped, the words curling from my lips like smoke from a fire. "But thanks to you, I now know where to direct my ire. I will raze your monasteries to the ground. I’ll slaughter every last monk or brother in your order. I will burn the very memory of your kind from this land until all that remains of you is dust. What utter, pretentious nonsense."

  I barked a bitter laugh, my anger rising. "I’ll even consider it my holy duty."

  "It is a shame you don’t seek enlightenment," he said, shaking his head, his face a mask of faux disappointment. "Such discourse might have broadened your narrow mind."

  I sneered, the weight of my hatred thick in my throat. "I prefer to converse in a simpler language. Besides, I need the experience."

  And with that, I let the voices loose, summoning the dark hound that was Greater Drain. Tendrils of deep, living darkness, swift and unnatural, snaked towards him. It was an attack that had never once missed its mark. The tendrils struck again and again, their intent clear, to latch onto his life and drain it away.

  But somehow, against all the laws of reason, he evaded them, slipping between the invisible tentacles of the void as if they were nothing.

  I stood, stunned. The spell fizzled out, the dark energies unraveling and vanishing into the ether. It was impossible. My spell had missed.

  It made no sense.

  Mockingly, he bowed to me, the gesture dripping with condescension. "This is the truth of the River God," he intoned, his voice thick with piety. "All is seen by Him, and through devotion and contemplation, we, His servants, share in His grand insight."

  Truth. That word hung between us, laden with meaning and portent. From his foul lips, it carried weight, a sense of something deeper. The word repeated endlessly in my thoughts.

  "Have you seen your own death, then?" I asked, my voice cold and sharp. "I need no gift of prophecy to know you will die this day."

  It felt almost scripted, his words, as if there were clues buried within them. Truth. The word resonated with me, tugging at something I could not yet grasp.

  He laughed, a joyful sound that grated against my ears. "Black wisdom from the most unlikely of sources," he mused. "Yes, it is true. Only the senior brothers and abbots possess the maturity and wisdom to glimpse their own end. And they know it is not an end at all, merely part of the Flow. Easy to understand, much harder to accept." He spun gracefully, dodging my next attack as if it were nothing. "No, I have not seen my death."

  My Stamina hovered just above ninety percent, but the realization gnawed at me: he was toying with me.

  Suddenly, I was down on one knee. He had slipped into my blind spot—silent, swift—and driven his foot into the back of my leg.

  "But I do not think I will see my death this day," he said wryly, almost with a sigh.

  The damage was trivial, little more than a sting, but the humiliation burned hotter than any wound. This upstart, this worthless wretch, had dared strike me!

  A roar tore from my throat, raw and unbridled, a shout filled with all my hatred. And the voices, the dark echoes ever lurking in my mind, joined me, whispering their venom, guiding me to unleash another spell.

  Improved Entropic Aura surged from me, the death seed of time itself. It rippled through the ancient stone tiles beneath our feet, leaving no mark for casual eyes to detect. But its grave touch was undeniable. The wave of death splashed against the monk, and I saw it—the first crack in his pompous, infuriating smile.

  His confidence wavered as I rose, his face now tinged with uncertainty. He looked like a child stepping out into the world for the first time—lost, adrift, realizing too late the depths into which he had wandered.

  “What are you? You… you’re a monster…” he stammered, his voice betraying the fear he tried so desperately to conceal.

  Again, that banal response.

  I laughed, the sound echoing in the cold air, dark and amused. "How unoriginal. I told you before, little Monk… I am your death."

  The humor in the situation struck me suddenly, and I found myself guffawing, my earlier anger giving way to something far more sinister. Almost absentmindedly, I remembered the need to replenish my spent Stamina and Mana. Joined in harmony with the voices, I summoned Greater Drain once again, letting the black tendrils unfurl, their hunger mirroring my own.

  This time, the darkness did not miss. The tendrils latched onto the Monk, sinking deep and drawing from him the very essence of life. His energy flowed into me, raw and untainted, richer than any wine, more intoxicating than any drug. It filled me, warmed me from within, and reminded me of a hunger we all possess—one too primal to ignore. I closed my eyes, savoring its richness, letting it roll through me like a wave of pure ecstasy.

  “You shouldn’t be…” Tiden’s voice broke through my reverie, desperate and weak. "I must warn my brothers. The one outside the Flow has come. Judge! Please, I yie…"

  Ah, realization. The knowledge of his impending doom, and that of his precious order, finally dawning on him. Time itself seemed to slow, bending at the edges as the clarity of madness sharpened my senses. He wanted to yield. The coward. No, no, Tiden. You will not escape so easily.

  I moved swiftly, using Improved Dash. In an instant, I was before him, and with a light slap across his face, I reminded him of his place. It was not a strike meant to kill—no, that would have been too merciful. It was a blow to humiliate and silence. I had learned much about the human body’s limits, how it bends and breaks. I was slowly learning to control my Strength to prolong my pleasure.

  “There will be no escape for you, Tiden,” I stated as pleasantly as I could, playing with the Monk as a cat would do with a mouse. He did not realize it, but I had brought Vindication with me.

  “I yie…” he started to shout again towards the official. Another slap, silenced him and sent him sprawling to the floor.

  I began to hum softly as I loosened up my shoulders and cracked my knuckles. With a grin, I noticed my Mana and Stamina slowly recovering. "You can see the future, can’t you? I’m a sporting man, Tiden—right or left?"

  His face was draining of color, my Greater Drain empowered by my Aura spell was wreaking havoc and slow death on his body.

  "Wha...? I yield..." he mumbled like a child, looking at me through bleary, confused eyes. A light punch to his stomach shaved off a few more points of his Health.

  He wheezed, his eyes bulging in pain.

  I gave him another light slap to get his attention. "Wrong answer. Right or left? You do know what right or left is, don’t you?"

  "You’re insane... what are you talking—"

  "Silly Monk," I sighed, already growing bored. "Too much time spent contemplating the deeper mysteries has left you unable to answer a simple question about your future. Which hand do you think will be the one to end you?"

  I let the question linger in the air, the game losing its appeal. A casual glance inward told me my Stamina was nearly full again. Funny how quickly time flies when you are having fun.

  Like a puppet with its strings severed, Tiden collapsed in a heap, his body spent, his Stamina drained to a final zero. That is what comes from relying on a cheat skill instead of true mastery, I thought with grim satisfaction. I was laughing—laughing with a joy so raw it nearly shook me.

  He looked at me through half-lidded eyes, the haze of unconsciousness slowly pulling him under. But where was the sport in that? The judge overseeing the bout watched with the same indifference as before. I met his gaze and flashed him a wide, knowing grin. To the crowd, I raised both hands, pointing my thumbs downward—the signal for death most deserved.

  The silence that followed was thick with disbelief. No cheers, no gasps, just stunned quiet. It only fueled me further. I raised my leg, poised to strike, and kicked at the Monk’s skull with all the force I could muster like a soccer ball, hoping to knock it into the crowd. Instead, bone shattered with the impact, viscera splattering in a grotesque explosion.

  The crowd was silent. Violence, pure and unfiltered, was offered up for their ravenous eyes. The surprise in his eyes, that final moment frozen in death. It would be a memory I would cherish, a small treasure to savor in quiet moments of joy.

  Another step to power. A few paces closer to my final goal of immortality. A place I would enter, a place without fear that I would pay for using the lives of others.

  I took a deep breath, collecting myself.

  It was fortunate that I had not bothered to identify Tai-san, thinking him far beneath me. Without that oversight, I would never have discovered the experience bounty that cultivators provided. Given the way this world’s system worked, I would’ve simply received a ‘You have slain a so-and-so class’ notification, mistakenly assuming that particular class was worth more experience than it truly was.

  As if in acknowledgment of this supreme insight, the crowd suddenly burst out in a roar of applause.