Caroline declined to ask any further questions of the Fellkeep, much to his visible dismay. I, however, had a barrage of inquiries, and my unrelenting curiosity quickly drew his full attention. With a frustrated sigh and an adjustment of his spectacles, he turned his focus to me, clearly bracing himself for the inevitable deluge. Caroline soon departed, leaving me alone with the scholarly gentleman and the opportunity to seek answers.

  “How is an Arte truly awakened?” I asked, the question burning in my mind. While I had experienced it firsthand, the intricate mechanics of the process eluded me.

  “To be candid,” Fellkeep Giles began, straightening his robes and adopting the air of a lecturer preparing for a discourse, “an Arte is awakened through the introduction of a minute drop of miasma into the body—miasma derived from spirits of the pre-Awakening era. The exact method by which an Arte is ‘chosen,’” he said, lifting a finger to emphasize the word, “remains a subject of much scholarly debate. Familial ties are believed to play a role, as are personal desires, subconscious inclinations, and even unresolved aspirations. Many theorize that the Arte reflects what the individual perceives as their truest salvation.”

  He leaned forward slightly, his voice gaining a professorial cadence. “Take you, for instance, Alexander. You awakened the ability to manipulate paper. Consider your habits—always surrounded by books, immersed in study, whether on economics, trade, or the fantastical. Your life has been steeped in paper and the written word. It is only natural that your Arte would manifest in alignment with those elements.

  “Contrast this with your friend,” he continued, gesturing to the space Caroline had vacated. “She awakened the ability to manipulate her own velocity. An impatient, headstrong tomboy who thrives on immediacy and bristles at delay? Such an Arte perfectly complements her disposition, wouldn’t you agree?”

  He gave me a pointed look, clearly expecting me to connect the dots, yet his tone hinted at genuine interest in whether I understood his reasoning.

  Giving him a curt nod, I moved on to my next question. “So, while we don’t know for certain how Artes are awoken, could one’s lifestyle and personality before their awakening day be a major factor?”

  Fellkeep Giles raised an eyebrow, his expression somewhere between incredulous and amused. “Boy, I literally just told you it’s a mystery at best, with only hypotheses to guide us. And yet, here you are, clinging to some neat little theory. Yes, I am the one who improperly guided you to that theory–Allow me to educate you with examples from your own family—examples that should thoroughly dismantle this notion of a tidy connection between personality and Arte.”

  He leaned back, his scholarly tone sharpening as he launched into a lecture. “Take your brother Thomas, for instance. His Arte? Pottery manipulation. Yet the boy has no patience for a pottery wheel. He can’t stand the idea of sitting there, shaping clay. Instead, he’s redirected his Arte into crafting clay scattershots as an apprentice gunsmith, using his ability to aid in hunting lower-soul-realm creatures. Practical? Certainly. Aligned with his natural inclinations? Not in the slightest.”

  Giles didn’t pause, his gaze pinning me as he continued. “Then there’s your elder sister, Katarina. Her Arte is Memory Manipulation—an ability to influence and erase thoughts, one of the most potent anti-memeticist skills known. And yet, she craves the spotlight. She demands recognition and thrives on the approval of others. But here’s the cruel twist: her Arte ensures she never gets it. No matter how dazzling her presence, people forget her. Her every grand gesture is lost to memory. It’s as if the universe mocked her deepest desire by giving her an Arte that obliterates it.”

  Finally, his tone grew animated, his gestures becoming more exaggerated. “And your mother, perhaps the most baffling case of all. Septuplication at her current stage—the ability to create seven duplicates of herself, each capable of producing seven duplicates of their own. Do you know her title in the Marr Army? The Lop-Eared Legion. She is, quite literally, an army unto herself. Yet here’s the hilarity: your mother abhors solitude. She despises being alone. This Arte ensures she never has to be.”

  He folded his arms, leaning back with a triumphant gleam in his eyes. “So, Alexander, do you still believe lifestyle and personality hold the answers? Or do you now understand why we approach Arte awakenings with caution, humility, and a healthy respect for the inexplicable?”

  “That last one, however—my mother abhors solitude, so wouldn’t septuplication be the perfect Arte for her?”

  “Yes, Alexander,” Fellkeep Giles replied, his tone shifting slightly as if explaining to a smarter student. “That was precisely the point. For her, the Arte aligns with her desires, fulfilling her need for constant companionship in a way few could ever imagine. It is the exception, not the rule. The first two examples I gave—Thomas and Katarina—represent individuals who view their Artes as burdens, corrupted gifts that twist what should be a wellspring of power into something they loathe. For them, their abilities are the fruit of the poisonous tree.”

  I nodded slowly, trying to process the broader implications. Before I could lose my train of thought, I motioned with my hands, shifting to a question that had been gnawing at me since my duel with Caroline. “How would one acquire a skillcube?”

  Fellkeep Giles sighed, leaning back with a thoughtful expression. “Ah, now that is both the easiest and the most complicated question to answer. Let me break it down for you. In many ways, those with money, influence, and power have the simplest paths to acquiring skillcubes. Ironically, these same skillcubes often become the very source of that wealth and influence. Those with strong Arte and skillcube combinations naturally have an easier time obtaining them.”

  He held up a hand, ticking off points as he explained. “The first method is free, but entirely reliant on luck. A skillcube can directly manifest from raw miasma with no effort, cost, or control on your part. However, this method is entirely unpredictable. Not only is it random what skillcube manifests, but it’s also random when it does. First come, first served—provided you’re in the right place at the right time.”

  Giles continued, his voice sharpening. “The second method is straightforward but requires money. Many skillcubes are inexpensive, particularly those suited for mundane, day-to-day tasks. These are the cubes sought by those content to remain at Soul Realm 1-1, never aspiring to become Visitors or advance further. However, the skillcubes valuable to Walkers and Adjutants—those who venture into danger and aim for greatness—carry a much higher price tag.”

  He paused, his gaze intensifying as he reached the final point. “And then there’s the third method, the one most aspiring Visitors rely upon: eliminating an Other. These are the creatures that spill into our world through the Otherrealm gates. Cleansing them not only protects us but has a chance of the manifestation of a skillcube as a reward. Of course, the danger is significant. Not everyone who sets out to acquire a skillcube through this method returns.”

  Fellkeep Giles leaned forward, fixing me with a penetrating stare. “So, Alexander, the question isn’t just how one acquires a skillcube. It’s how far you’re willing to go, and what risks you’re prepared to take, to claim the power you seek.”

  “What determines which skillcubes are best for someone to use?” I asked, leaning forward. “I’ve always envisioned myself as a Walker, roaming the roads, slaying Others, and entering gates to uncover newfound power. We’ve all heard the story of Prince Marylynn and his army of bone giants entering that gate, only to emerge with the book that revealed how the Machina were originally created. Everyone has their tale of a hero; ours just happens to be our literal ruler.”

  If you discover this tale on Amazon, be aware that it has been unlawfully taken from Royal Road. Please report it.

  Fellkeep Giles tilted his head, his scholarly demeanor shifting into something more cautious. “Alex, I must inform you that I am legally obligated not to answer that question. Any guidance I provide could unduly influence your path, potentially leading you down a road you’re not ready to walk. This decision is not one to take lightly.”

  He gestured with a long finger toward the second moon, Llamdas, hanging in the sky in its waxing phase. “I strongly suggest you consult those closest to you before making any decisions. Start with your mother, then your father, followed by your siblings who have experience in similar paths, and finally, your uncle. Each of them will offer you a unique perspective. In truth, you’ll likely get more answers than you know what to do with—you get nine choices per soul realm until the fourth after all.”

  Giles’s tone turned uncharacteristically stern as he added, “One last piece of advice, and I cannot stress this enough: when the moons are all empty, under no circumstances should you absorb a skillcube. The consequences would be... dire.”

  Letting my line of questions fade into silence, I approached the Fellkeep and gave him a final, respectful bow. The weight of our conversation hung in the air, but there was nothing more to be gained from pushing further. His gaze lingered on me, a mixture of caution and intrigue, before he turned back toward his studies.

  I turned to the staircase—a daunting, spiraling descent carved into the rock face that separated the upper tiers of Marr from the bustling streets below. This was no ordinary staircase. Each step felt more like a challenge, a test of willpower and endurance rather than a mere descent. The sharp angles and uneven stone made every footfall treacherous, the kind of path that whispered tales of travelers who misjudged their footing.

  The first step sent a jolt up my legs, the incline far steeper than it looked. I steadied myself, gripping the weathered iron railing, its surface cool and slick from the mist that clung to Marr’s higher altitudes.

  Just. One. More. Step.

  Each chasm-like drop between steps stretched further than the last, and the streets below felt impossibly distant, as if the city itself were pulling away. My breath came in short bursts, not from the physical exertion, but from the oppressive weight of the height. Marr proper was a vibrant, chaotic place, but from here it seemed serene, almost otherworldly—a false promise of peace awaiting at the bottom.

  Halfway down, my legs began to tremble, a mix of strain and unease. A faint breeze wound through the staircase, carrying with it the scents of the lower city—smoke, spices, and the faint tang of sea salt from the distant port. The contrast was stark, a reminder of how far I still had to go.

  The metaphorical hell of a staircase was also a reflection of my journey ahead. Just as each step required focus and balance, so too would my path as a Walker demand resilience, precision, and determination.

  One step after another. No looking back.

  When I finally reached the bottom, the uneven cobblestones of the streets greeted me like an old adversary. I paused, letting out a breath I hadn’t realized I was holding, and looked up at the staircase, its steep incline now hidden by the swirling mist.

  Marr’s streets called to me with their noise and chaos, but I lingered for a moment longer. The climb down had been a trial, but it also felt like a rite of passage. A small but meaningful victory.

  Just one more step, I thought, this time with a hint of a smile. And then another, and another, until I found where I belonged.

  ***

  Taking the carpet back to my parents’ home, I was immediately greeted by the familiar onslaught of sensations. The sweet, earthy aroma of freshly picked strawberries filled the air, mingling with the cacophony of raucous chatter and laughter. The noise was ever-present, as it always was in this house—a blend of excitement, chaos, and familial warmth.

  Father, predictably, was glued to the crystal, watching a Veeball match with the intensity of a general commanding an army. The scene displayed on the shimmering surface showed players dashing back and forth, hitting a glowing ball charged with their aspected mana toward the goal. I’d never quite grasped the appeal.

  “GET OUT BALL!” he roared at the crystal, his voice booming as if the players could actually hear him. His fervor made him oblivious to my arrival, even as my mother’s many duplicates all turned toward me.

  Her long, lop ears twitched at the sound of my footsteps, and with a subtle ripple of energy, the duplicates faded into the aether one by one. My real mother stepped forward, her gait marked by a light, effortless hop. Her spiraled horn caught the light, and her furred body moved with the same graceful energy I’d always admired. Before I could say a word, she swept me into a tight embrace.

  “Oh, it’s my newly awakened adult boy!” she exclaimed, her voice brimming with pride. “I remember when you were tiny, always so scared to leave my side. You’d cling to one of my arms—or one of me—and wouldn’t let go for anything.”

  She pulled back, her sharp eyes taking me in with a mixture of delight and scrutiny. “Oh! And look at you, you’ve grown a horn! As you know, the other two are still a bit upset about only having the long ears. Don’t rub it in with them, alright? Now, you don’t have to tell me if you’re not ready, but… what did you awaken into?” Her voice softened with concern, her ears angling forward to catch my response.

  “Paper Manipulation. Shaper type,” I said, keeping my tone casual and deliberately omitting the accidental Machina creation in the mirage field. “Guess Dad was right about all those books I’ve been reading, huh?”

  “Posh,” Mom said, waving a hand dismissively. “Your father barely notices anything outside of his sports bets these days. He’s too busy yelling at the crystal to even realize his youngest stopped by.”

  “How much does he have riding on this game?” I asked, already anticipating the answer.

  Her expression shifted to that familiar blend of exasperation and amusement. “Thirteen waning silver, fourteen waxing bronze, and five waning bronze. All on the Ironmongers winning via double knockout in the fifth outing.”

  I shook my head, suppressing a grin. “He’s really banking on his Fortune, huh…” My voice trailed off, leaving the unspoken truth hanging in the air.

  Soon, the crystal erupted with the announcement we all expected.

  “DOUBLE KNOCKOUT! The Ironmongers steal the win! Upsetting the bracket entirely! How will the Devil Bears fare on the losers' side of the tournament? A fifth seat defeated by a twentieth seat this early! Find out all this and more…” The announcer’s voice thundered through the room.

  Both my mother and I exchanged exasperated looks, rolling our eyes in unison as my father, grinning ear to ear, switched the crystal off.

  Much like my mother, my father looked far younger than his years—no older than his mid-thirties, despite having children that age. His slightly pudgy stomach and neatly kept beard gave him a comfortable, approachable look, though the strength in his frame was evident enough to remind anyone he wasn’t just a bookish man.

  “For the record, dear,” he said, his grin widening, “I knew our boy would walk in right about the end of the fourth outing. After all, I placed a bet on it.”

  My mother groaned, her long ears twitching in irritation. “You do realize it’s a petty crime to keep altering fate in your favor like this, don’t you? People spend fortunes trying to ward off Arte-based cheating during these games, and yet you somehow slip through every time.”

  “It’s why you love me,” he said with a casual shrug and an unabashed smile, before turning his attention to me. “Paper Manipulation, eh, boy? My money was actually on Ink Manipulation. So, you see, not every bet I place turns out correct.”

  I raised an eyebrow, intrigued despite myself. “Who did you make that bet with?”

  A familiar feminine voice answered from the corner of the room, where I hadn’t even noticed her standing. “Me.”

  I turned, startled to see Katarina leaning against the wall, her usual enigmatic air about her. She had that frustrating knack for blending into the background when she wanted to, despite her striking presence.

  “Katarina, this is—” my father began, but my mother interrupted, waving a hand in exasperation.

  “Please, not now. Not this joke, not today.”

  Before the conversation could devolve into the typical family chaos, I seized the opportunity, speaking quickly to steer things in a productive direction.

  “So,” I said, addressing both my parents, “given what we all know I want to do with my life, what skillcubes are right for me?”