Ethan was bored. He lost track of time just sitting there. He tried doing pushups and sit-ups but then got bored really fast again because those were pointless since he had abs now and his muscles never looked better. So he was sitting and his butt hurt. The cell was stone on all sides, nothing more. A narrow bench jutted from one wall, barely wide enough to sit on and meaner still if he tried to lie down. A hole in the corner served for everything else—waste, trash, the parts of living no one wanted to think about.

  The door was iron and heavy, with two narrow slots cut into it. The lower one was just wide enough for a guard to shove in a bowl and yank it back out again. The upper slot sat at eye level on the other side, meant for nothing but looking down into the cell. Both had sliding covers that shut with a sharp scrape, sealing him off again.

  Overhead, a small glow-stone burned behind a bronze grate. Its yellowish light never wavered, never brightened or dimmed with the hours—just a tired glow that left the corners in shadow. Ethan sat on the bench with his hands in his lap and tried not to think about how long he might be staring at the same four walls.

  He leaned back against the wall, the stone cool enough to bite through his shirt, and let his thoughts retrace the path that dumped him here. The guards had stripped him clean on the way down—rings, knife, that old storage bag he’d carried since the slavers, even the satchel with its scraps of parchment and chalk. They hadn’t cared what the enchanted stone did, only that it looked magical, so into the coffer it went like the rest.

  At least they hadn’t recognized the Homestead. It was buried in that same satchel, tossed into the chest with no more attention than the chalk dust. Even if they had noticed, it was soul-bonded—they couldn’t get into it anyway. That knowledge was the only comfort he carried into this cell.

  His butt hurt from sitting too long, so he dropped to the floor again. Maybe pushups would kill some time. Maybe even jumping jacks if the ceiling didn’t get in the way. At first it was just something to do, but after a dozen he realized he wasn’t struggling at all. By the time he hit fifty, his arms burned, but in a way that made him want to keep going.

  The cell filled with the sound of his breath and the slap of his palms on stone. Sweat rolled down his face, and he lost count once, then again, but he pushed past a hundred before his arms finally gave out. He collapsed on the cold floor, chest heaving, muscles shaking. The sweat soaked through his shirt and reminded him there was no shower here, no plumbing, not even a bucket of clean water to splash over his face. He missed his bathroom at the Homestead more than he thought possible.

  Then the system chimed.

  +1 Strength

  Ethan blinked at the glowing text until his eyes nearly bulged out of his head. People could gain strength just by working out? It sounded so obvious once he saw it. Why hadn’t he ever thought about training the old-fashioned way? He had trained at the Guild, sure, but his strength had never ticked upward. Maybe it was all of that work piling up, and these pushups finally shoved him over the threshold. Otherwise, everyone would just do one session of exercise and walk away ridiculously strong.

  Ethan's butt no longer hurt, but now his arms hurt, and he was stinky and drenched in sweat. Now he traded one problem for two. The only bright side was he had one more strength.

  Just then, a tug pulled at the back of his mind. He knew that feeling. The bond.

  He had tried reaching out when he first got thrown in here, but the walls drank mana like a sponge. Every attempt left him drained, his head buzzing, as if the air itself wanted to choke the connection. He had plenty of mana in his pool, but it crawled instead of flowing. Sluggish. Wrong. He couldn’t explain how he knew, only that the room held less of it, and it pressed against the bond the same way it pressed against his lungs.

  This time it was different. A flare. Warped, thin, but there. He couldn’t make out words, not really—but he could feel them. The Pack was near. Each presence distinct in its own way, brushing against him through the dampening haze.

  Lyra’s presence came first, steady as a wall pushed up against the storm. She was sending him calm, the kind of front she used when the Pack needed her to look unshakable. But the bond wasn’t fooled. He could feel the fear bleeding underneath, hot and sharp, tucked away so the others wouldn’t choke on it. She was holding them together, and it was costing her.

  Moose pressed in next, a massive knot of nerves. The weight of his worry circled and circled, like a guardian running the fence line over and over with no gate to check. Ethan could almost taste the frantic energy of it, and it made his own chest tighten in sympathy.

  Pixie was impossible to pin down. The dampening cut her into flashes, so he got one emotion at a time, slammed into him in bursts—anxious, furious, hopeful, heartbroken, determined. Each spike hit hard and vanished, leaving his head throbbing like she was shouting underwater.

  Buster came through low and solid. On the surface, he felt like the anchor—gruff, steady, reliable. But beneath it all was that quiet vibration of doubt, humming like a wire strung too tight. Ethan let his eyes fall shut and tried to pin it down. If he had to picture it, the feeling was like Eeyore out of Winnie the Pooh—that downcast look, that quiet slump, the weight of someone who never expected much to go right. That was Buster, underneath the bark and the sarcasm.

  And last was Amelia. Small. Trembling. The bond carried her fear like a child clutching empty air, reaching for a hand that wasn’t there. That ache cut the deepest. Ethan pressed his palms to his knees and forced himself to breathe evenly, sending what little steadiness he could push back through the ward.

  I’m here, he thought, not words but weight—solid ground, slow breath, a place to stand. It was all he could give them, but it was better than nothing.

  He knew they were out there. The bond told him enough—they were alive, safe, holding on. That knowledge gave him a thread of calm, a pocket of peace he hadn’t felt since the door slammed shut. He gathered that feeling, shoved as much of it as possible back through the bond.

  If he focused, he could feel mana moving inside him. Swirling. Like in the cultivation books he used to read back home—except this wasn’t fiction. It was his core, real and alive. He decided he could cultivate it. Well… not really. Not the way the stories promised. But he could tap into it, and that was enough.

  So he fed it into the bond, layering it onto the calm he carried. He pushed until something shifted, and then—faint, warped, but there—he heard them. I’m fine, guys.

  A torrent of emotion surged back in reply. Words too, but garbled, a river of voices crashing over one another. He could barely make them out, as if they were shouting across a flood, every voice overlapping until it was all noise. Still, they were there. If he could scream, maybe they’d hear him clearly. But for now, with everyone screaming at once, he caught only the proof of their presence.

  The main thing that cut through all the noise was relief. It pressed against him from every side, raw and overwhelming. They could sense him. They could feel him. And because he was projecting calm, what they felt most was that he was safe.

  I think… he caught himself halfway through the thought. No—I know. I can feel their relief in this.

  It poured over him in waves, stronger than the worry, stronger than the fear. That relief was enough to anchor him, to make the walls seem less close and the yellow light less cruel.

  His mana did start creeping back, but at a crawl. Maybe a tenth of the pace he was used to—at best a quarter. He hadn’t been using mana for long, not really. He’d only been in this world a short while. But with a pool as massive as his, and the way he’d leaned on it, he could tell when the flow was off. He knew his regeneration. He knew the shape of his reserves.

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  It was like having a new limb grafted onto him—something he hadn’t been born with but had to learn to move. Not really an arm. Maybe a tail? He grimaced, unable to land on the right comparison. Whatever it was, it lived inside him now—mana, a core, an extra sense that had become part of him.

  For a while he could still hear them, faint and scattered, like voices drifting through walls. He stopped trying to force mana into it—he couldn’t afford to bleed himself dry—but he kept pressing calm and steadiness outward anyway. No words, just a sense that he was okay. A promise that he was holding together.

  The more he focused, the more natural it became, like breathing. He let it sit there, passive and quiet, even when the bond thinned again. Relief answered him in turn, rolling back over the connection until it dulled the worst of his own nerves.

  Eventually the noise ebbed. The torrent of voices dwindled to a trickle, then faded altogether. He could feel the Pack had settled, comforted by the fact that he was safe. And with nothing more they could do from outside the Dome, they seemed to drift away.

  He sat back against the wall, trying to convince himself that was good—that they trusted he was fine. Still, the silence afterward felt heavier, and he wondered if they had really gone.

  He was no longer sweaty, just slightly damp and dirty. The sweat had dried into an itch on his skin, and he rubbed at his arms without thinking. He wondered if he’d sit there until his butt hurt again, or if it was time to try jumping jacks. Pushups at least got him a stat point—maybe something else would, too.

  They’d already shoved food through the bottom slot once, but nothing had come yet today. Maybe it was still early. Maybe the guards had just forgotten. He wasn’t sure how much time had passed in the yellow light, and the glow-stone above wasn’t any help. So he sat, listening for footsteps in the hall, waiting.

  Finally, what felt like hours later, the scrape of metal broke the silence. The lower slot in the door slid open, and someone shoved a bowl through. If it even counted as a bowl. It looked flimsy, almost disposable, the kind of thing you wouldn’t trust to hold more than a ladleful. No spoon, no fork—just the food itself.

  Gruel again. Same as yesterday. But when he tasted it, his eyebrows went up. Salt. Someone had actually thrown in a pinch of seasoning, which made the mystery lumps floating in it almost tolerable. Almost.

  He actually felt full when he finished it. With nothing else to do, he scraped the bowl clean, and to his surprise the bland gruel managed to satiate his hunger. The taste was still questionable, but the salt carried it far enough that it left his stomach heavy and his body content—for the moment.

  Ethan woke up. He didn’t know when he’d drifted off, only that his neck ached from the angle he’d slumped against the wall. A crick shot down into his shoulder every time he moved. He wished for a pillow. Or a bed. Or really anything in the room at all. The bench dug into his side like it had been designed for discomfort, and the glow-stone above hadn’t shifted an inch—it gave the same dull yellow light no matter how much time passed.

  This was the real torture—being left alone with nothing but his thoughts. No distractions, no work to keep his hands busy, just the same four walls pressing in. Out of habit more than anything, he pulled up his status screen again. He zoomed in, pored over every line, and tried to wring out every ounce of meaning as if the numbers might change if he stared hard enough. He couldn’t make adjustments or do anything useful with it, but at least it gave him something to read. Something that wasn’t stone.

  He flicked the status window open again. He zoomed in on the new strength point he got. His eyes landed on the line that had been bugging him.

  STR – 9 → 27 (Mirrored from Buster)

  “Look at that. Nine,” Ethan said under his breath. “Finally clawed my way up from eight. A true powerhouse.” He flexed his arm, then snorted. “Too bad the arrow still points at Buster, so the screen says I’m just as weak as before.”

  He leaned his head back against the wall, chuckling. “Great system. Do all the push-ups you want, champ—your dog still gets the credit and unless you pass up Buster in strength none of the working out matters.”

  His gaze dropped to his stomach. Abs. Real, visible abs. He hadn’t had those since… well, ever. He pressed a hand against them. Wait a second. Are these mine, or did Buster loan me his?

  That thought cracked him up. “Oh, perfect. I’ve been bragging to myself about getting into shape, and it turns out I’ve just been rocking borrowed muscles. Buster’s abs. That tracks. Explains why he’s always glaring at me around mealtimes—he knows I’m stealing his physique.”

  He rubbed at his arm, fingers tracing the lean line of muscle there. Not bulky, not heavy. Sleek. Efficient. Pixie-speed, Amelia’s dexterity, Moose’s balance… He laughed again. “Yeah, sure. My whole body’s basically a group project. I’m the guy who didn’t do any of the work but still gets an A.”

  For a moment he pictured himself back home—soft around the middle, fighting with a lawnmower, bribing dogs with treats to get them in the car. “Yeah,” he said. “Without the bond I’d be right back to that. Not exactly cover-model material.”

  He leaned his head back against the wall, grinning at the absurdity. “So that’s me. Nine strength points and somebody else’s abs. I could work out every day, eat like a pig, or lie in bed for a year and it wouldn’t matter. It’s a zero-sum game. Completely futile. My body isn’t mine to change. The bond locks me into Buster’s strength, Pixie’s speed, Amelia’s dexterity, Moose’s balance… all of it. I can sweat and grind and punish myself, but I’ll still look exactly like this. Because in the end, I’m just their stats wearing my face. Utterly pointless. Fantastic.”

  He tipped his head back, still grinning. “Bright side? Means I can eat whatever I want. Sweet cakes, meat pies, all the sugar in the world—it won’t change a thing. Guess I’m immortalized at ‘borrowed Buster physique.’”

  His stomach rumbled at the thought. If only I had my ring. Or the storage bag. Mara had stuffed so many cakes in there, enough to last weeks. The memory made his mouth water and his chest ache at the same time.

  This was what he’d been afraid of. Alone in a cell, nothing but his own thoughts for company. And those thoughts always circled back to the same things: food he couldn’t reach, family he couldn’t touch.

  The slot scraped open again, and this time there wasn’t even food—just a wide bowl of water shoved through onto the floor. Ethan pulled it closer and stared at the rippling surface. No cup, no ladle, just the bowl itself. He tried to look on the bright side. At least they weren’t planning to let him starve or die of thirst.

  Eat. Drink. Work out. Sleep. Wake up. Sit. Stand. Repeat.

  Ethan was stuck in a room. He could pull up his stats, but that was it. He could eat and drink, because the guards shoved food and water through the slot. He could work out—sit-ups, pushups, jumping jacks, standing pushups against the wall. And then he could sleep. And then he could wake up. And then… he could sleep again.

  Sometimes he wondered if the bowl of water was supposed to be for bathing instead of drinking. He’d been drinking it anyway. They gave him more water than food, though never enough extra to waste on washing. At least it kept him alive.

  He did pushups until his arms gave out. Sit-ups until his stomach cramped. He tried jumping jacks just to see if something different would happen. Nothing. His strength hadn’t gone up again, no matter how much he tried. Maybe it really did take time. Maybe the training at the Guild had built up a backlog, and those first pushups in the cell had just nudged him over the threshold. He guessed that made sense. That one point had been exciting. Now it was just… nothing.

  So he sat. Then he stood. Then he sat again.

  He woke up not knowing how many days had passed. The yellow glow-stone never changed, and he was starting to go a little stir-crazy. The repetition wore him down, circling in his head until he caught the Pack again through the bond.

  Relief hit him at once. They felt better than before. Still upset that he was locked away, but steadier, less anxious, less desperate. He didn’t dare use mana this time—not after how drained it left him—but he kept sending waves of calm, steady as he could make them. It helped them. He could tell. And it helped him too.

  He was so incredibly bored that even the bond felt like a toy to poke at. So he stretched, reaching, pressing at their presence without dipping into his mana pool, just to see how far he could go.

  Then the system chimed.

  +1 Intellect

  Ethan sat up straighter. He could actually get smarter just by… what? Poking at his own mind? Prodding at the bond? It sounded ridiculous. But then again, so did pushups giving him Strength—until it happened.

  The Pack felt his burst of joy, carried straight across the bond. He didn’t even try to hide it. Buster, of course, was the first to pin it down. Ethan could sense the old mutt checking numbers almost immediately, as if stats were the only thing he ever looked at anymore. Was Buster just constantly staring at the panels? Maybe. It wouldn’t surprise him.

  They lingered with him for a while, maybe half an hour at most. Long enough that he could soak in their steadiness. They felt better this time. Less anxious. More composed. Not fraying at the edges like before. Put together, even if they weren’t happy. That alone made it easier to breathe.

  Eat. Drink. Work out. Sleep. Wake up. Sit. Stand. Read his stats. Sleep.