Morning broke on the city the way it always did now: sirens, steam from kettles, and the low hum of people who'd learned the Tower's rhythms. For Anos, the hum also came with the softer tempo of training shoes on concrete and Maggus' dull thwack as he practiced spear stances in the alley.
They met at the park Anos had claimed for practice — the same abandoned playground from yesterday, though now the swings creaked with purpose. Molar arrived early, clutching a notebook she'd stolen from some bewildered civilian; she wanted to record everything. Maggus came bearing a small pack of rations and the kind of grin that only someone who'd almost died and survived could wear comfortably.
Anos yawned and stretched. He still felt the weight of the third trial in his limbs, but the Ruin's residue pulsed pleasantly in his palm. They'd sold the cores yesterday and bought supplies; the transaction had paid for food and a little workshop space that would hold their future "guard." The thought of starting something of their own lodged like a burr in his brain — uncomfortable, warm, and oddly reassuring.
"Today's not going to be a stroll," Anos said, clapping his hands. "We train. Heavy. Focus on basics—stamina, coordination, and integration. We're not looking for flash. We're building muscle memory."
Molar's eyes glittered. "Yes! I wrote down 'muscle memory' last night. It sounds serious."
"Good," Anos said. "It should."
They warmed up with the same boring things fighters always did: sprints up the broken stairway on the plaza, rope-pulls with Maggus and Anos alternating, and Molar doing balance drills on a narrow curb while Anos pretended it was very important she not fall off. The system popped in with its usual deadpan commentaries — "nutritional needs met?—no." "You moved 1.2% faster this month."—"You are proud." — and Anos ignored most of them.
When the sun had climbed high enough to scorch the tarmac, the System's alert cut through the training chatter like a blade.
[SYSTEM NOTICE: Class Acquisition Detected. New Class Unlocked — "Adept Stratum: Versatile Vanguard."]
Anos stopped mid-pull. He blinked at the notification, then at his companions. He was used to system gifts being weird or ironic — a legendary stick, a ruin, "flowers" — but this had a name that sounded like paperwork.
[CLASS DESCRIPTION: Adept Stratum — grants the host a multi-discipline framework allowing progression in Blade, Brawler, Arcane, and Summoner branches. Host may access and train all branches; mastery requires focused investment per branch. Initial passive grants: Basic Blade Form, Hand-to-Hand Stance, Arcane Channeling (Novice), Summon Fragment (Lv.1).]
Anos felt the words settling into him like cold water. His muscles hummed: new options opening, a scaffold of growth. No overpowering. No instant omnipotence. But a path, and that was more dangerous: deliberate potential.
"Okay," he said slowly, and the thought of the training plan shifted from muscle to method. "That's… useful. You got anything for the rest of the party?"
[Secondary Effect: Class Fragmentation available. Companions may receive Class Fragments matching host branches. Fragments grant a base skill in one selected branch and a progressive growth path. Host remains the only entity with full class unlock until companions reach threshold levels.]
Molar bounced. "So we all can…" she gabbled.
"Not exactly the same," the System clarified. "They receive fragments. They grow into something of their own. The host remains primary."
Anos grinned — practical, small. "Good. Give Maggus a Blade fragment. Give Molar the Summon/Thread fragment — she's already good with dimensional stuff. And give myself the full access. But I'm not unlocking everything at once. We'll do this steady: one node, one technique, step by step. No burning out."
[Affirmative. Initialization requires one minute for calibration.]
They paused as the System's invisible gears clicked. Molar's aura shimmered faintly when the Summon Fragment attached to her — little golden threads that tickled the edges of her soul. Maggus' hands steadied, the spear feeling natural rather than foreign. Anos felt the class framework like cold metal at his spine — a scaffold to hang skills on.
"Alright," he said. "Step one: Blade fundamentals for Maggus. Step two: Hand-to-hand and coordination drills for me. Step three: Molar, you practice tethered summons and barrier timing. And everyone runs two sprints between sets."
Maggus' face turned serious. "Teach me how to make the spear do more than poke a goblin in the face."
"You won't be poking, you'll be orchestrating," Anos answered. "Think of your spear as an extension of your line of sight. When I tele a pebble to float, you react to its arc. When it stalls, strike. Use momentum, don't force it."
They started simple. Anos guided Maggus through footwork until the boy moved like water instead of frantic ricochet. He taught simple parries, how to angle a blade away from the body, then how to convert the parry into a spear lunge that used an opponent's momentum against them. He corrected Maggus' grip, his pivoting foot, showed the man how to find the microsecond between a swing and the return.
"Imagine your spear is a question," Anos murmured. "You ask it, then you observe the answer. If it doesn't answer, ask louder."
Maggus laughed despite the sweat. He did one more drill and the spear thudded into a dirt target with a satisfying clink. The boy's grin was a small victory.
Meanwhile, Anos worked on his hand-to-hand — not as a replacement for the stick, but as a compliment. He shadow-boxed and then engaged the others. Maggus, with the new spear rhythm, tried to bait him; Molar, nursing her summons, made small barriers to practice angles of attack through. The System monitored and listed corrections in Anos' head. He learned to flow from a telekinetic tug to a physical strike: tug a pebble to disrupt balance, then close in with a palm strike infused with a minute telekinetic push that made the blow feel like it came from everywhere at once instead of one place.
"Strata Flow," the System suggested. "Basic Node Unlocked."
"Yeah," Anos muttered through a grin as a pebble he'd been controlling stabbed into a training dummy's shoulder and ejected splinters. "That feels right."
Molar's practice was quieter, more patient. The class fragment lodged in her like a seed. It gave her a starter summon — a fragile lattice sprite made of woven light and thread. At first it was clumsy: it drifted and popped like a bubble. Molar concentrated, and the lattice steadied, forming a small floating barrier that moved where she pointed. The barrier could block a thrown rock and would collapse after a few seconds. Not powerful, but practical.
"Keep timing steady," Anos coached. "Start with three-second holds, then five, then eight. Don't try to grab the sky in one reach." He'd learned that the hard way. They all had.
As the day wore on, they combined drills. Anos practiced a short sequence: telekinesis to fling debris (a distraction), a shrug-step to close distance, hand-strike infusing the telekinetic aftershock, and then a retracted stance to prepare a summon micro-node that could bind a limb for a half-second. It was messy, a hundred micro-failures littering the field, but each dead mistake was a lesson filed away.
Maggus tried to copy the tele/strike rhythm with his spear — he'd learned how to use Anos' thrown pebbles like a metronome, timing his lunges when the pebble reached an apex. Molar learned to call back the lattice sprite to snap and pull a shield across a dummy's face, which flung it into a small orbit and made Maggus laugh.
Laughter was important. It kept them human.
They took breaks: clean water, talk that wasn't about survival, Molar asking whether the System had a favorite food and Anos answering with mock seriousness. The System interjected occasionally — dry, informative, occasionally brutal. It told them to hydrate, recommended micro-rests, and once suggested that Anos reduce telekinetic holding times to prevent "incipient dizziness."
When the sun fell and the shadows grew long, they ran a final compound drill: secure a point in the plaza where a prize statue stood (an old angel with a broken wing), simulate a burst attack of small Gearbeast-like constructs (they used animated training drones until the city banned them), and hold the point for five minutes against waves. The goal was never to be flashy; it was to be durable, adaptive, and—most important—coordinated.
The first wave came at a steady clip: drone arms biting at ankles, small blades whirring. Anos paced and fed micro-commands: a stone lofted to misdirect, a small barrier to absorb a crosscut, Maggus using the opening to impale a rotor, Molar weaving the lattice to trap a drone's wing. They rotated seamlessly, breathless but controlled. The air tasted like dust and ambition.
Midway through the drill, Anos felt the class nodes respond. A small window opened inside his mind — not a flashy new power, but a map: Blade → Brawler → Arcane → Summon. Each branch had nodes with prerequisites. He had unlocked the basic nodes and could now allocate a single "Class Point" earned through the day's training. He could spend it immediately or hold it.
No instant omnipotence. That single point meant choice.
He fingered the point like a coin in his palm. He thought about the day — his telekinesis felt steadier when framed by physical blows; the lattice sprite had potential if given better tethering; Maggus had the raw build to be a spear master. He decided: split focus, slow growth.
"Put it in Blade synergy," Anos said quietly.
[Class Point Allocated: Blade Synergy Node I — Physical-Telekinetic Integration (Passive +3% impact conversion).]
It was little. Three percent did not sound like much. But it was a real step in a real direction: every strike he made would now carry a subtle telekinetic vector. He could extend force, tug a limb slightly as he hit, and for the first time his physical and mental training stitched together.
Molar squealed when she saw the feedback ripple across their displays. "Master, that's amazing!"
Maggus pumped a fist. "Nice. That'll make your bonks more deadly, yeah?"
"Bonk… deadly," Anos repeated with a crooked smile and a tone that suggested he was pleased to hear the word.
They trained until the moon rose, until their muscles burned and their hearts felt like hammers. There was no miraculous mastery at the end of the day — only better form, calmer minds, and the slow accrual of something that would be dangerous later because of discipline, not instant gift.
Before they slept, they patched wounds and rifled through the small haul of parts sold at the Exchange. Anos placed his hand on the stick sword as if checking a promise. The System pinged one last time:
[Class Status: Adept Stratum — Basic Nodes Active. Host may allocate additional Class Points after 48 hours of cumulative training or upon trial completion. Companion Fragments: Maggus (Blade Fragment - Basic Spear Stance), Molar (Summon Fragment - Lattice Sprite Lv.1).]
Anos closed his eyes. He could feel a path laid out before him — not a ladder he would leap up in a day, but a road to walk, stone by stone. That was better. That was honest. That was manageable.
Molar yawned and curled up with a paper-wrapped roll. Maggus stretched like a cat and muttered about practicing spear throws. The city outside hummed its anxious lullaby.
"Tomorrow," Anos said softly, more to himself than the others, "we go again. Same thing — heavy, careful, boringly steady."
Molar snuggled closer, radiant in sleep. Maggus nodded emphatically, eyes already scheming drills for the morning.
Anos glanced at the Tower, a pale silhouette against the star-blooming sky. Forty-five hours ticked like a countdown in his head, but a small, calm confidence had taken root — not from any single miracle, but from the deliberate work of a day spent building capability.
The System, incapable of sentimentality, delivered its final note:
[Encouragement: Your growth is within expected parameters. Continue steady allocation. Recommended focus: Stamina, Node consolidation, Team synergy.]
Anos smirked and, for once, let the smirk rest on something that wasn't sarcasm. "Perfect. See you at dawn."
They slept. The Tower turned. And the next morning, when the sun cut the horizon again, they would rise and train like the slow thunder of a storm: steady, inevitable, and coming closer.