So, what was on my plate right now: upgrading old techniques, studying new mental ones, and picking an ultimate. The last I'd postponed until I could reassert control over my reactor. My energy expenditure was already too high. Just working with Hook under Rene left me completely drained.

I'd started drinking more marigold tea to recover, to the point where it made me nauseous, but at least it gave me enough of a boost to work with mental techniques right after Rene. That said, my head would be splitting afterwards, and I couldn't function without at least an hour of recovery sleep.

I really hope Artem wasn't lying and cultivators can regenerate brain cells, because I was genuinely getting dumber — forgetting what I'd just said, where I was going, or what I was supposed to be doing.

It was terrifying.

I began doubting whether learning the technique was worth it at all, or whether I was even making the right decisions.

After sleep and lunch came my shift in the block, which I traditionally used for theory and browsing techniques in the library. When I could, that is.

With all the recent breakthroughs, the number of hot-headed and frustrated people around had skyrocketed. Even during my shift, usually the calmest, I was regularly forced to leave the room and dash toward a red marker on the minimap.

Fortunately, my reputation still kept most troublemakers from doing anything stupid. But reputation is a resource that needs maintaining, and I hadn't caused a proper ruckus in over a month, nor had I participated in any tournaments. That was partially offset by my breakthrough to Second Stage, but I'd missed two weekly fights since then. The new champions were already climbing the rankings and the conversations.

Alongside the old ones. Gunther and Dubois had clashed again for first and second place — the result unchanged.

After my shift and reading, I usually had just enough energy left to practise one more technique, and out of all my options, I picked Mad Monkey of East.

Which, weird as it sounds for a movement technique, wasn't going anywhere. I couldn't mix qi types and was using pure Fist Qi, so no bouncing off air for me. Just falling. Over and over again. Again and again.

Maybe the difference was in my understanding and affinity. My Fist root was 50, Air — just 15.

Both Rene and Artem, independently and for different reasons, advised me to master a basic air control technique.

So that's what I did — got in touch with Alan and placed an order, which he fulfilled in just a few days.

This time, I came to the fitting alone. No Kate.

And it felt a little strange. Strange that she didn't ask questions or try to micromanage my plans.

When we first visited Alan's workshop together, she'd handled everything — placed the actual order, negotiated the price, discussed every detail with Alan. I just stood there on the platform like a green recruit, flinching at every unfamiliar sound.

Now — a different story.

I asked Alan myself to modify my work armour.

He refused. Said my old shell wouldn't withstand the pressure of abrasive sands, no matter how many adjustments were made.

We compromised — he'd remove the plates engraved with the hypersensitivity formation and rebuild the armour around them, adding reinforcement where necessary.

It would still be a relatively cheap shell, but covered with different composites and tailored for work in the Air Garden.

The workshop looked cleaner this time. Less clutter, fewer scattered parts. Seemed like Alan's rush season had passed, and he'd finally tidied up.

By now, I understood what armour was, how to behave during a fitting, and what to expect from the mechanical arms. I was a cadet with some experience, however modest. I stepped obediently onto the platform at the master's signal. The ankle clamps snapped shut. I didn't even flinch, just raised my arms to speed things up. The manipulators quickly began assembling the new suit around my body.

The first thing that stood out was the thickness. The breastplate and back plating were twice as thick. The helmet, arms, and legs had all been replaced, and now I looked like a black beetle with massive carapace and narrow limbs.

Still, it didn't hinder movement. No chance of pulling off any fancy pirouettes, but for work, it was fine. Pure functionality: the thick plating wasn't just for protecting the formation, it also concealed large filter blocks with a self-cleaning system.

I didn't feel any difference in the filters' behaviour. The air inside wasn't denser or cleaner. But they were supposed to shield me from oxygen loss and protect themselves from dust and sand damage.

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I took a few steps across the platform. Moving was even easier than in my old suit. But the feeling was deceptive. I hadn't worn armour since my breakthrough.

I'd have to fix that.

"How does it feel?" Alan asked dryly, drawing in the thin wisp of smoke from the incense stick clamped between his teeth.

"Hell if I know," I answered honestly.

I clenched my fists, rolled my shoulders a few times, then bent forward and crouched. As long as I didn't tense up, I didn't feel any stiffness at all.

"Good enough for work," I decided. "And the formation..."

The hypersensitivity formation came to life at my command.

At first, it was like someone gently turned up the volume in the room. The rustle of my own breathing became sharper, but not intrusive. My heartbeat — a steady drumbeat, even and sure. When I moved my fingers inside the gloves, I felt not only the pressure of the plastic but the texture — tiny grains on a surface that had seemed smoothly polished.

The world sharpened. It didn't shatter into a storm like it had the first time, it opened up. I saw more detail: the faint ripple of light along the surface of a metal wall, like a wave passing through the air filters; how the light from the workshop lamps bounced off the rough floor in tiny sparks.

Sound changed too — it grew deeper, more layered. And all this without the noise in my head, without the nausea that had wiped me out the first time I activated the formation.

I clenched my fists again and immediately felt the armour respond. The movement was perfectly crisp, like I could see the mechanism of my own motion from the inside. A slight tremor in the muscles, the pull of tendons, the tension in my fingers.

I stepped forward. No stumble, no dizziness. On the contrary, there was a new precision and certainty in my body.

The formation revealed far more potential at Second Stage.

"The formation works, but it feels different."

"The formation's fine," Alan said. "That much I guarantee."

His voice sounded slightly deeper, with a faint echo, but I could distinguish every note with ease.

I nodded. This time there was no panic, no urge to tear off the armour. On the contrary, I felt like I could make use of these new edges of the world.

I clenched my fists again, listened to the sound of my breathing in the helmet, and was about to thank the craftsman when the incense stick reminded me.

"You cultivate Air too, right? Maybe you could give me a starting point? I'm a total zero in that garden. I'd appreciate any advice."

Alan gave a grunt and pulled the stick from his mouth. The thin stream of smoke stopped drifting toward his nose and slowly began to rise. Alan traced a finger through the air, and the smoke coiled into a spiral.

"I follow the Path of the Palm. Soft force."

He slowly traced his index finger through the air, and the smoke, like a silken ribbon, obediently followed his motion — smooth and gentle.

"But you need firmness."

He snapped his fingers sharply, and the curved thread of smoke straightened into a taut line, like a thin wire, like a blade.

"Fist is your main, so for you, Air shouldn't be a breeze, it should be a storm. Sudden gusts, decisive shifts.

I think something like dust-trap techniques would suit you. They capture a pocket of air and compress it sharply. These techniques work both ways. You can expand the air just as suddenly. The result is a kind of explosive aeroblast. It won't do much to enemy armour, but it complements your style. And once you reach the next stage, you'll be able to compress the air under someone's armour," Alan smiled. "Third Stage — that's when people start fearing Air cultivators."

I nodded, already picturing how a sudden change in pressure beneath someone's plating could wreak havoc. Even if the composites held, the body underneath wouldn't.

I thanked Alan and, without removing the armour, headed straight to the Air Garden. Down the lift, through the metro, and back up again, and I was in the canyon once more.

On the way, I revisited the message sent to me months ago by the thinhorn worker from the Garden. It included a link to a list of techniques offered on credit to Garden labourers. The higher the technique's quality, the more one had to work off.

Three techniques fit the description of the 'trap' Alan had recommended.

The Air Garden station looked like a hole cut into a cliff. As I stepped out, I felt a strip of sky open above me — pale blue, streaked with fine currents of dust. The canyon's steep walls were riddled with alcoves where cadets sat like bees in a hive, and the Garden itself felt like a vast beehive caught in a storm.

The wind greeted me immediately. Not with a breeze, with a blow.

The first gust struck my shoulder. The next slipped under my feet, trying to unbalance me. The third carried fine dust and sprayed it across my visor.

The Garden lived up to its name only halfway. There were no chamomile, no violets, unlike the Fist Garden. Just low, gnarled trees with hook-like branches that clung to life in defiance of the storm. Between them, bushes, or rather, tangles of fibre, trembled at every breath of wind. It felt like here, the wind itself was the soil, the water, and the fertiliser.

Last time, I'd seen a dust whirlwind form right before my eyes, born of nothing. A few currents met, spun, and merged into a proper tornado. But before I could study it, a pair of cadets on jetboards darted in and tore it apart with counter-currents. The wind returned to chaos.

This time, there was no dramatic tornado, just living, temperamental air. I moved cautiously, feeling how every step met either resistance or aid. A light push here, a sudden tug there.

I needed to find one of the horned workers and ask for a job, so I called Kiwi 071, the same one who'd greeted me in the Garden last time.

"How can I help, Cadet?" he asked.

"Good afternoon, Kiwi. I was here a few months ago asking about work. Unfortunately, my armour wasn't suitable at the time," I explained and asked if we could meet, if he was available, or if he could refer me to another administrator.

He was available.

The thinhorn wore a thick black jumpsuit, battered by dust and wind, and his head was covered with a heavy mask that fit all the way over his horns, because the local sands could chew through those too. His breathing unit, strapped to his back, was twice the size of the ones worn by the thinhorns in the Fist Garden.

He immediately gave my armour a once-over and, judging by its design, concluded I was planning to spend a lot of time here.

I told him I wasn't interested in fruit collection, I was aiming for dust gathering, and for that I needed a red-tier technique. I asked, of course, whether I could just purchase it with units and then earn points through work.

No luck.

I didn't argue. Instead, I consulted with Kiwi again and settled on Sky in the Fist — 90 kilograms of dust or 90 points.

I went with dust, though had no idea how long it would take to gather that much.

Still, my time in the Fist Garden hadn't been wasted, and I hoped it would pay off here as well. Besides, I had been given four months to work it off.

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