Jacob can't believe his luck.

He sketches the diagrams for Ashen Grasp and Hellchain for the two Infernal Royal Guards, and he now holds twenty more Merits, which puts him at sixty‑three Merits.

It feels as if he never spent points in the Astral Library, and he also gains the help of an Elder, not just Elder Lioren, and a set of contacts for buying Skills on the Hidden Market.

The table stands under a cold lamplight, and the stone surface bears old ink scars. Neat stacks of astral copies cast a faint glow, making the fresh ink look wet. His quill bites the page with small rasping sounds, and the smell of iron gall hangs over the work like a low fog.

His shoulders ache because he hunches, yet he refuses to stop, and he flexes his fingers before he draws the following line.

The Hidden Market operates as a distinct type of Black Market. It is not only a place for illicit activities, but it also serves as a hub for politics. Sellers and buyers treat specific Skills as if an invisible council regulates them. Infernal Skills go to Infernals. Dragonkin Skills go to Dragonkin. Other races follow the same logic, and the habit grows out of old grudges that never die. Some Classes find favor with a given race, and people call it bad manners to sell Skill Crystals or Shards to another race in the open. Some kingdoms place embargoes on sales to rival kingdoms, and those embargoes break whenever a treasury runs dry because merchants love coin more than rules.

They still cannot move Skill Crystals, artifacts, armor, equipment, and consumables on public stalls, so they hide the trade behind doors and courtyards and coded letters that pass between guild clerks and old captains.

Some items are stolen from important people, and no one sane wants a trail of papers. People who buy those pieces ask for oaths, and they meet in bright parlors that look harmless, and they never say the true names of anything.

That is why the Hidden Market does not look like a market. No one sets up a seedy underground hall with heaps of Skill Crystals on velvet. The Market lives as a network of introductions between people who already know one another, and the web stretches across cities that never share borders. You pay for those introductions, and you rarely pay with coin. You pay with favors that carry teeth, and you pay with services that pull you deeper into the web. The same logic that guards the Astral Library applies here, because if coins alone opened doors, Royals and Nobles would buy every door. The Hidden Market, according to the old stories, took shape millennia ago so that the right Skills could reach the right hands regardless of birth, and the story says that nameless wardens still prune the web when greed grows too loud.

Some whisper that the Headmaster built the Hidden Market, and then they shut their mouths, because no one speaks openly about the man. The rumor moves like smoke. It smells like truth and lies at the same time, and no one tries to trap it.

Elder Karl watches Jacob, and he sees the boy's hands ache from all the scribbling and all the notes and the clumsy grip of someone who barely learns to write. The quill leaves blots at the start of strokes because Jacob presses too hard, and the ink dries in a thin sheen that reflects the lamplight. The boy rubs the heel of his palm when the cramps spike, and then he leans back in with his jaw set.

He's from a very humble background, Elder Karl reasons. There's no way he's a noble. Most likely, he's got someone taking care of him, but later in life. Adolescence? Perhaps. Whoever trained him in Skills and Runic Notation must be a real monster. If that person sends him here like this, then either he plans to avenge Jacob if he dies, or he wants the kid to risk his life and die if he can't manage. He wouldn't be an anomaly among the weird, hidden experts of the world.

Outside Ytrial, this would sound like crazy talk, yet many students here carry secrets. Hidden masters take an interest, feel pity, or seek amusement, and they teach a child from an unknown, impoverished city, then place him on a larger board.

Elder Karl studies Jacob like a hawk while the boy sketches one diagram after another and supposedly fixes flaw after flaw in Ashen Grasp and Hellchain. He traces channels with a fingertip that never smears the ink, and he compares the curves to the old standards that line the shelves behind them. He does not know where the kid found this knowledge, yet the longer he stares at the lines and routes, the clearer it grows that this is the real thing. The structure holds. The corrections map to failure points he has seen in audits of failed castings, and the weighting of runes matches the demands of the effects.

Jacob Cloud did not lie to the two Infernal bodyguards.

* * *

"Lancelot, I think it's better if I go alone to the South Wing. Would you mind just… I don't know. Just go eat something. It's on me, of course."

Fatty stays quiet after the guard almost kills him. I do not think the guard would actually kill him, yet Lancelot does. He keeps his mouth shut, and he stares at the floor while he clutches one of the diagrams I made. Among the Skills I get for him, there is Golden Claw. Apparently, Fatty receives a Gold-based class called Golden Warrior. That comes from Golden Palm. Golden Claw fits him better because it sits closer to the Draconic aspect that his heritage suggests.

We will need to keep building Skills so that when he reaches the limit of his Class, he can evolve it into something better. His eyes keep drifting to the inked claws on the page as if the lines might jump into his hands, and I can tell he wants that future more than he wants dinner.

I walk alone through the Academy, and I start to feel nervous while I carry the papers. The South Wing stretches under a ceiling that shows constellations stitched in gold thread, and the flagstones shine because centuries of boots polish them. Quiet groups of students pass with the steady rhythm of a barracks at dusk, and ward crystals hum in the arches with a thin note that you only notice when you stop. I grip the papers harder because the edges bend if I relax, and the sound of my steps keeps a clipped cadence that refuses to slow.

I hope they're reasonable people.

I reach the dorm wing, and the orange light of sunset blasts through the giant windows and paints the stone with slow fire. The glass shows waves of heat at the lower edges because the day still clings to the city. All of Ytrial carries spatial enchantments that stretch distance until a short walk becomes a small journey, and the echoes of voices fold and unfold like fabric when people turn corners.

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"Human." I see Skarak and Parek standing at the sides of the open dormitory door. "Done already?"

They look at each other, and they snicker at me. Their armor sits oiled and dark, and the horn shadows climb the lintel like black hooks.

It seems like they probably convinced each other that I'm a fraud or something while I was away.

"So, let's see the notation. And then, how would you like to die after trying to trick an Infernal?" Parek says.

"We appreciate your guts. But we'll still spill them, Cloud. Just so that you know."

"Of course, of course." I smile. "I do not presume to judge these for myself. Why don't you guys take a look at it and tell me what you think?"

"Skarak, go first," Parek says. "We shouldn't take our eyes off the door both at once."

"Can't everyone enter the dormitory?" I ask, and I frown because I do not follow their caution.

"Yes, but no one says we can't check them first," Skarak replies. He takes the diagrams for Ashen Grasp, and he steps where the light catches the ink. The paper rustles like dry leaves, and the edges look clean because I trim them with a knife.

He frowns as soon as he looks at them.

"What kind of weird Runic Notation is this? I've never seen anything like it."

"Oh, this is… well, something kind of new. Don't worry about it."

Skarak lifts a sheet that shows forearm vein channels, and he raises an eyebrow. His gaze moves like a craftsman's, and he taps at nodes on the paper.

"Parek," Skarak says, and he turns to the other Royal Guard. "This looks legit. Look at the Blooming Rose channel. That's… that's where my mana always gets stuck. Look at the runes. He wants me to circulate the mana first through… The Medial Star Sky channel in my brain?"

"For a grasping Skill?" Parek frowns.

They both sound knowledgeable. Without the Grimoire, I would not understand a word. The Grimoire already flags this point, and I remember the line.

[Critical Flaw. Ashen Grasp is a Battlefield Control Skill. These Skills rely heavily on the tactical sense and the mind of the user. Circulating mana through the Blooming Rose channel without having first circulated it through the Medial Star Sky channel creates an imbalance in the Skill, which makes it much harder to control.]

"Well," I clear my throat, and I try to explain without sounding like a fool. "I could infer that circulating mana through the Blooming Rose channel without having first circulated it through the Medial Star Sky channel would create an imbalance since… err, it's, like, a Battlefield Control Skill? These Skills… huh… they like brain channels."

They stare at me with a frown. The hall grows quiet because people nearby hear the word "Infernal" and decide to slow down.

Damn it, I didn't sound too convincing.

You sounded drunk, Jacob Cloud. And I wish I could tear your soul apart to know what damn Skill makes you so knowledgeable.

Who said it's a Skill? I smirk in my head.

The day you die a horrible death, Cloud, will always be a day too late in my books.

Love you too. I stop listening to King Baalrek, and I watch Skarak circulate mana in a new route. He sets the draw from the heart, as the diagram shows, and the ash builds faster on the forearm; the grip forms with less scatter. He summons an Ashen Grasp that looks denser than before, and he brings it up faster. The ash condenses into a palm that holds steady when he moves his hand, and faint dust eddies spin away from each finger.

He guides the spell around, and he stares at me in disbelief.

"Parek. Try yours."

Skarak steps back to cover the doorway again, and Parek takes the sheets for Hellchain. He reads the notes with tight lips, and his eyes narrow at the loop that sends the flow through the calves.

"You want me to channel through my Rising Sun veins first, then back to my… calves? And then again through the Rising Sun veins?" Parek does not look convinced.

"Hellchain is a springing move. You want the chains to jump at your opponent, right? Which channels provide more... springiness? Wait, is that a word?"

I should really start reading more. I feel like an idiot.

"You… that… well…" Parek stutters. "That actually makes sense. Ok, Cloud. If this works…"

He does not finish, and he starts to circulate Mana. The chains appear again, and unlike the first time when they lie around in coils and sluggish loops, they now vibrate with power and surge up and down like waves that want to break. Metal clanks in a rhythm that feels alive, and the hot light licks the door frame until a thin scorch line shows on the threshold.

I can tell by eye that he pulls more force than before.

"My Skill just gained ten levels," Parek says, and he turns to Skarak.

They nod at each other, and then Skarak speaks. He sounds like the older one or the stronger one, or at least the one with more authority. He squares his shoulders, and his voice carries the weight of a hall that expects order.

"Your service was invaluable to us. We introduce each other now, with our full names."

"I am Skaraktskflek, son of Drazvulk, part of the Kharzthun lineage. I salute you and ask for your name, so that a friendship might be born between us."

"I am Parekyfklaskik, son of Vorlzhek, part of the Thazruk lineage. I salute you myself, and ask for your name, so that a friendship might be born between us."

The formula is, I salute you, Skaraktskflek, son of Drazvulk, part of the Kharzthun lineage, and Paerkyfklaskik, son of Vorlzhek, part of the Thazruk lineage. My name is Jacob Cloud, son of Lucas Cloud, of the Cloud and Valemont lineage. I am honored by your offer, and I humbly accept it. Then, you bow.

I repeat the formula and I bow. I keep my back straight and my eyes low because their rites value pride and respect, and I hold the bow long enough to show that I understand the gift.

They bow right after, and a brief hint of surprise crosses both faces. The horns tilt in a way that reads as approval in their culture, and their hands move to their chests with quick precision.

You just made allies with my people. They'd still kill you if they found out about your heritage. Well, MY heritage. But that's a step in the right direction. Sadly, I don't think there'll EVER be anything you can do to let them NOT kill you once they find out about your Skills.

A shout erupts from inside the dorm, and a gigantic Infernal sprints out. He stands taller than Skarak and broader across the chest, and his boots shake the lintel dust.

"The Princess is having another attack!"

"Dammit!" Skarak swears, and a potion appears in his hand. The bottle shows a black seal that marks royal stock, and the liquid glows like banked coals.

An Interspatial Ring? Damn, they're filthy rich.

They're common among my people.

Filthy rich people, then.

"No, we already used a potion, Skarak. Her mana is going haywire. I fear that…" The Infernal has tears on his face. "She might be a cripple soon… Her heritage is too powerful for this pitiful era. That damn Baalrek, I wish the bastard were still alive. Finally, one person manages to learn his Core Skill and now… she might die for it without even being able to activate it fully."

"Huh," I clear my throat. "Wait, did you just say King Baalrek?"

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