The grogginess still clung to me like a second skin as I stumbled through the floors of our temporary fortress—formerly known as this schools gymnasium. With only 17 hours left until the next wave, it wasn't exactly the luxurious beauty sleep I needed, but hey, beggars and apocalypse survivors can't be choosers.
I needed to find Caleb. Knowing him, he'd be up to something vaguely genius and probably dangerous. I heard that guy's enthusiasm for tinkering always bordered on mad scientist territory, and that was before the System dropped us into this mess.
As I passed a few tents, I spotted Ken sitting on the ground, surrounded by a gaggle of kids. Right, I forgot—our school also had elementary students. They looked like a mix of scared and confused, clutching at their make shift weapons like they were safety blankets.
Ken, in his infinite "big brother" glory, was right in the middle of it, grinning like a Disney protagonist who just broke into song.
"Alright, who's ready for an adventure?" he said, holding his hands up like he was about to tell them a secret. The kids stared at him, wide-eyed. One brave soul—bless his tiny heart—raised his hand.
"I am! I wanna be like you, Mr. Ken!"
Ken laughed, patting the kid on the head. "Mr. Ken? You make me sound old. Just call me Ken. And don't worry—you'll all be stronger than me in no time."
The kid beamed, his nerves melting away. Meanwhile, I stayed in the shadows, watching my friend work his magic. Ken had always been like this—a natural-born hero. Even before the System turned our lives upside down, he was the guy who helped everyone. Heck, he even dragged me out of some nasty bullying situations back in the day. Not that I'd ever admit it out loud.
For a second, I thought about joining them, but the moment passed. The kids didn't need my sarcasm right now. Ken had this under control, as always.
Shaking my head, I moved on, finally spotting a forge at the end of the hall. I stepped inside and froze.
The place looked like something straight out of a blacksmithing fantasy. Forges glowed with molten heat, students were hammering away at metal, and the air smelled like sweat, smoke, and… was that burnt rubber?
"What in the medieval Hogwarts is going on here?" I muttered.
One of the students, his face streaked with grime, caught my expression and grinned. "Cool, right? Production class is awesome. We built this forge from scratch with debris and materials we scavenged around the school."
I raised an eyebrow. "You built this? Out of what, cafeteria trays and gym equipment?"
"Basically," he said, wiping his hands on his equally dirty shirt. "Crazy what you can do when survival's on the line, huh? We were just students a few days ago, and now look at us—making weapons and armor like pros. You looking for Caleb? He's in the back, giggling to himself about something. That guy's a genius, but he's a little…"
"Yeah, I know," I said, smirking. "Thanks."
As I navigated the forge, I couldn't help but be impressed. Students—my classmates, of all people—were working like seasoned blacksmiths. One group was reinforcing the barricades with new materials from the System Store, while others were crafting weapons and armor. The forge itself radiated heat and energy, a chaotic symphony of sparks and clanging metal.
Eventually, I found Caleb sprawled on the ground in the farthest corner, fast asleep. His arms were wrapped protectively around a bundle of cloth, like it was his firstborn child.
"Caleb," I called, nudging him with my foot.
Nothing.
"Caleb!" I said louder, giving him a light kick.
He jerked awake, sitting up like a startled cat. "I wasn't sleeping! I was… testing the durability of the floor."
"Sure you were," I said, crossing my arms. "You done playing nap time, or should I come back later?"
He blinked at me, then broke into a grin. "Oh, Avi! You're here! Perfect timing!"
Caleb jumped to his feet and handed me the bundle he'd been holding. "Here. It's ready."
I unwrapped the cloth to reveal a pair of daggers. They gleamed in the dim light, their dark violet blades practically humming with energy. Intrigued, I activated my Clairvoyance, allowing me to glimpse the faint aura of the weapons. A faint notification blinked in my mind's eye:
[Shadowfang]
Forged with Arkanite as its core, this dagger boasts exceptional sharpness and durability. A simple yet promising weapon, its true potential is unlocked through the wielder's proficiency in dagger arts.
The name lingered in my mind, fitting the weapon's sleek and dangerous aesthetic. Shadowfang. It felt almost alive, as if the blades themselves were whispering promises of triumph—or maybe threats.
"These are made with Arkanite ore as the core," Caleb explained, his excitement bubbling over. "I mixed it with earthly metals to stabilize it, and the result is… well, this. The daggers are light, sharp, and nearly indestructible. The Arkanite's properties allow it to merge perfectly with other materials, which is why they turned out so well."
I turned one of the daggers over in my hand, admiring its sleek design. The blade had a subtle, swirling pattern, like ripples on water, and the hilt was wrapped in dark leather for a firm grip.
"Right now, this is the best we can make," Caleb continued, a hint of apology in his voice. "But when we level up and get stronger, we'll be able to make even better weapons—with enchantments, too."
"This is already incredible," I said, genuinely impressed. "Thanks, Caleb. You've outdone yourself."
He beamed, and I sent him the 20 SP we'd agreed on.
Leaving the forge, I headed outside, the daggers placed in my inventory. The air was crisp, a stark contrast to the stifling heat of the forge.
Time to train.
I found a secluded spot near the edge of the school grounds and drew the daggers. The memory of the young knight's dagger arts replayed in my mind. His movements were fluid, precise—a deadly dance I could barely comprehend.
"Alright," I muttered. "Let's see if I can do this without looking like a complete idiot."
Spoiler alert: I looked like a complete idiot.
No matter how hard I tried, my movements were clumsy and awkward. The daggers felt alien in my hands, sometimes also cutting myself with its sharp blade. Frustration bubbled up until I finally threw myself onto the ground with a groan.
"This is hopeless," I muttered.
I closed my eyes, picturing the young knight again. It wasn't as simple as imagining myself next to him and perfectly copying his movements. Oh no, that would have been too easy. Instead, the second I visualized stepping into his training ground, it felt like my body weighed twice as much. My legs were leaden, my arms stiff, and even in my own imagination, I stumbled forward like I'd never held a weapon in my life. Seriously? I can't even look cool in my own head?
The young knight moved with precision, spinning the daggers in his hands effortlessly. His attacks flowed together like a dance, each movement a perfect harmony of power and grace. Meanwhile, my first attempt at mimicking his steps looked like a chicken trying to moonwalk.
The knight didn't stop, of course. He didn't glance my way or offer a word of advice, just kept practicing—relentless, focused, and, honestly, kind of annoying. Wasn't this supposed to be my imaginary training montage? But the more I watched him, the more I realized the problem wasn't his silence. It was me. My timing was off. My footwork was sloppy. Every strike I attempted had all the elegance of a drunk guy trying to catch a fly.
But I wasn't about to give up. I tightened my grip on the daggers in the vision and tried again, biting back a curse as I tripped over nothing. "Alright, you smug figment of my imagination," I muttered under my breath. "If you can do it, so can I."
I focused on his feet. The way he shifted his weight, toes pressing into the ground before springing into the next motion. I tried to mimic the pattern. One step. Another. My legs burned from the effort, but I forced myself to keep going.
Then came the daggers. Watching the way he handled them was mesmerizing—the fluid arcs, the split-second adjustments, the deadly precision. I tried again to copy his grip, only for one of my imaginary daggers to slip right out of my hand. It clattered to the stone floor, echoing in my head like a bell announcing my failure. Fantastic. Can't even hold a fake weapon.
But something shifted after that. As I knelt to pick up the fallen blade, I caught sight of the young knight glancing my way. Just for a moment. A flicker of acknowledgment. Maybe I imagined it—or maybe my subconscious decided to throw me a bone. Either way, it lit a spark in me.
This time, I didn't just mimic. I studied. I broke his movements into pieces, dissecting every strike, every pivot. My imaginary world blurred as I lost track of time. Each failure taught me something new. Each stumble pushed me to adjust. Every ounce of frustration fueled my determination.
Finally, I managed to string together a short series of attacks. A stab, a slash, a parry, and a spin. My strikes weren't perfect, but they felt… closer. Closer to what he was doing. And as I completed the sequence, the young knight turned his back on me, walking toward the edge of the training ground. He disappeared into the distance without a word, leaving me standing alone with my thoughts and my daggers.
When I opened my eyes, something clicked.
My body ached, my mind reeled, but there was a clarity I hadn't felt before. I stood up slowly, gripping the daggers tightly. They felt different in my hands now—lighter, sharper, like they were an extension of me.
"Alright," I muttered to myself, "third time's the charm, right? Unless you're me, in which case it's probably the seventeenth."
I planted my feet firmly and began the sequence I'd practiced in my mind. A stab. A slash. A parry. My arms moved without hesitation, my feet shifting with a rhythm that felt instinctive. It wasn't flawless, but it was leagues ahead of where I'd been.
As I finished the sequence, I stepped back and exhaled. My heart pounded, my muscles burned, and yet a grin spread across my face. For the first time, I felt like I was beginning to understand—not just the daggers, but the discipline, the focus, the endless struggle it would take to improve.
"Guess this is what they call a breakthrough," I said, tossing one of the daggers in the air and catching it. "Or, at least, the part before I have to break through all over again."
I pulled up my stats to check.
Avi Eques (Level 3)
Strength: 17.104
Defense: 11.130
Stamina: 9.143
Agility: 14.110
Intelligence: 8.090
Skills:
|Clairvoyance|
|?a??k??|
(Synchronization: 1%)
|Battle Instinct| Predict certain enemy moves. Fighting proficiency enhanced based on stats.
|Novice Dagger Arts| Incomplete dagger arts.
Synchronization at 1%. A new skill added. Progress.
Grinning, I turned to a nearby tree and struck. This time, my attack felt deliberate, controlled.
"Well, if I don't survive the next wave, at least I'll look cool trying," I said, wiping the sweat from my brow and giving Shadowfang a dramatic twirl—only to nearly drop it. "Okay, maybe less cool and more clumsy idiot with knives, but hey, progress!"