Kael slipped back into the Talent Registrar like a thief returning to the scene of the crime.
The mana conduits above thrummed coldly, blue light arcing overhead in clean, disciplined lines. Through the high, rune-glass windows, Ashport’s midday sun pressed down, harder and hotter than it had any right to be. Mana-skiffs glided above the district like silent sharks, sleek and humming, a world apart from Brinewatch’s grime and rust.
Kael lingered near the wall, avoiding the gaze of the gray-streaked Tester who was now finishing with a skinny kid clutching a healer’s pouch. She didn’t look up. Fine by him.
The ArkSeal tattoo on his palm buzzed faintly, pulsing in time with his heartbeat.
It still felt like magic.
He focused, mentally prodding at it. A translucent interface bloomed in his vision, subtle and precise—no clunky holograms or floating text, just thought-guided menus sliding into place. Listings from Ashport’s Grays district flickered up again, the same ones he’d seen at the bank: one-room flats, dingy storefronts, old maintenance bunkers retrofitted into rentals. To Kael, they were all beautiful miracles. Any one of them would one million times better than the mud floor shanty shack his family has been living in for the past decade.
One property caught his eye again—a storefront with an apartment above. 90 Dravaran Marks a month. First orbit came out to 1,300 total, deposit included. Not cheap. But for Kael? It was perfect.
The ArkSeal rendered it in 3D: concrete walls, old wood floors, actual plumbing, a stovetop, a solar-mana hybrid cell, windows with real glass. To a Brinewatch rat, it looked like a palace. His mouth went dry. Feels like I’m already standin’ there.
With a thought, he pinged the seller. A curt male voice barked back—surprised at the sudden request, but not foolish enough to refuse it.
“Next.” The Tester’s voice snapped him back. The kid was gone. Her glare flicked toward him like a dagger.
Kael stepped up, raised his hand. “Hundred Marks,” he muttered.
She scanned his ArkSeal, eyes narrowing. The system popped a request:
Confirm transfer: 100 DM?
Kael answered with a thought: Yes.
The number dropped—13,043 remaining.
“Paid,” she said, already turning away. “Move along.”
He didn’t linger. Didn’t curse. Didn’t fight. Not today. He turned on his heel and sprinted out of the Registrar, the heat outside nothing compared to the fire in his chest. The ArkSeal’s navigation flashed again, guiding him through Ashport’s outer rings like a ghost in his bloodstream.
The storefront stood on a quiet corner at the edge of the Grays—gray brick and red tile, mana-lamps flickering over barred windows. Solid. Ugly. Real.
The landlord waited out front. Wiry, waxed mustache, wearing a too-clean vest and too many assumptions. His lip curled as Kael approached—mud-stained boots, sweat-soaked shirt, Brinewatch in every step.
“You booked this?” he asked, skeptical.
Kael didn’t answer right away. He just lifted his hand.
The ArkSeal flashed—Balance: 13,043 DM.
The man’s mouth snapped shut.
Kael smiled. “Still got a problem?”
Inside, it was bare-bones but clean. Shop downstairs, three small bedrooms upstairs. An actual toilet. A sink. Real doors. A window that opened. Privacy. Space. Dignity.
Kael ran a hand along the wood banister. He didn’t need the storefront to sell anything, but having a legitimate address was important, so customers could find him. Though, he questioned that now that he had experienced the ArkSeal technology. But it wouldn't hurt, either way.
No more sharing a room with Mom and Sera. No more pretending not to hear them crying, or bleeding, or struggling to keep it together when the food ran out. No more making excuses to leave so they would have space to take care of their private issues he knew they had, but was too awkward or embarrassing to talk about.
Here, they’d have doors they could close. Walls that kept more than rain out.
“I’ll take it.”
The landlord didn’t argue. He flicked over a contract.
Kael confirmed. 1,300 Marks transferred.
The ArkSeal hummed. The contract locked. A mana-pad flared. Kael pressed his palm to it. Runes pulsed, then faded.
The keys dropped into his hand. Cold. Heavy. Real.
For a second, he just stood there, staring at them. He didn’t smile. He didn’t cry.
He breathed—deep, steady, as if for the first time in years, the world was letting him.
Then he checked the time. Garrick. The thought crashed through his chest like a club. Garrick’s job, Garrick’s mithril—he couldn’t screw that up.
Kael bolted, sprinting back through the streets, ArkSeal feeding him the fastest route. As the buildings thinned and the roads cracked beneath him, he crossed the Outer City Gate—Ashport’s stone giving way to Brinewatch’s muck.
His boots slapped into wet grit. The stink of ashfruit and dead tide hit him again. He didn’t care. He’d done it. A foothold. A real place. Not just for him—for Elira. For Sera.
He was dragging them out, one step at a time.
And nothing—no Testers, no gangs, no Elandor-damned talent system—was gonna stop him.
