[Quest Completed: The Imprint Below (1)]
Quest Reward: 3 Earth Thaumaturgy Mastery Points
1 FOR
25% Progress for Sedintal Recall (Rank II)
It took Fabrisse another five minutes sifting through rocks to find the specin he needed: a fist-sized basalt lump with edges dulled by water-wear and a couple cracks where years of pressure had bitten into it.
[Sedintal Recall Complete.]
[Result: Common-grade Basalt. Imprint Retrieved: ‘Daily Labor – Grain Grinding’]
[Estimated Historical Depth: ~130–380 years.]
He saw the vision the mont the skill triggered: the steady rhythm of stone turning against stone, the powdery scent of crushed grain, the callused press of hands working through seasons. Flashes followed—an outdoor hearth, voices in an old dialect he half-recognized, rain seeping through a leaky thatch roof.
Then ca the last remnants: a sudden crack under too much pressure, the shudder of being dropped, hands lifting the broken piece aside with weary resignation. He felt the damp seep of rain as the discarded stone was left against a wall, forgotten, until floodwater carried it down into the cave.
And then the resonance cut off.
[SYSTEM NOTE: Rank II Sedintary Recall Limitation: Final 5 years of imprint accessible.]
He clenched his jaw. The stone had carried centuries of history, but all he could grasp were its last exhausted uses, the final half-decade of grinding before the millstone cracked and was cast aside. It was like squinting at a mural through a keyhole, only to find fragnts of a story, taunting him with everything he couldn’t reach.
Fine. I wasn’t here for a history lesson anyway.
It wasn’t so imagined kitchen relic after all, but the sort of stone once quarried for practical use like road fill or foundation blocks. Common, yes, but that was the point.
He turned the basalt over once more, then slipped it into the inner pocket of his robe.
[Item Added to Inventory: Basalt Fragnt (Common)]
[Tag: Retrieved Imprint – ‘Daily Labor’]
At least this one has sothing to show for itself.
He stood and dusted grit from his palms, glancing back toward the others. “I’ve got what I need,” he said, pitching his voice flat so it wouldn’t invite questions.
Liene ca skipping downslope at that exact mont, both arms cradling a sagging sack that he swore she didn’t have with her when they ca in. When she reached him, she tipped it forward proudly. A puff of dust leaked out around the seams.
“Look what I found! Are these useful?” Her eyes shone as if she’d unearthed treasure. “I can make a clay pot out of these!”
Fabrisse stared at the sack. They were not even rocks; they were dirt. Definitely not imprinted.
His mouth opened, but then stayed that way. No word ca out.
Behind her, Sven coughed into his fist. He didn’t even hide his crooked smile.
“So?” Liene bead wider.
“. . .Yes,” Fabrisse managed at last, because he couldn’t bring himself to crush her grin. “Clay is technically useful.”
“Right? Right?” Liene rocked on her heels, already peering into the bag as though she could see shapes forming there. She kept going, words tumbling faster as her glow-orb bobbed excitedly. “I could make a little pot—no, a tall one. With handles. Oh, maybe a lid, though lids are hard, aren’t they? Oh; oh, I know. Maybe carve runes around the rim, and if I glaze it just right—”
“Have you ever made a clay pot?”
“No. But the fun’s in trying!” She tilted her head toward him. “You want to join? I an, two hands are better than one, right?”
“You have two hands.”
“I an, two pairs of hands! Don’t ruin it.”
Fabrisse shook his head, running a hand along the basalt lump in his pocket. “I can’t. I need to bring this to the Wing of Stratal Studies tomorrow.” That was a lie. He had no business inspecting this fragnt further.
“Well, the clay isn’t going anywhere!” She nudged the sack toward him.
Sven’s crooked smile didn’t fade as he leaned on his staff. “You know, Fabri’s got a lot of studying to do tomorrow at the Wing,” he said. “So, if you want to shape clay or whatever, best not wait on him. Study and . . . other priorities, right?”
Liene tilted her head, processing, but her grin didn’t vanish. “Go on, don’t let him hold you back,” he added lightly. “Clay isn’t going anywhere, but lectures and strata . . . those do.”
Fabrisse didn’t look at either of them, vaguely aware of the subtle undercurrent but unwilling to get caught in the conversation.
[New Sidequest Received: “The Grain Beneath”]
Objective: Conduct a 3-point aetheric grain survey on a rock under laboratory conditions
Unauthorized content usage: if you discover this narrative on Amazon, report the violation.
Recomnded tools: condition emulation matrix, fine-tuned aether probe, patience
Estimated completion ti: variable, depending on user competence
Reward:
65% Understanding toward unlocking Aetheric Grain Analysis (Rank I)
3 Stone Thaumaturgy Mastery Points
Bragging rights (local)
Would you like to accept the quest?
[Yes] [No]
[SYSTEM NOTE: Just do it.]
Huh? What’s this? The Eidralith wants to do an analysis on this rock?
But it’s a common rock. I already got the imprint. What even is special about this rock that I need to examine it?
He frowned. Does it hold so hidden aetheric property that only reveals itself under proper analysis? So grain alignnt that Rank II Sedintary Recall can’t detect? The idea made his stomach tighten with equal parts curiosity and irritation.
Then he shook his head to himself. Hajin Min had made it clear: he wouldn’t be allowed to learn Aetheric Grain Analysis until he passed the Synaptic Control practicals. Still, the thought lingered in the back of his mind—if he tried hard enough, maybe he could negotiate access to the aether probes. If the probes were already calibrated and channeled, he wouldn’t even need to cast himself; he could let the instrunts do the work while he guided the rock through the emulation matrix.
So he really needed to bring this rock to the Wing of Stratal Studies tomorrow.
“Whatcha thinking about?”
Fabrisse blinked. He hadn’t even noticed Liene edging closer until her glow-orb bobbed just over his shoulder. Her face peeked around his personal space, eyes bright and curious and just a little too close. He leaned back instinctively and muttered, “Nothing.”
“So . . . do you want to get cheese pies now?”
“Y-yeah, I guess.”
“Great!” Liene turned back to Sven. “Are you joining?”
Sven smiled back at her. “I don’t see why not.”
[Excursion Completed: 15 EXP]
[Progress to Level 5: 1192/1500]
Fabrisse found himself back in the Wing of Stratal Studies to find Hajin Min already present, sitting with perfect posture behind the faint green glow of his lenses. It was only seven in the morning, and he sat there undeterred as though he’d been working for hours.
Fabrisse cleared his throat, lifting the basalt for Hajin to see. “This is an imprinted rock.”
Hajin gazed up at it briefly, unimpressed. “Yes?”
“I’d like to do an analysis on it. A three-point aetheric survey, if I may.” He tapped the stone lightly.
“Only for those who have mastered the fundantals and have worked with the proper tools, that test,” Hajin said.
“I have! I’ve learned to use the tools myself!” Fabrisse retorted.
Hajin adjusted his lenses slowly, deliberate as ever. “Have you passed the Synaptic Control practicals?”
“No . . .”
“Then we are doing classification today.”
Fabrisse resisted the urge to groan, gripping the basalt in his palm. He sighed and set the basalt down, steeling himself. Hajin’s decree was absolute, and there was no arguing with it. He spent the next several hours bent over the long, narrow tables of the Wing of Stratal Studies, sorting each stone with thodical precision. One by one, he examined the rocks, and by the third hour, Fabrisse realized he could tell, without hesitation, exactly where each of the common quartz samples lay in the room. Over six hundred of them, spread across tables and shelving, and yet their positions were etched into his mind as clearly as if he’d carved them into stone himself.
[Classification Completed: 9 EXP]
[Progress to Level 5: 1201/1500]
After hours of thodical, near-obsessive sorting, he gained 9 EXP. It wasn’t even a fraction of what he’d earned on the field, or from completing a proper Sedintal Recall. He knew, with a resigned sort of logic, that more classification would only yield further dwindling returns: the law of diminishing EXP in practice. Each additional hour would reward even less, until the effort barely registered at all.
I’m ready for real analysis . . .
Fabrisse stepped out of the Wing of Stratal Studies, trying to shake the lingering sense of tedium, when a figure near the entrance caught his attention.
Severa Montreal.
Severa stood near the entrance with that sa impeccable posture (even more perfect than Min’s) that made it impossible to ignore her presence. Even in complete stillness, she held herself as if every spine and joint were perfectly aligned, shoulders squared without effort. She even lifted her chin to the exact degree she did during the Vothiculum.
Of all places, why was she loitering near the Wing of Rocks?
She wasn’t here for him, surely. If Severa had needed sothing, she would have barged in and dragged him away like last ti.
He needed to keep moving. Pretend he was indifferent. Pretend this wasn’t a ntal puzzle waiting to unfold.
Three seconds in, and he had failed. Sothing shiny between Severa’s hands caught his attention, and he made the mistake of looking her way. The object resting in her hands was shaped like a pouch, wrapped in burgundy silk with twisting patterns of copper thread that looked luxurious for no particular reason.
What could that pouch-shaped object be? A vial of so exotic stimulant, perhaps, the kind that sharpened reflexes or steadied muscles for long hours of posture perfection? Maybe an energy potion, or one of those rare aetheric tonics used to boost thaumaturgic output temporarily.
Surely she needed those energy potions so that she could keep her shoulders at the exact angle every single second.
She was even wearing gloves today—thin, fitted ones, the kind that didn’t make sense indoors or during practice. Fabrisse couldn’t tell if it was a fashion statent, a protective layer, or just another one of her inexplicable habits. Maybe she wore them to keep her hands clean. Maybe it was just Severa being Severa. But she had rarely worn gloves inside the Synod before, so he couldn’t understand why she started to now.
“Good morning, Kestovar,” Severa’s voice rang like a precisely cast bell.
Curses. He should’ve just left when he had the chance.
“Good morning, good day, goodbye,” he muttered in a low rush, his words tripping over each other as he tried to keep his voice calm while edging backward. His hands itched toward the inner pocket where the basalt rested, but it was too late for careful maneuvering. He had to move quickly, subtly, stealthily. So he activated the Scoot of Dire Slinking.
[Skill Cast: Auditory Dissipation Field (Rank II)]
Fabrisse skulked sideways, trying to keep the illusion of casual movent. Scoot of Dire Slinking gave him a subtle bend, and he was only monts away from turning the corner. As long as Severa wasn’t looking directly at him—
Severa imdiately positioned herself in his path.
“Kestovar,” she said. “You could have done better to mask your reluctance to see .”
Curses, curses, curses. What does she even want from ? I just want to study rocks, conduct grain analyses, and practice my Synaptic Control.
“Compose yourself,” Severa carried on. “I ca to ask for your fulfillnt of our grain analysis pre-arrangent.”
“It’s supposed to be tomorrow.”
“There has been a change of plans. Do you have free ti now?” She still had the courtesy to ask.
His first instinct was to refuse, but she was offering him an opportunity to conduct grain analysis for 3000 Kohns.
“Yes,” he said.
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