The dull, wet sound of flesh yielding and crumpling beneath heavy steel reverberated among the trees as Alarion's blade struck home. It was a satisfying strike resulting from a deadly, minutes-long dance fit for four. But Alarion had no time to relish his success as his remaining partners increased the tempo.

One came at him from the left, raining down hammer fists only narrowly intercepted by the bulk of Alarion's blade. The other circled about him, swiping at his heels with the jagged barbs of its tail. That one knew better than to pounce just because it thought it saw an opportunity. Its missing right arm was a testament to an earlier failure.

And then there was the third, its body split almost shoulder to hip. Alarion had felt the resistance of its core, but his blade had slid off the sphere in its chest at the last moment. With some damage to its core, it wouldn't be up immediately. But left to its own devices, it would get up. Even if it could only bite at his ankles or tackle him with its malformed body, it was still a threat. The stiffness in his left arm was a testament to his own earlier failure.

If his enemies were smarter, they'd play the waiting game. Keep him at a distance, off balance, away from their ally until the wounded one's unnatural regeneration allowed it to rejoin the fray. Together, they had pushed him harder than any of their kind had managed. If they redoubled their efforts, they might have worn down his stamina, then overwhelmed him in its absence.

But they were fiends. Low rank fiends. Worse than animals.

Animals at least knew when to run.

To avoid being fully surrounded, Alarion backpedaled. Predictably, the two fiends pressed their attack in unison, keeping close to one another so that Alarion could not punish one for their haste without being gutted by the other. They were faster than he was. Better equipped to run in uneven wilderness. He'd trip, or slow down, and they'd have him.

Seemingly desperate, Alarion threw a dagger as he retreated. The thrown weapons had proven little more than a nuisance against creatures that did not register pain. If he were precise, he might blind a fiend in one eye. When thrown hastily at center mass, the fiends rarely even bothered to dodge.

Even though they really should have.

The starscaped blade had barely left Alarion's fingertips when it rapidly increased in size and weight. With the fiend so hot on his tail, it did not have time to register the attack's significance before the tip of the blade pierced clean through its chest and buried into the rooted ground behind it.

Its comrade fared little better. With no one to punish Alarion for shifting onto the attack, the boy did just that. His feet planted, his hips twisted, and his Imperial Greatsword swept clear through the onrushing fiend at waist height, messily bisecting the creature. A claw scraped his cheek as the top half of the fiend tumbled past him and thumped against a nearby tree, its claws already scrambling for purchase in the soil to return it to the fight.

The cleanup did not take long. Sierra's lesson had been crass, but it had firmly ingrained one idea in his heart. A fiend wasn't dead until the System told him so.

You have slain a Malnourished Lesser Fiend – UCL 20 – Bonus experience earned for slaying an opponent above your UCL.

You have slain a Malnourished Lesser Fiend – UCL 20 – Bonus experience earned for slaying an opponent above your UCL.

You have slain a Starving Lesser Fiend – UCL 24 – Bonus experience earned for slaying an opponent above your UCL.

"It looks like three is your limit," Sierra said as Alarion put the last of the three fiends out of its misery.

"Seems that way," Alarion replied. He did his best to appear steadfast, but soon even the pretense was too much, and he slumped down into a seated position against a nearby tree. "You don't have to say it, you know."

"No. I do not." She agreed absently. Quiet reigned for half a heartbeat before she added. "But I warned you."

"But you didn't give me an order. Which meant it was possible," he replied, his head back, eyes closed, "Which it was."

"Three at once… As I recall, I gave you fifty-fifty odds at best," Sierra retorted, sitting alongside him. "That luck of yours really tilted the odds."

"That isn't how that attribute works."

Sierra gave a put-upon sigh. "It was a joke, Alarion."

"Ah."

"Did you pick up any useful lessons?" she asked. "Other than that, you can not fight three at once."

"Should not," Alarion clarified, "The bodies say I can."

"Other than that, you should not fight three at once."

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The boy shrugged. "Three fight much the same as two. They won't fall for the same trick multiple times. They're wary if they see an unknown attack, but otherwise, they're aggressive to a fault. The main issue with larger numbers is simply finding an opening amidst all the pressure."

"Do you think you will get it this way?" Sierra asked.

Rather than answer, Alarion glanced to the right corner of his vision, where he always left a tally of his active quest open.

Current number of fiends destroyed: 15 Current total UCL of fiends destroyed: 312

Sierra had assured him, repeatedly, that they were making good pace for his abilities. Fifteen fiends in slightly over a day without a direct combat class was steady progress. It just didn't feel that way. To him, it felt like they spent too long… hunting. It took too long to look for the next fiend after killing the last one.

He'd argued they should go further inland. It would be more heavily populated, and with stronger fiends, even if they kept well away from the guide stones. But Sierra had put a stop to that with an order. She said he was impatient, too eager to advance. Too sure of himself simply because he'd battered the weakest fiends imaginable.

Once around the outskirts of the island had been her compromise. A day-long journey that would include enough practical experience to either push him into his class, or to make her comfortable with his fighting ability, though the former was looking increasingly unlikely.

"I don't think so," Alarion replied honestly. "Given time, this will work, I am sure. But if fighting three on one doesn't provoke the System, I'm not sure what will."

"It is not the System," Sierra scolded, poking him in the chest for emphasis. "Gaining a class is about you. It is about building a foundation to stand on, then reaching for the class. You can build it up brick by brick until the moment it just comes to you, like stepping onto the lowest rung of a ladder. Or you can leap for it when it is otherwise well beyond your grasp."

"My foundation is that low, then?"

Sierra scowled, her voice biting as she replied. "Alarion, it took me nearly a year to gain my first class. If all goes well, you'll have gained your second in months. Show some humility."

Alarion winced as if stung. He turned his face away, intensely studying the forest.

"We will need to find you something different," Sierra said after a brief silence. "I am still uncomfortable with going further in, but it appears there is nothing for it."

She saw how he shifted his weight, already gathering himself to press forward, and immediately cut in on his thoughts.

"There are conditions."

"Of course," Alarion replied in the most neutral tone he could muster.

"I will scout ahead to find proper targets. We can not just have you rushing into combat with stronger fiends. Especially as I am bound not to intervene unless you are seriously injured," Sierra said. "You will fully obey my instructions on this matter."

"Of course."

"It becomes less convincing each time you say it." Sierra frowned. "My other condition is that you drink one of your potions."

That, at last, brought Alarion's gaze back to her. "I was told that I was in charge of them."

"And so you are. But still, you need to drink one. Your wrist is swollen half again its size under your bracer. It is a wonder you can wield your sword at all."

"I did fine." He protested. "Three of them at once, and they didn't land more than a few scratches."

"Yes. Because you spent half the fight dodging and nearly lost because of overexertion. If you had entered that fight in top form, your wounding blows might have killed, or at least crippled," Sierra countered. "This is not a negotiation."

"But I might need it later."

"You need it now." Sierra was done arguing. "I understand you are embarrassed about-"

"I'm not embarrassed!" Alarion shot back, renewed vigor in his tone. "I just didn't realize the core would be that hard."

"It is crystallized arcane energy!"

"And?"

"What did you think would happen if you punched... you know what, never mind." Sierra rolled her eyes, refusing to get drawn into a pointless debate. "If that is not the reason, then why are you being so stubborn?"

Alarion met her gaze briefly, then looked away. "They're mine."

"Yes, I think we've established that." She gave him a quizzical look, then frowned. "Alarion, they're consumables. They're meant to be consumed."

The boy winced slightly as he drew a vial from his bracer. He tilted the thin flask this way and that, watching as the crimson fluid within trailed from one end to the other, then back again.

"I'll heal on my own eventually, won't I?"

"Eventually. Yes." Sierra replied. "As an Awakened, you have a more resilient body than what nature provided. Any minor wounds you sustain will heal by themselves through your natural regeneration. Minor cuts will close, bruises will heal over, and so forth. For most Awakened, roughly eight hours is enough to fully refill your HP. Slightly less if you're resting."

"But."

"But severe injuries manifest not just as HP damage, but as conditions." She gestured at his wounded arm. "Save for those that cause damage over time, such as bleeding or poison, your body will not even begin to heal most conditions until you are already at full HP. At that point, any excess healing will go towards your conditions. Go ahead and look at your status. If you query the condition, it can give you more information."

Alarion did what he was told, navigating through menus to his active conditions:

Wrist Sprain (Right) – Moderate – 15% Malus to strength while using right arm. Healing Required – 742/744 Time Until Healed – ~30 hours.

"You see why waiting isn't an option," Sierra said in response to his sour expression. "And don't forget, continuing to use that arm will probably aggravate it further, meaning it will take even longer to heal. If at all."

Alarion frowned. "You said I have a more resilient body. It doesn't feel that way."

"You'd have broken every bone in your hand pulling that stunt with a natural body, bones that might never heal correctly. Now, even if you destroyed most of your arm, it would heal in days rather than months."

The young man turned his attention back to the vial. Again, he tipped it one way, then the other, as if building up the nerve.

"Alright. Enough, be plain. What is the issue, Alarion?"

The boy drew a deep breath through his nose and told her.

"I am sorry, I did not hear you."

Again, he spoke, slightly louder.

"Alarion, speak u-"

"It is going to be awful!"

Sierra's expression could not have been more stunned if he had slapped her. "I am sorry… what?"

"It looks disgusting."

"Alarion." She replied, positively flabbergasted. "I am told that you lived in the Old City. You survived on eating flying rodents! How could you, of all people-"

"It isn't the taste!" he argued. "It's the consistency. It looks slimy and-"

"You are going to drink this potion if I have to pour it down your throat."

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