“The good schemer knows when to fold, everyone knows that-- but an even better schemer knows just when to push his luck.”

Penzance Whirstwile,

Prinner Wilholm, to Ronald Jay Stillbottums the Fifth, stood in full uniform, custom armor carefully strapped in place and adjusted for maximum defense and mobility.

He and eleven more of Stillbottums’ stood in three rows of four each, spaced out from each other evenly, each bearing identical steel blades. They stood at attention and saluted as the barked orders.

“Salute! Position One!” The shifted, holding their swords in a standard defensive position. The next to Prinner had his footwork off. Stillbottums adjusted the man harshly with a steel-toed boot, then barked: “That’s five!” The twelve of them dropped to the floor as one, did five pushups, then scrambled back to Position One, picking up their blades off of the training room floor. “I want maximum efficiency, maximum endurance, maximum effort! Now, !” He bellowed the name of his newest and greatest , which allowed him to, for a handful of moments, imbue any bladed weapon he wielded with the power of his blade. Not only that, but combining it with his Talent, he hoped to fast track his own into gaining the potent Talent, creating a small, highly skilled unit of fiercely loyal magekiller bodyguards.

“!” The all shouted as one, slashing out with their blades, which shone with magic for one or two fleeting moments.

“Acceptable.” The said, eyes hard. “Dismissed. Take ten minutes for rest, and report to your duties thereafter.”

In the moments after they broke apart, Prinner heard a new kind of notification-- something wonderful, foreign, and eye-opening all at the same time.

Level 15!

gained!

He was the first. The next morning, at their daily Arcgem reading, the doing the job quietly read out results. “Holst has gained 1 level and no Talents. Gyda has gained 1 level and one Talent, . Falorn has gained 2 levels and one Talent, . Very impressive…” When she got to Wilholm, she gasped, and the uncrossed his arms from behind his back and drew closer, intrigued, hoping. Haltingly, she said: “Wilholm has gained 1 level and one Talent, .”

For the first time in more than a year, Stillbottums smiled a true, wide smile of exuberant joy. “Finally. After all these months, a breakthrough.” His expression suddenly fell. “But why you, of all people, Wilholm? Some of the others have been with me for more than a decade, have trained with the Talent for months. All of the others have as many or more levels than you. Why can’t they crack it?” His shoulders squared, and something dark stole over his face.

“I have been too lenient.” He said, words cold. “For each day any of you do not gain , I will have your rations halved. Any that do not rise will starve, and be done with. I cannot afford weakness in my bodyguards.” Wordless, the stood there as their stalked away, the floor shaking with every step he took, his sudden rage a physical thing.

Stillbottums stormed through the halls, the power of his very presence seeming to gather like electricity in the air. Those he walked by felt the air grow thin, felt their limbs weaken, as if the man’s mere being sapped their resolve to question him.

He was troubled. Not because his , save for their newest member, seemed incapable of gaining the Talent he so fervently desired for them to learn, though that was part of it. His primary uncertainty came from a single notification he had experienced in his mind the previous night.

Talent — earned!

He was , he reminded himself. He was no .

He was no .

The next day, no-one gained , though there was an unmistakable hunger in their eyes, and a new emotion-- admiration, awe, turned to fear.

On the second day, the eleven had quarter rations. Prinner reveled in his full portion of food at each meal, eating it slowly and savoring it. At dinner that day, he poured an entire meal into a trash can and leered at the others as they sat, determined, yet quietly breaking.

The heard a voice in the dark when he closed his eyes that night. For the first time in three years, he leveled.

Level 40 earned!

Talent — gained!

Talent — gained!

Class Advancement unlocked!

🠊 Level 41!

Talent Type Advanced!

🠊 !

Talent Advancement unlocked!

Talent — 🠊 gained!

Talent — gained!

The next day, one of the -- or , now- by the name of Tomas Calendom strangled another of their number to death with his bare hands in order to get more food.

A riot broke out in the Elite Mess Hall, and when all was said and done, three -- Wilholm, Calendom, and Saral Falorn-- the latter two ravenously eating half portions of food.

As they ate, the latter two heard the notifications.

gained!

Level 13!

Meanwhile, Prinner Wilholm still confidently ate his food, having fended off three attacking .

Level 16!

Talent — earned!

Talent — earned!