If there was a single thing every country could agree on after the devastating hundred-year Black Exhibit War—the so-called ‘First and Final War’—it was that no Altars could be allowed to exist outside of places sanctioned by the Curator Church.

  Books on the creation of Altars were scrounged up and burned, and tens of thousands of scholars who knew how to make their own vanished mysteriously after the war. Dain had always believed the reason was simple: no country wanted every fishmonger with spare magic carp scales to be able to obtain a relic. The Black Exhibit War was proof enough that not everybody should have easy access to magic.

  But as the four pale, bony hands extended from the swirling portal in front of him, he entertained a new theory as to why the making of personal Altars had been outlawed.

  Maybe it’s because people like me could botch the process and end up making a portal to the wrong fucking god.

  Unfortunately, as the god behind the portal continued whispering in a tongue he didn’t know, a roar knifed through the storm outside.

  He snapped his head up. Through the torn seams in the tarp, he saw the silhouette of the barawolf standing on a far, far, faraway pile of rubble. Of course it’d noticed the Altar. That reddish-purple flash of light as the portal opened might as well have been a giant beacon.

  Exhibit me damned.

  He acted fast. While the four bony hands hovered there, waiting for him to give them something, he jammed his good hand into the nearest crate. Plenty of raw magic materials slid against his fingers: stonehare pelts, quarry-grade mana crystals, and horned bear claws were the least interesting of them.

  All useful materials for trading for coins, he supposed, but not offering useful.

  Think, think, think!

  What do I have?

  He racked his head, trying to recall what he’d read from old relic catalogues. The difference between adventurers and seekers was that adventurers did generic adventurer work—like escorting caravans, clearing out bandits, and spelunking through old dungeons—but seekers were relic pioneers. To obtain a relic from the gods, one had to offer the right combination of materials to the right god, but who were the first people to figure out how they could obtain a particular relic?

  The seekers were trailblazers. True adventurers who pushed into the unknown. They were the ones who climbed the highest mountains, dived the deepest depths, and hunted the rarest beasts and monsters so they could waste hundreds and thousands of exotic magic materials trying out new combinations to offer… until a god finally liked their combination of materials enough to give them a new, completely unheard of relic.

  It was safe to say over ninety percent of all known relics in the world—and the materials required to obtain them—were first discovered by seekers, and he’d spent his childhood years reading all about their stories. Gods be damned, he could recite every story and every recipe from heart if someone were to put his life on the line.

  So he narrowed his eyes as he finally recalled a particular story.

  A hundred and fourteen years ago, Harrow the Valeseeker had made himself famous—and later, very dead—by discovering a new recipe: by offering at least five siroccra harpy feathers, a bottle of nerves pulled from a matron sparrow, a talon from a whirlclaw hawk, and a weapon of any sort, Ninazu would always return an Elementum-Class relic with a wind-type ability.

  Harrow tested and further experimented on the recipe rather extensively. He once gave a knife, and Ninazu returned a Windborn Knife. He once gave a spear, and Ninazu returned a Windborn Spear. The main offering dictating the main ability of the relic had to be the siroccra harpy feathers, and the side offerings dictating the side abilities of the relic also had to be the bottle of nerves and the hawk talon, but the base offering dictating the form and shape of the relic—in this case, the knife and the spear—could be anything as long as it was a tool.

  This god with the pale hands wasn't Ninazu. Gods, no. Ninazu's hands were said to be made of pure elemental energy, not this sickly flesh. But given Dain had been trying to make an Altar to Ninazu and this god showed up instead, there was a high chance that they would accept the feathers, the nerves, and the talons as the main and side offerings for a wind-type relic as well.

  And I have all three materials for days. Bought them all a few months ago from a guy trying to sell off all his stock before quitting the merchant life.

  But he had to find them first.

  He pawed through the wreckage with one good hand, cursing softly as the rain turned everything on the ground into a treacherous soup. Thankfully, it didn’t take him long to find a small velvet pouch crushed under a chest. He yanked it free, loosened the cord, and shook out seven blue-tipped siroccra plumes onto the ground.

  Yes!

  The barawolf roared again, and this time it was closer. He didn’t look. Bottle next. Instinct tugged him to one of the false bottoms on the toppled cabinets by his side, so he jammed his fingers in, found the hidden seam, and pried out the secret panel. A small bottle filled with bluish-golden threads rolled into his palm.

  Nerves of the matron sparrow.

  Talons next. He’d used one as a cork-opener just a few days ago, so he immediately found one wedged between a busted idol and a box of prayer beads. The last offering was the base offering, which was any tool of his choice, so he whipped his head around with absolutely zero standards—and let out an unsteady laugh as he found a silver dining knife jammed into a crate behind him.

  “Oh, fuck it,” he muttered, yanking it out. "Any tool, right?"

  The four bony hands were still hovering quietly above the portal, so he knelt before the Altar, soaked both knees in the mud, and bowed his head.

  You might be reading a pirated copy. Look for the official release to support the author.

  “Great Curator God,” he breathed. “I am Dain Sorowyn of Sorowyn Carpentry, but a small, humble merchant of Corvalenne. I offer you what the wind loves: a main offering of siroccra feathers, which”—he coughed and caught himself—“the siroccra harpies’ wings are made of. As you might know, siroccra harpies are known in Thalassene as the ‘Masters of the West Winds’, the fastest flying harpies in the world, so I ask only for a relic that answers wind with wind.”

  He lifted the feathers first, but before he could even really start selling them, the nearest bony hand snapped in like an eel. He flinched as it snatched the feathers from him, dragging the blue plumes back through the portal.

  The other three hands curled their fingers, as though saying ‘is that all you’ve got?’

  His heart thumped. He couldn’t help it, though, so he grinned. “You like the feathers? Fantastic. Might I interest you in these side offerings as well? These are nerves from a matron sparrow and a talon from a whirlclaw hawk, which are both beasts that the dragonfolk of the Land of Storms call—”

  The moment he presented the bottle, a second hand plucked it with delicate contempt. Then he presented the talon, and the third hand snatched it, turning it over as if checking the curves for a forger’s signature before dragging it back through the portal as well. He didn’t even have to try to sell the side offerings.

  The fourth and final hand tapped the edge of the Altar, impatient and eager for his base offering.

  “Here you go,” he said, offering the knife with a trembling hand. “It’s… uh, I got this from Erin after I helped her get her cat down from a windchime tree. It’s not the sturdiest tool, but it sure is pretty, so—”

  The hand grabbed it out of his hand, and the other three hands slithered back out of the portal, stroking and playing with the silverware. One hand traced the dull edge. Another feathered the spine. They rolled, balanced, toyed with, and juggled the knife—until the hand holding it suddenly flicked it back at him.

  He jerked his head sideways. The knife missed his ear by a polite two finger-widths and rang off a stone.

  “Temper, temper,” he hissed, heat snaking up his neck. He looked around and quickly snatched a pair of iron tongs, holding it up. “Not a fan of knives? No problem. How about this?”

  A hand took the tongs, turned them, snapped them, and then threw them back so the handles clapped his chest like an insult.

  “All right. Picky. How about—” He grabbed a stone smoothing-stick. “A cousin of the classic chisel. Very fashionable this season.”

  Rejected. A coil of copperbone wire? Rejected hard enough to raise a welt when it whipped back. A hammer? The hands didn’t even bother appraising it. Two of them just slapped it out of his hand.

  “Damnit, just tell me what you want!” he snapped between his teeth. “A hint! A gesture! Give me something to work with, and—”

  The whispers stopped abruptly.

  Silence punched the wagon. The rain pelting the tarp suddenly sounded soft. Even the barawolf’s distant roars sounded quiet in respect, as the four bony hands turned as one and pointed.

  Not at the magic materials scattered across the ground, but at his bandaged, useless right arm.

  He stared at his arm like it was a stranger’s limb, and his stomach performed a slow, elegant flip.

  “... You sure?” he breathed, glaring at the hands.

  In response, the hands curled their index fingers, telling him to fork it over.

  The barawolf roared again. He didn’t have the minutes to be noble or cowardly.

  “Fine,” he hissed, “but you better give me something good.”

  He tore the fabric tourniquets away, fingers clumsy, and when his mangled arm finally came free—looking like something a butcher would shove under a table—the bony hands snapped forward and seized it.

  One wrenching, decisive rip, and pain opened white in his skull. He clamped his teeth on a sound that would’ve been a scream and tasted hard iron, but while he curled forward and really tried not to make a sound, the hands dragged his severed arm into the portal.

  Flesh met purple. Blood met crimson red. For a second, the portal remained open, but the hands didn’t reappear.

  “Don’t you dare,” he whispered at the Altar, fury rising. “Don’t you dare close on me, thief, not after I—”

  Something shot out of the portal. He caught it on reflex, and it was heavier and colder than he’d expected.

  It was an arm. A right arm, made entirely of smooth black metal. Reddish-purple veins ran under the plating as if it was a living arm, and along the wrist and up into the palm, a band of etched sigils glowed and died like it was testing a heartbeat.

  The four hands poked out of the portal long enough to point at him one more time.

  ‘You’re mine now,’ the gesture said.

  Then they withdrew. The portal immediately winked out of existence, and a small fracture immediately spidered across the Altar, the wooden frame cracking slightly.

  That makes sense.

  It’s got seven or so uses left until it breaks.

  It wasn’t like the giant building-sized Altars in kingdom capitals, after all. A smaller, less robust Altar meant a portal could only be opened so many times before it inevitably shattered.

  He’d lament his shitty Altar if the barawolf weren’t barreling into view beyond his tarp, three milky eyes glowing bright white.

  No time to Tag the prosthetic arm and see what it did. No time to pray. He staggered to his feet, driving the end of the prosthetic arm into his bloody shoulder, and it met him with a flash of pain.

  To his surprise, a socket plate immediately wrapped around his shoulder, and then the prosthetic grew. Vein-lines flared as they crawled into his shoulder, seeking bones, seeking nerves. It wasn’t kind. The pain spiked again and again, and he hissed through his teeth until the storm’s hiss had company.

  Then he was suddenly able to open his prosthetic fingers.

  Despite the lingering pain, he held his new arm up, incredulous. The fingers could open and close. The elbow could bend, smooth as if oiled. He could control his prosthetic perfectly, but he also felt everything—cold, wet, and pressure—albeit they were all slightly numbed sensations. It still felt like he’d gotten an entirely new arm.

  “Gods’ teeth,” he said, a laugh breaking out of him. “You’re… you’re beautiful.”.

  But admiration could come later.

  He tore the tarp apart with his new hand—felt the rippling of cloth—and took in the barawolf before him. The beast was charging low, fast, and committed to him, mouth already parted to show its collection of razor-sharp teeth.

  “Fuck you,” he whispered, raising his prosthetic and pointing his palm at the barawolf. “Let’s see what you’ve got.”

  He shoved mana into the arm, and the veins took it. The reddish-purple lines lit from elbow to wrist, wrist to palm, and the smooth metal plates across the arm started rippling like waves.

  More!

  More mana!

  Moving mana isn't about whether you can measure it, but whether you can feel it!

  The barawolf pounced, its claws lunging out to eviscerate him, and it wasn’t until he felt his heart raring to go that he finally exhaled.

  ... Oh, Great Curator Gods, watch over me.

  Fire.