The city was... well, amazing. It made the rusted pumps and flickering ‘GAS’ sign of our old ‘Gas & Gulp’ back on Earth look like a masterpiece of understated post-apocalyptic chic. Which, to be fair, it kinda was.

  My thoughts, which usually operated on the same principles as a pinball machine during an earthquake, slammed into the concept of a "magical inventory," and the multi-ball mode kicked in.

  How big was it? Could I inventory a landfill? Could I stuff a person in there? Forget one person—could I become a one-man Trojan Horse? Or just open a portal and dump a thousand angry wolves on someone's head? Now that was a plan with potential.

  Business applications... magical laundromat? No, too small. Courier service? A walking, untouchable vault? But who would trust me with their treasure?

  What about the portal itself... did it have to be attached to me? Could I open one in mid-air and drop an anvil on someone's head? What was the absolute biggest thing I could swallow? A building? A small mountain? Probably not a mountain. Let's be realistic.

  If I stuck my head in there, would I see Ronan staring back at me!? I should prepare a funny face in the mirror just in case...

  The chaotic brainstorm finally bounced off the bumper of a single, overwhelmingly practical matter. My clothes were rags, I was covered in a layer of grime that was developing its own personality, and I smelled like a wet dog that had been sleeping in old cheese.

  ‘Ronan, that river we saw,’ I projected, watching a dinosaur-drawn carriage pass us. ‘Assuming it’s not made of acid or existential dread, think it’s clean enough to wash off... well, everything?’

  ‘Good question, Murph!’ Ronan chimed. ‘We should aim for the part flowing from the farmlands, upstream. The river should be clean there.’ He paused, his tone shifting to awkward caution. ‘However... I would strongly advise against bathing in the water that passes through the city.’

  ‘Right. Monsters in the sewer pipes,’ I thought. ‘Got it.’

  ‘Ah, no, not beasts,’ he corrected. ‘My concern is... civic effluence.’

  As he spoke, I started "helping" him visualise. I conjured a crisp mental image of a chamber pot being emptied from a second-storey window, complete with cartoonish splash lines.

  Ronan faltered. ‘One must consider the necessary byproducts of so many living souls! The waste from tanneries, the runoff from butchers...’

  I added a few more slides: bloody runoff flowing into a gutter and a diagram of the "daily contents of a thousand chamber pots," all flowing toward a churning river.

  Ronan broke. ‘Murphy, you're doing it again!’

  ‘Whaaat?’ I shot back, feigning innocence. ‘I'm just visualising. It helps.’

  ‘Stop adding a PowerPoint presentation to my explanations! It's disgusting!’

  I let the images fade, smiling. "Farm side it is, then."

  Leaving Lastlight wasn't simple. The city was ringed by a massive wall, the main thoroughfare leading to an archway marked DAWN GATE. Stern guards in polished steel blocked our path.

  One straightened up, looking at me with profound boredom. He planted his spear, blocking us.

  “Oi. Where do you think you’re going, street rat?”

  His partner chuckled. “Look at the state of him. Bet he’s crawling with skab-mites. Should burn those rags right off him.”

  ‘Arseholes,’ Ronan muttered. ‘Just ignore him, Murphy. Don't rise to it.’

  Stolen content alert: this content belongs on Royal Road. Report any occurrences.

  The first guard smirked, stepped forward, and spat. The thick, brown wad landed on my calf.

  And that’s when the paladin lost his shit.

  ‘HE SPAT ON US!’ Ronan roared, his mental voice shredding the calm. ‘CHALLENGE HIM, MURPHY! THIS IS AN AFFAIR OF HONOUR!’

  An affair of honour? Against a slob of a gate guard? Ronan was living in a reality where you settled spitting contests with duels. My reality was simpler: don't pick fights with armed men who have the law on their side.

  I ignored the seething presence in my skull. I didn’t say a word. I just stopped and looked at the guard.

  I let him see it. The look I had earned over thousands of lifetimes. The dead-eyed stare of a broken soul with absolutely nothing to lose. The promise of a fight where everyone goes home in pieces.

  The guard's bravado shattered. He paled, taking a jerky step back. “Skab off then, you creepy little sod.”

  We walked on.

  ‘So much for the Emperor's elite,’ I thought.

  ‘Those weren't the finest,’ Ronan corrected, cooling down. ‘The Empire is pragmatic. They don't put their best soldiers on safe gates. The wall facing the Wilds... that's where the blade is honed.’

  ‘So the heroes get glory, and the zeroes get to bully travellers. Figures.’

  Beyond the gate, the landscape opened into farmlands. To our left, a structure bustled with oversized lizards.

  ‘Drakon steeds,’ Ronan supplied. ‘Tougher than horses.’

  ‘And the cages? Magic FEDEX?’

  ‘Imperial Celeritas Post. Sky-Couriers.’

  ‘Carrier pigeons? In a magic world?’

  ‘Magic isn't a switch, Murph. It's expensive. Carriers are cheap and reliable.’

  "Mass-produce a magic phone, and we'll make a killing," I muttered.

  Further on, two figures in ornate clothing were duelling in a field, flashes of light punctuating their movements. A proctor watched.

  ‘Sanctioned duel,’ Ronan explained. ‘Legally binding. The Empire takes a cut.’

  We paused to watch. To a farmer, they looked like demigods. To Ronan?

  ‘Amateurs,’ he projected with disdain. ‘Footwork is atrocious. All wasted energy.’

  He was right. Flashy, loud, showing off. I lost interest.

  Still, even sloppy amateurs had something we didn't: an engine.

  I rubbed my hands together—or tried to, until I remembered the stump.

  ‘Alright,’ I projected. ‘What's under the bonnet? What colour are we working with? Legendary Purple?’

  Awkward silence.

  ‘We... do not have a Core, Murphy. This vessel is Unawakened.’

  My stride faltered. "From scratch. Is that a problem?"

  ‘A complication,’ Ronan admitted. ‘Awakening usually happens at twelve. This body is... fifteen, maybe sixteen. The vessel is past its prime.’

  "How hard are we talking?"

  ‘Exponentially harder. Pure meditation could take months.’

  "So how do we do it?"

  ‘Two paths,’ he said. ‘The Monk's Path: gruelling meditation to forge a perfect Grey Core. Slow, but high potential.’

  ‘And the second?’

  ‘The Catalyst. Swallow a mana core. Brute force. Fast, but it creates a flawed foundation. A quick and dirty method.’

  He let the choice hang there. A perfect dilemma.

  "It's a false choice," I scoffed. "You're a paladin. You don't do 'flawed'. You wouldn't mention the fast path unless you had a trick to fix it."

  Ronan sighed mentally. ‘Well, you've ruined it.’

  ‘Ruined what?’ I asked innocently.

  ‘Not cool, Murphy!’

  I chuckled. "Alright, don't tell me. Just be ready."

  We reached the river. It was perfect. Glacial blue water, white sand.

  I scrubbed off the grime. “Hey, Ronan. This Inventory. Capacity?”

  ‘Limited by focus and stamina, not space.’

  I waded in, cupped my hand, filled it with water, and focused. Pull. The water vanished.

  I went deeper. Submerged my arm. Imagined a vortex. Water and sand swirled in. A fish got caught in the current, vanished, and was instantly spat back out, flopping on the bank.

  ‘Remarkable!’ Ronan exclaimed. ‘The 'living spark'—it won't hold living things!’

  I picked up a sharp stone, ended the fish, and tried again. It vanished.

  ‘No breathing animals. Got it.’

  I lay back in the shallows and pulled with everything I had. The river roared. Ronan was in there with me, mentally organising the intake.

  “Okay,” I gasped, breaking the connection.

  The river rushed to fill the crater I’d made.

  ‘You have a talent for dramatic environmental restructuring,’ Ronan noted dryly.

  I slumped on the sand, exhausted. The inventory drained stamina in waves.

  ‘Hey Ronan, watch this.’

  I focused on the dirt on my hand and pulled. Spotless.

  ‘Okay, that's useful,’ Ronan admitted.

  “I think I need to actively accept what I absorb. Now... let's see what my swim coughed up."

  I focused inward. Ronan guided me to a tiny speck of glittering yellow dust.

  ‘It works, Murphy!’ Ronan cheered. ‘We can pull riches from the river!’

  I grinned maniacally. ‘Why stop at rivers? Beaches! Mountains! We could sort gold right out of solid rock!’

  ‘Murphy, no,’ Ronan interrupted, the exasperated teacher returning. ‘It's a filter, not a grinder. It can't separate solid stone.’

  I tested it on a granite chunk. Nothing.

  ‘Fine. Rivers it is.’

  I opened my eyes. The sun was setting.

  We weren't gods. But we had a plan. A stupid, exhausting plan.

  It was a start.