So Much is happening, here's an Intermission

Keiji’s gaze stayed locked on the flickering blue window in front of him. The glyphs rearranged themselves into sharp, glowing text.

<[SYSTEM NOTICE: You have passed a Class Evaluation Trial]>
<[Choose Your Class: Warrior | Mage | Rogue | Runesmith]>

I stepped closer, pulse ticking up a notch. “Well? What are you gonna choose?”

Keiji didn’t answer right away. He tapped the edge of the floating display, and the glyphs rearranged again.

<[Core Stats Detected: Strength | Agility | Vitality | Vigor | Intelligence | Endurance | Dexterity]>
All stats begin at 1.
Class selection grants +13 bonus points for distribution.
Stats reaching 20 or higher gain enhanced scaling.
Stat points gained through leveling: +92 total (Base), unless boosted by bonus points.
Bonus points can be purchased via [Mastery Shop] using approved currency.
Warning: Stat growth slows after Level 30.

As he read aloud, the interface reacted—tiny symbols flaring to life next to each stat: a flexing arm for Strength, a running figure for Agility, a small blazing sun for Vigor, an open book for intelligence and so on. Beside each icon were faint numbers, all starting at 1, with empty bars waiting to be filled.

“...Stats,” Keiji murmured, eyes scanning. “I’ve seen this before… but never this intricate.”

It wasn’t just a menu—it was a blueprint for building yourself into something more. Or something monstrous.

“Well, just pick all of them,” I suggested because clearly I’m a tactical genius.

He gave me the side-eye. “System only lets me pick one.”

Before I could make a joke about shopping for 'murder styles,' the air split with a high chime manifesting a blue door of light.

<[Evaluation Participant must enter Trial Zones. Non-participants will be dismissed.]>

A glowing compass-shaped rune spun in the air, its points flaring in four different colors — red, blue, green, and gold.

Keiji reached for it. “I think each colour represents a different class.”

“Okay, now what?”

“I am actually going to take your advice and try all the classes and see which one I like.”

“Alright, let me grab my other hood and we’ll get going."

“Actually, I want to go alone this time," he said. "I don’t know how long this would take and it would be weird if both of us went missing. Remember, there is someone out to get us. I know you’re worried but I’ll be fine, there’s usually an eject button in these types of games.”

Ah, dammit, Keiji was growing up in front of me but I agree with him. It made sense for one to cover the other and since I was the one burying people, it had to be me. 

“Fine. I gotta bury our noble anyway. Oh, and I wasn’t that worried.”

Keiji chuckled. “Yeah, right. Is that why you called my name back there?”

No, I didn’t….Actually I might have, just briefly but I was under a lot of stress from my body being possessed and all.

“Guess we split the party,” Keiji said already stepping toward the blue door.

“Don’t die hero.”

Keiji stepped through the shimmering blue door without looking back. It folded in on itself like water swallowing a coin, leaving me alone with the faint hum of dissipating magic.

The silence after was heavy but welcomed.

I turned away from where the portal had been and retraced my steps, boots crunching over gravel, until I found the corpse I carried from the Church earlier. The noble's body lay twisted in the dirt, pale as candle wax, eyes open but seeing nothing.

I brought it through the gate and made my way to the graveyard. I was pretty tired and my body was in much pain that I couldn't probably explain. But I had a rule, every corpse deserved a proper burial, no matter what.

With that out of the way, I’ll take you through the ways of the humble gravedigger. 

The Mourner’s pack was a tool for keeping my weapons but it also served me in a more meaningful way. While inside was bottomless, the outside was a couple of small bags I had sewn in myself containing tools for my trade.

I knelt and unbuttoned one such bag and pulled out a small, round-lipped crucible. It was filled with fine, glistening grains of black sand I took from Mount Kazarra.

It’s not the kind of sand you find on beaches—it’s volcanic in origin, dense and faintly metallic, collected in pockets when the mountain “bleeds.” That’s what we call it in the Rings instead of …lava. I think it sounds ugly. 

Instead of carving a stone, like the richer Rings do, I liked to use sand-casting. It’s cheaper, faster and—if you know the craft—more beautiful. I learned the method from two old friends, back when I still thought of graves as landmarks rather than warnings.

First, I mixed the black sand with powdered bronze, the particles glinting like dusk light in dark river water. The crucible was warm in my hands as I stirred, the grains bombarding against each other. Then I packed the mixture into a shallow mold I carried—a slab of smoothed slate with a recess in the center, no bigger than a spread hand.

I pressed the sand tight with my palms, feeling its weight settle, then left it to cool. While it set, I dug a square into the ground, framing it with wet, reddish dirt. The earth here is always damp, heavy with the scent of iron and something older, almost sweet.

When the casting was firm, I lifted it from the mold: a simple plaque, its face a muted bronze-brown, edges rough but strong. The surface was still warm when I took my engraving nail and began the work.

For some reason, the Church didn’t give me the noble’s name. I have known Lucien long enough to know that was by design. This wasn’t the first time that happened either. Instead, I carved the generic sigil for an unclaimed noble l—a circle inverted above a single horizontal line. It’s an old design, meant to resemble the setting sun over the horizon.

Dust curled over my fingers as the grooves deepened, the sound of soft rhythmic, like someone quietly grinding grain. For the finishing touch, I mixed resin with crushed copper flakes into a paste, then spread it over the edges of the plaque, the metallic scent rising as it met the damp air. It would harden into a weatherproof seal by nightfall.

When it was done, I planted the marker in the wet soil at the head of the grave. It wasn’t much, but it would keep the scavengers from digging. And maybe, if anyone came looking, it would say: Here lies someone who mattered to someone.

I brushed the copper dust from my fingers when a shadow fell over me.

“You there?” a deep voice rumbled.

I looked up. Master Jacques stood at the edge of the clearing, broad-shouldered, his heavy coat brushing the ground. His hair was the kind of grey that had outlived wars, huge and puffed so thick it flared like a wind-ruffled umbrella over his head. A beard rolled down to his chest, parting around a puckered scar that ran from his collarbone downward, the kind that hinted at a story filled with horror.

His eyes swept from me to the grave marker then to the shrouded body beside it.

“You’re the scrap-picker, aren’t you?” he said. “Why hasn’t this one been buried yet?”

I blinked. “I’m… burying him now.”

Jacques’ brows, heavy as slate, drew together. “It’s been two days since you left Sanctum Frollo with that corpse.”

The chisel almost slipped from my grip. “Two… days?”

He nodded slowly, studying me like a butcher weighing a cut of meat. “You seem surprised. Are you not aware of the time?”

“I...” My mouth dried. “Um, I’ve been busy is all. It feels like a whole day passed me by without realizing it.”

I tamped the earth down, keeping my gaze on the work, as if pressing hard enough would keep his questions from seeping in.

Then, like a blade slipping through my defences, he asked, “Where’s the boy?”

I did know where Keiji was but given what happened, two days ago apparently, I had to be cautious. We’d walked straight into a trap before and for all I knew, the next friendly face could be the one who orchestrated it.

“I haven’t seen him since we came back…but I heard he went to train somewhere in Mount Kazarra.”

Jacques stared at me for a moment longer, then nodded —just once.

“No matter. When you do see him, tell him to find me. A new party has been assigned to him. Training starts tomorrow.”

Then he turned, his boots crunching against the path as he went away whistling.

“And tell him not to keep me waiting."

Without another word, he disappeared into the tree line, the sound of his steps swallowed by the hush after rain.

Two days. Not one. Two. Somewhere between the fake dungeon’s walls and appearing in the clearing, time had slipped through my fingers like dry sand.

The damp air clung to my skin and lungs making it hard to breath for a moment. The silence pressed in too heavy, I could almost feel the echo of CIX’s voice inside my head. I hate to admit it but he was right. What happened wasn’t a coincidence.

I shoved the thought away and stepped back from the grave. I hope whatever Keiji is up to isn’t as physically or mentally exhausting.