ReSkill

The air inside Ray was cold and utterly empty. The Hero had taken everything, not just the loot, but Ray's pride, his hope. The polished wood and new tiling, once a source of triumph, now felt like a sterile tomb. He was a hospital, but a hospital with no patients, no staff, and no purpose. He was a monument to his own naivety.

A low, guttural groan, not unlike a stomach rumbling, echoed from his very foundations. The polished floorboards shifted and settled with a creak that was less a sound of age and more a sound of anguish. His chandelier, the physical manifestation of his gaze, flickered erratically, a frantic, desperate pulse of light. He was in turmoil, a battle raging within his very structure.

His thoughts drifted back to the Hero, a memory as clear and sharp as a surgeon's scalpel. He remembered the Hero’s bored demeanor, his casual dismissal of Ray's pathetic attempts at defense. He was a player, and Ray was just a level. And in this game, a hospital was a target, not a sanctuary. The realization hit him with the force of a sledgehammer to the window. To survive, to build his dream, he had to play the game on its own terms. He had to become a fighter, a fortress.

A new sensation, a strange, burning heat, started to emanate from his attic, from the small alcove he called his soul. It was a searing fire, a raging inferno of conflicting emotions. The desire to heal, to mend, to become the hospital he had always dreamed of, was at war with the cold, hard reality of his existence. He was a building, and he had to defend himself. He had to be a fortress. What he couldn’t achieve in his past life he was certain to obtain in his new.

The walls, his walls, began to sweat, a cold moisture seeping through the wood and trickling down to the floor. The polished wood, so carefully laid, began to warp and crack, the patterns of their breakage forming the shape of a clenched fist. His chandelier, his light, flared to life, a blinding bonfire of rage and frustration. The fire in his soul intensified, and he could feel a new power, a new skill, a new path calling to him. He would reskill.

He had to choose. He had to abandon his dream, at least for now, and embrace the role of a warrior. It felt like a betrayal, a violation of his very being. He was an architect, a creator, a healer. Not a destroyer. But the alternative was annihilation, and the memory of the Hero, his casual disdain, his stolen loot, was a constant, sharp reminder. The universe had given him a second chance in this weird new world and he simply couldn’t let it go.

With a final, despairing groan that shook him from his foundations to his rooftop, Ray made his choice. The fire in his soul flared to a peak, and then, with a sound like a thousand logs splitting at once, it subsided. The polished wood, the fresh paint, the clean glass, all began to melt, to liquefy, to return to the blueish powder from which they had been born. His walls were a cascade of blue, a waterfall of broken dreams.

When the dust settled, Ray was a cabin again. A wooden cabin, just as he had been before. But this time, he was different. The wood was not new and polished. It was scarred, weathered, and sturdy. The logs were thicker, more resilient. He was a fortress in a fledgling state.

And in his walls, deep within his very structure, he could feel it... a low, rhythmic buzzing. A hum of a thousand tiny soldiers waiting for their call to arms. The Carpenter's Swarm was his now. A tool of both offense and defense, a tool of a fortress. He looked up at the moon, his chandelier a cold, steady glow. He was no longer a house. He was a sentient weapon.