One month. Kaelan stared at the thirty-first scratch mark he'd just etched onto the rough-hewn wooden beam above his straw mattress. A full lunar cycle by Aethel's twin celestial bodies. It felt like a lifetime ago that he'd stumbled into Oakhaven, a terrified, half-starved fugitive, his F-Rank Trait a freshly discovered, terrifying secret. Now, the raw, jagged edges of his fear had been worn down, not erased, but smoothed by the relentless grind of survival and the slow, steady accumulation of small victories. Oakhaven, once a desperate, fleeting sanctuary, had become a predictable, if still fundamentally precarious, part of his existence.
His days settled into a rigorous rhythm. He'd rise before the first hint of dawn, the chill morning air a sharp contrast to the stuffy confines of his small inn room. His first hour was dedicated to pure physical conditioning, a habit born from the crushing weakness he'd felt after his escape. He'd run laps around the outskirts of Oakhaven, pushing his lungs and legs without a single activation of [Fleeting Steps], building a foundation of mundane stamina and strength. He'd find fallen logs to lift, trees to climb, his body slowly hardening, shedding the soft unpreparedness of his Earthly life. Borin the blacksmith, witnessing Kaelan's solitary, almost fanatical exertions during one of his own early morning trips to the privy, had just grunted, "Either trainin' for somethin' fierce, or runnin' from somethin' worse, eh lad?" Kaelan had offered no reply.
After this, as the sun began to paint the eastern sky, he would retreat to a secluded glade deep enough in the Whisperwood that he was unlikely to be disturbed. This was the crucible where he forged his understanding of [Fleeting Steps]. He started by meticulously practicing holding stacks. Two stacks (1.44x speed) became his comfortable baseline for navigating treacherous terrain. Then three (1.728x), pushing to maintain it for minutes at a time, the world around him subtly out of sync, his thoughts racing slightly ahead of his actions. Four stacks (2.07x) was a significant step up, demanding greater concentration and a heavier mana toll. Five stacks (2.488x) was his current combat standard, a dizzying rush where his surroundings blurred into streaks of color if he moved his head too quickly. He learned to "feather" the activations with growing precision, timing each 5 MP pulse to refresh the oldest stack just as its 10-second timer neared expiry, creating a smoother, more sustained acceleration rather than the jarring, uncontrolled lurches of his initial, panicked discoveries.
The mental strain was a unique kind of agony. Processing the world at these accelerated rates was like trying to comprehend a lecture delivered at triple speed while simultaneously performing complex acrobatics. His Dexterity, now a respectable 34, gave him the physical grace to avoid constantly slamming into trees or tripping over his own feet, but the sheer sensory and cognitive overload was a constant battle. His head would throb, his vision would occasionally swim, and a profound mental fatigue would settle in after prolonged high-stack sessions.
Evenings, after a sparse meal at The Sleeping Satyr, were often spent hunched over the small, rickety table in his room. He'd purchased a few sheets of rough parchment and a stick of charcoal from Oakhaven Provisions & Exchange. On these, he meticulously tried to quantify his power. He charted mana costs against perceived speed increases, trying to find an optimal balance. He estimated his base running speed, without any active skills, had increased significantly due to his DEXT. On Earth, he'd been an average runner, maybe hitting 15-18 km/h in a desperate sprint. Now, he figured his DEXT 34 probably put his unassisted top speed closer to 25 km/h, perhaps even 30 km/h for short bursts.
Then came the Fleeting Steps multipliers. He remembered the numbers vividly.
1 Stack (1.2x): ~30-36 km/h. Energetic, quick.
3 Stacks (1.728x): ~43-52 km/h. Faster than any Olympian sprinter.
5 Stacks (2.488x): ~62-75 km/h. The speed of a galloping horse, or a car on a suburban street.
He'd even dared to push to ten stacks (a dizzying 6.19x multiplier, costing 50 MP just to achieve, then another 50 MP every ten seconds to maintain) in controlled, straight-line bursts in the most secluded parts of the forest. That equated to a terrifying 150-185 km/h. The world became an incomprehensible blur of motion, the wind a roaring force against him, the ground a fleeting suggestion beneath his feet. He could only hold it for a few seconds before his mana plummeted and his body screamed in protest, the g-forces threatening to tear him apart despite his growing Vitality. It was exhilarating and terrifying in equal measure. He was an F-Rank Anomaly, capable of speeds that would make him a legend, if anyone ever knew.
The calculations were a comfort, a way for his engineering-trained mind to impose some familiar logic onto this magical, chaotic world. He remembered a particular lecture on exponential growth curves from a physics class he'd been on the verge of failing. Now, that curve was his reality. His power wasn't linear; it was explosive. The thought of applying actual physics or advanced mathematics to it, to truly optimize the energy transfer of mana into kinetic motion, was a tantalizing, if currently impossible, prospect.
During one particularly brutal training session, where he'd been pushing seven stacks (3.58x speed, ~90-107 km/h) while navigating a dense, root-choked section of the woods, forcing himself to react to the terrain at superhuman speed, something new had clicked. He'd been focusing on the rhythm of his mana expenditure, on the feeling of the stacks layering, when a faint, internal warmth spread through him, a sense of… efficiency.
[New Passive Skill Learned: [Harmonic Stacking] (Rank F)]
[[Harmonic Stacking]: As you achieve and maintain multiple stacks of [Fleeting Steps], your body and mana flow begin to resonate with the accelerated state. Each active stack beyond the second slightly reduces the mana cost of subsequent activations within the same continuous stacking chain by 1%. (Max 5% reduction at 7+ stacks). Mental strain from maintaining high stacks is marginally lessened.]
This was a game-changer. It wasn't a massive mana save, but at higher stack counts, that cumulative 5% reduction would add up, extending his operational time significantly. And the "marginally lessened" mental strain was a godsend.
His other passive, [Reactive Slipstream], had also seen improvement. After countless near-misses in combat and during his reckless high-speed training, the System had chimed:
[[Reactive Slipstream] has reached Rank E.]
[Activation chance slightly increased. Evasive effect marginally enhanced. You feel a greater instinctive awareness of when it's about to trigger.]
It was still uncontrolled, but that "greater instinctive awareness" was key. He could now almost sense the build-up of ambient mana around him just before it whisked him a few crucial inches aside.
The Oakhaven task board remained his primary source of income and interaction. He was "Kaelan the Quick" now, or sometimes just "that quiet lad who gets things done." He cleared out a nest of oversized, venomous spiders from Miller Benson's cellar, earning 2 Silver Coins and a nasty, purple welt from a bite that had forced him to use one of his precious, newly bought Lesser Healing Draughts. He escorted Healer Agnes, who had developed a grudging respect for his woodcraft and quiet efficiency, to gather rare Sunblaze Ferns from a treacherous, crumbling cliffside overlooking the Rushing River, earning another 3 Silver. He even endured a full day helping Borin the blacksmith haul a cartload of unusually dense, dark ironwood from a remote copse deep in the Whisperwood, the wood so heavy it felt like stone. Borin, a man of few words, had clapped him on the shoulder at the end of the day, a gesture that felt like high praise, and pressed 4 Silver into his hand.
Hunting was now less about desperate survival and more about targeted XP grinding. Goblins, once terrifying adversaries, were now almost… predictable. He learned their patrol routes, their rudimentary ambush tactics, the subtle signs of their lairs. His speed allowed him to dictate every engagement. He'd use two or three stacks to close the distance to an isolated sentry, his club a blur, felling it before it could raise an alarm. Then, he'd ramp up to five or six stacks, a whirlwind of motion in their disorganized camps, striking and fading, sowing chaos, his [Reactive Slipstream] and now [Harmonic Stacking] making him an elusive, efficient killer. Wolves, too, fell to his club, their pelts fetching a decent price from a traveling fur trader who passed through Oakhaven mid-month, adding to his growing coffers.
His social interactions remained minimal. He exchanged polite, brief greetings with Elder Rowan when collecting rewards. He bought his supplies from the Provisions & Exchange with curt efficiency. He ate his meals at The Sleeping Satyr quickly, usually in a corner, observing more than participating. Mistress Pebblefoot still eyed him with a mixture of curiosity and maternal concern, sometimes leaving an extra piece of bread with his stew, but she never pressed him for details about his past. The fear of his F-Rank status, of being discovered as a runaway slave from Lumina, was a cold, constant undercurrent, keeping him walled off, an outsider looking in.
He thought often of Earth, the memories now tinged with a strange mix of longing and detachment. The guilt over his parents was a dull, persistent ache. He remembered their tired faces, their hopeful smiles that faded a little more with each disappointing report card. He hadn't been a bad son, just… adrift, lacking purpose. The irony was bitter: here, in this brutal, alien world, driven by the primal need to survive, he had found a fierce, desperate purpose he'd never known on Earth. He even found himself missing the sterile predictability of his engineering textbooks, the cold logic of equations. That structured thinking, he realized, was helping him analyze his Trait, to deconstruct its effects, even if the underlying principles were pure magic.
As the month drew to its close, Kaelan sat on his lumpy mattress, the flickering candlelight casting long shadows on the rough parchment where he'd been sketching out theoretical speed-to-mana-cost curves. He took a mental inventory.
[Character Status:]
[Name: Kaelan Richards]
[Level: 7]
[Trait: Fleeting Steps (Rank F)]
[Skills: [Reactive Slipstream] (Passive, Rank E), [Harmonic Stacking] (Passive, Rank F)]
[HP: 210/210]
[MP: 240/240]
[Main Stats:]
[Strength (STR): 12]
[Intelligence (INT): 22]
[Dexterity (DEXT): 34]
[Vitality (VIT): 16]
[Distributable Stat Points (DSP): 0] (He'd allocated his L7 points: 1 STR, 1 INT, 2 DEXT, 1 VIT)
He'd gained three more levels since his brush with the wolves, each one a testament to his relentless, dangerous grind in the Whisperwood. His DEXT of 34 was the real miracle worker, making his control over even eight or nine stacks (which he could now hold for almost ten seconds before his mana screamed in protest) feel less like wrestling a hurricane and more like guiding a barely-tamed storm. His INT of 22 provided a mana pool that, while still finite and rapidly consumed by his Trait, was far more substantial than his initial pathetic reserve.
Economically, he was almost comfortable, by Oakhaven standards. After purchasing a sturdy pair of dark leather boots that actually fit (8 Silver), a thick, forest-green woolen cloak that offered decent protection against the increasingly cold nights (4 Silver), a whetstone for his surprisingly durable goblin club, and maintaining a constant stock of three Lesser Healing Draughts (a painful but necessary 7 Silver each), he still possessed 2 Gold Coins, 35 Silver, and a pouch heavy with Copper. Two Gold Coins! It felt like an unimaginable fortune compared to the few pathetic copper bits he'd possessed upon his arrival.
He had survived. He had adapted. He had grown. The Kaelan who had cowered in the Cathedral undercroft was a ghost, replaced by a leaner, harder version of himself, his eyes holding a wariness and a quiet intensity that hadn't been there before. The shame of his F-Rank label was still a buried thorn, but it was now intertwined with a fierce, secret pride in the reality of his power, a power that no priest, no king, no System assessment had foreseen.
But as he scanned the familiar Oakhaven task board the next morning, a now-familiar restlessness prickled at him. "Clear rats from Widow Gable's root cellar: 30 Copper." "Deliver tin of herbs to Old Man Hemlock (half-day's walk): 1 Silver." The local goblins had learned to fear his approach, their camps thinning out or moving deeper into the woods, offering diminishing returns in XP. The wolves were scarce. He was outgrowing Oakhaven. The sanctuary was becoming a comfortable cage, its challenges no longer pushing him to his limits.
His F-Rank Anomaly, his unseen speed, demanded more. It craved greater challenges, deeper understanding. He needed to find tougher monsters, more dangerous quests, arenas where his unique abilities could be truly tested, where the exponential curve of his power could continue its ascent. He needed to learn more about this sprawling, hostile world, about the nuances of the System, about the ever-looming war against the Demon Lord that had been the catalyst for his abduction. And always, in the quietest recesses of his mind, the faint, almost extinguished question: was there a way back to Earth? The thought, once a constant, agonizing obsession, now felt like a distant, almost impossible dream, overshadowed by the immediate, pressing need to simply become strong enough to carve out his own destiny, to be beholden to no one.
Restlessness, sharp and insistent, gnawed at him. Oakhaven had been his crucible and his crèche, the place where he'd been reforged. But it was time to leave the nest, however perilous the wider world might be. Staying here, he realized with sudden clarity, was a slow death for his potential, a betrayal of the impossible gift his broken Trait represented.
That afternoon, as the distinct rumble of heavy wagon wheels and the shouts of drovers announced the arrival of a merchant caravan, Kaelan felt a decisive shift within him. The caravan, larger than any he'd seen pass through Oakhaven before, consisted of three sturdy wagons laden with goods from distant southern towns, its perimeter patrolled by a dozen grim-faced guards clad in boiled leather and gleaming steel, their swords and crossbows worn with an air of casual lethality. They spoke in louder, more confident voices than the Oakhaven locals, their words painting pictures of bustling trade hubs like Riverbend, known for its sprawling markets, and even further south, the formidable city of Silvercrest, home to a renowned and influential Adventurer's Guild.
Kaelan watched them, his hand resting on the worn grip of his club, a new light in his observant grey eyes. The path ahead was a vast, terrifying unknown, undoubtedly saturated with perils that would make the Whisperwood seem like a tranquil garden. But for the first time since being violently torn from his world, Kaelan felt not just the relentless, grim drive to survive, but a nascent, thrilling flicker of something else, something he hadn't dared to acknowledge until now: ambition. The F-Rank Anomaly was ready to see what lay beyond the horizon.