Thane lay still, letting the sun-warmed stone pull the tension from his muscles. He exhaled shakily. The screen still hovered in the air, taunting him with its numbers. That disgusting 583% EXP debt practically screamed guaranteed failure. He'd burned through a mountain of rewards.
He dragged his eyes across the glowing text one more time, scowling—until he saw it. A line he'd skipped. Blurred by frustration. Ignored in haste.
Magic subtypes:
Physical momentum
His heart skipped a beat.
"Wait… wait—what?"
He froze.
Then, trembling with a mixture of awe and disbelief, Thane lifted a shaking hand and focused on the words. The line brightened, expanding.
System: Congratulations, sir. It appears your combination of scientific intuition, brute desperation, and an admittedly inelegant display involving a flail has yielded something of substance. You have awakened the dormant capacity to exert real-time control over physical momentum. You may now manipulate the two foundational components of linear momentum—mass and velocity—at will.
Practical applications, should you require suggestions, include:
-Immediate redirection of your movement
-Dynamic alteration of your own mass
-Efficient control over the flow of kinetic force
-And, inevitably, a regrettable number of craters
A note of caution, sir: while the laws of physics may bend with magic, they remain famously unforgiving when misapplied. Do endeavor to survive your own experiments.
Thane was already grinning like a madman before he finished reading. He didn't move. He couldn't. But inside? His brain was running wild with possibilities.
If I drop my mass mid-leap... I could vault over rooftops like a missile. If I crank it back up when I land—crater. Instant crater. What if I redirect momentum mid-run and slingshot myself around someone? Or better—sucker punch a tree through a wall? Or a boulder into low orbit?
Oh, the possibilities. The pure, delicious unadulterated potential of it.
High school physics class came flooding back, along with a thousand ideas on how to break every rule—of combat, of logic, and of common decency.
With the right angle, enough mass, and a little velocity, he could probably level a house. Accidentally—of course—on the way to get breakfast.
It was horrifying. And perfect.
He was going to have fun with this. Horrible, catastrophic fun. And for the first time since that truly abysmal date... Thane laughed.
A sharp, breathless thing. Half joy. Half madness. All momentum.
But slowly, it began to fade, the rush of excitement ebbing as his heartbeat returned to a normal rhythm. He inhaled deeply, the rush of adrenaline settling into his bones, leaving behind a dull, steady throb. His chest rose and fell in slow, steady breaths as his body began to calm, his stamina trickling back like a slow tide.
He'd never felt so wiped out in his life. Maybe it had been a mistake to push himself this hard. His muscles were sore, his limbs heavy, and the weight of exhaustion pressed down like a lead blanket.
But before he could fully sink into the quiet relief of recovery, a sharp prickle at the back of his neck jolted him upright.
Danger sense.
A cold, primal awareness—an instinctual prickle at the edge of his consciousness—that someone—no, something—was nearby. His body tensed, muscles locked, and adrenaline flooded through his veins like wildfire. The sensation was alien, but undeniable. A warning he couldn't ignore.
Thane tried to roll to his feet, gritting his teeth against the stubborn ache in his muscles. But his body didn't obey—his legs refused to cooperate, and he collapsed back onto the stone with a sharp exhale. He grimaced, but didn't waste time trying again. Instead, he settled for a sitting position, his back straight and alert.
Knuckles bone-white around his flail's grip. Clinging to it like a lifeline—the now familiar weight grounding him in the middle of his mind's adrenaline-soaked chaos. His eyes swept the courtyard, scanning every shadow, every flicker of motion. His pulse pounded in his ears, the surge of adrenaline refusing to fade, and his focus narrowed to a razor's edge.
Then he heard it.
A soft scrape—bare feet against stone. A faint rustle, like overgrown brush being pushed aside. Then, a subtle clink—metal against stone, sharp and distinct in the quiet courtyard.
Thane held his breath, muscles coiled.
From the direction of the shattered iron gate, something moved. A hunched figure crept cautiously into view, its grey skin blending almost seamlessly with the shadows. It padded forward on almost silent feet, eyes darting, nostrils flaring. It paused, its beady eyes scanning the area, and then—caught sight of Thane.
Its eyes rolled back in its skull as it shrieked something guttural and ancient. It charged, dagger raised in both hands, as though offering a sacrifice to some dark god.
Thane braced himself, heart pounding, as the creature sprinted toward him—dagger raised, eyes wild. But before it could close the distance, its foot caught in one of the many uneven cracked holes he'd gouged into the stone during his earlier rampage.
It stumbled, guttural scream cut to a sharp yelp, momentum throwing it forward in a clumsy arc. The creature slammed face-first into the ground with a sickening crack, stone meeting stone. The impact knocked the weapon from its grip. The dagger clattered against the stone and skidded across the ground, coming to a stop just inches from Thane's feet.
A jagged chunk of skull splintered off, skittering across the courtyard like a broken shard of pottery. Cracks spread across its craggy skin, revealing sickly, raw pink flesh beneath the stone-like exterior. A thin, greenish fluid began to ooze from the fractures. The liquid pooling around the unmoving corpse.
Thane sat frozen, staring at the lifeless body.
Did that really just happen?
A hiccuping sound echoed through the courtyard. Laughter—ragged, breathless, and strange. It took him a second to realize it was coming from his own mouth.
Then it hit him all at once. Full-body, gut-wrenching laughter. The kind that left your ribs sore and your eyes stinging. He couldn't stop.
"No way," he gasped between fits. "This is too much. I can't take it."
The adrenaline, the absurdity, the sheer exhaustion—it all crashed over him in one chaotic wave. His body sagged backward, spent.
Emotionally fried. Physically wrecked. And still laughing like a madman.
As if to punctuate his absurd little victory, a soft ding chimed in his ear. The notification icon on his HUD began to glow faintly.
He blinked, focused—and two notifications appeared.
System: Feral Stone Goblin slain EXP awarded.
System: Trap Master Skill available (Uncommon).
"Huh. That's actually really useful. Not having to bring up the whole menu. Just a few concise lines," Thane muttered to himself, eyes still locked on the notification.
But then a nagging thought crept in. The message didn't say how much EXP he'd earned. And that was exactly what he needed to know right now.
If it was only one percent… he was in for a world of hurt.
Thane didn't hesitate. He decided to just rip the bandaid off and opened his status screen.
Before he could even focus on the EXP log, a sharp, icy jolt shot down his spine—danger sense flooding his senses like acid.
"Oh, that can't be good."
His pulse spiked. The laugh that had come so easily moments before twisted into a grimace. He snapped his head toward the courtyard's entrance, eyes narrowing.
With a grimace, he slowly pushed himself to his feet, muscles protesting with every movement. Every inch of him ached—his body a battlefield of exhaustion and pain—but he couldn't afford to wait around.
He gripped his flail, the familiar weight offering a brief, hollow comfort.
He desperately wished he hadn't lost his temper and gone full berserker earlier. I should've trained. Tested my magic. Gotten my bearings. But nooo, I had to throw a tantrum with a flail. If I make it out of this mess… It's time to get serious.
No time like the present to pull a rabbit out of my—hat. Stamina bar's about a quarter full. Hopefully that's enough for some kind of momentum magic miracle.
"Who am I kidding this is going to be a crap-fest."
More feral stone goblins began to file into the courtyard—in ones and twos, slinking cautiously through the shattered gate and overgrown paths. They moved low, speaking in guttural, rasping tones that scraped across Thane's nerves like broken glass.
His pulse quickened with every pair of glowing eyes that appeared. The group kept growing. His brief spark of confidence started flickering out.
He looked down at his flail, voice low and shaky. "Looks like it's just me and you. You don't have any ideas, do you?"
As if in answer, a thick cloud of purple smoke began to unfurl from the flail's head—dense and unnatural, spilling like ink in water. It coiled downward, blanketing the stone in a creeping mist. When it seeped over the weeds next to him, they withered and blackened, curling in on themselves.
A cold, creeping dread climbed down his spine. He hadn't cast anything. Hadn't even tried. And yet, here it was—death, spilling from his weapon like it had a mind of its own.
It was horrifying.
It was beautiful.
It was his.
A warped smile twitched at the corner of his mouth. "Okay. That's new."
Then the mist rolled over his foot.
He jolted, stumbling back, expecting pain, numbness, something—but nothing happened. No sting. No deadening of feeling. Just cold air brushing past his ankle. The cloud ignored him like he wasn't even there.
His breath caught, then came out in a shaky laugh. He looked down at the flail in his hand, then up at the goblins whose attention was now riveted on him.
A manic gleam lit his eyes.
"Not today," he whispered.
He straightened his spine, tendons creaked as he white knuckled the haft. "Not today."