[Arc Terminal: Resume]
[Anchor found: Eboncrest — North Plaza]
[Loadout check: Complete]
[World Sync: Stable]
Light unfolded, sound widened. Morning returned with cool air and a slow bell ringing the hour. Aiden's boots found stone without a ripple. The plaza stretched in familiar lines—the broad sweep of vendors opening awnings, guards rotating posts, steam drifting from tavern vents. The city smelled of bread again, and iron, and fresh citrus from a seller slicing rinds into curls.
He flexed his right wrist once. No drag. The HUD sat steady, no flicker.
Elda waved him over with a bundle of mint. "You missed the sunrise."
"It'll try again tomorrow," Aiden said, mouth tipping a fraction. "You win more than it does."
She laughed and tucked the mint away. "Watch your step on Kingfisher Row. The guilds were loud last night."
"Thanks," he said. "I'll tread soft."
He angled across the square. Mara Elric stood by a posting board, reading without touching the parchment. She tracked notices like a blade follows a breath.
"Good morning," she said as he approached, tone even. "You move like you rested."
"Enough," Aiden said. "The city keeps a steady pillow."
"A fundamentals block at second bell," she said. "Stances, timing, reading intention. No tricks—just bodies learning bodies."
"I'll watch," he said, then added, "If they need hands, I'll lend mine."
She eyed the sword at his hip. "Or teach."
"We'll see," he said.
She flicked her gaze toward the south lanes. "If you wander Kingfisher Row, be ready to step aside. The 'tests' are clumsy."
"I've seen clumsier," he said lightly, already turning.
The Row narrowed, bright flags strung low between eaves, a stream of people forced to duck. The ground changed texture—rounded stones that rolled underfoot if you didn't collect them with the right part of your stride. He set weight through the ball and let the stones settle.
Voices clustered ahead. Not street-brawl noise. Structured noise. A churn of bodies pushed and released with the cadence of someone administering an exam.
He slipped into the angle behind a vegetable cart. Crimson Edge had strung a rope across a side lane and left two gaps as chutes. Two recruiters marked tallies while recruits ran a crude gauntlet—sidestep a swing, parry a held-back strike, don't trip the line. On the flanks, a couple of players in borrowed colors shoved shoulders just enough to destabilize.
Kael, Sora, Lynet, and Faron stood a distance off, half-watching, half-arguing.
"It's not about speed," Aiden said, not looking at them.
Kael startled, then grinned. "Morning. You brought common sense?"
"A little," Aiden said. "Their swing is on a two-count. Step on one-and-a-half."
Sora tilted her head, counting under her breath. The current recruit clipped the rope at the heel. "One-and-a-half," she repeated, soft and curious. "That feels… right."
A recruiter caught sight of Aiden. "You. Quiet boots. Try our course."
"No," Aiden said, pleasant as a closed door.
"Scared?" The recruiter smiled for the onlookers, teeth bright, posture theatrical.
Aiden studied the rope's sag, the spacing of the pushers, the way the "examiner" anchored his planted foot too wide. The course wasn't meant to help. It was meant to amuse.
"Your left pusher loads late," Aiden said. "And your anchor's stance is wrong. Anyone with a lateral cut can slip your second lane clean."
Silence for a three-count. The recruiter's smile thinned. "Show me."
Aiden stepped to the rope and set his toe at the edge. He breathed once. The pushers drew in. The examiner raised his blade.
Switch.
Step half on the upbeat. Weight low. Watch hips.
The first shoulder came. He met it with a quiet frame—chest to arm, nothing wasted—and slid through the push with a gentle turn that bled force into empty space. The blade came on two; he was already in the hinge. He touched the flat with two fingers and stepped past it. The left pusher loaded at one-and-three-quarters—late, as called. He wasn't there. He crossed the rope at an angle that made the last shove miss. Done.
He stood on the far side. The slate stayed blank.
"That's not the course," the recruiter said.
"It's your course," Aiden said, and walked away.
Behind him, Kael laughed low. Sora smothered hers and failed. Lynet watched the pushers reset with new caution. Faron tested his wrist and winced.
"Come to the fundamentals block," Aiden said without turning. "Stances. Half-steps. Count out loud if you need to. It helps."
Kael called, "We'll be there."
A bell rang second hour. Stonehaven Grounds filled with bodies in lines and circles. Mara's assistants corrected postures with a tap and a word. No glow-text. No shortcuts. Just wood and flesh and habit.
Mara nodded toward Aiden. "Demonstration."
He stepped to a dummy. He didn't split it this time. He showed a half-step and the way a struck arm returns not to where it started but to where it wants to rest.
"Guard is a living thing," he said. "Don't freeze the end of the motion. Catch it where it's headed and use the line it stored."
Faces tried the words on in their heads. Some laughed when their arms floated to a position that felt less forced.
"Read hips," Aiden added. "Hands lie. Hips tell the truth."
Mara paced behind the line. "Again."
They repeated the half-step drill until sweat dotted brows and the room ticked in unison. A clockwork construct trundled a slow arc. Aiden watched its joints, the way resistance shifted with weight in the gears. He tapped a novice's heel with the flat of his blade.
"Weight forward," he said. "Not on your toes—on the ground. There's a difference."
The novice blinked, then nodded. "Feels steadier."
Mara stopped beside him. "You can teach."
"Only until they outgrow the bad habit," he said. "After that, they'll teach themselves."
"More than a little," she said, and left it there.
The HUD chimed.
[City Maintenance: Token Exchange Available][Location: East Works Office][Note: Report glitched marker for review. Reward adjusted by detail.]
He weighed the timing. Morning is clean. Fewer bodies in the Works. Easier to hear problems when they aren't buried under voices.
He left the grounds and cut for the east quarter. The maintenance office was a narrow building with a counter, two stools, and a clock that ticked angrily. Pipes ran overhead in tidy lines. Behind the counter, a man with a leather apron and ink-stained fingers looked up like he disliked interruptions on principle.
"Glitched marker," Aiden said. "K-17."
The man's eyebrows lifted a millimeter. He pushed a ledger forward. "Describe."
Aiden did. The bracket's chafe, the absence of a lock, the alcove's damp air despite last night's wind. The way two men had approached too casually, and the sound of their steps when they left.
The man wrote in a small, tidy hand. "You didn't open it."
"Would've made more problems than it solved," Aiden said. "I prefer fewer."
"Good," the man said. He slid a small brass token across. It bore a hatch symbol, a number, and a warning line: AUTH ACCESS ONLY. "You're authorized to examine and report. Not to fix. Don't touch anything that hisses."
"If it hisses at me first?" Aiden asked, dry.
"Don't let it," the man said, just as dry. He blinked in the rhythm of someone who slept at the same time every night. "One more thing. If you see small skitter-types—wired legs, lamp eyes—hit joints, not bodies. We reuse parts."
"I'll be gentle," Aiden said.
Back at the alcove, the hatch sat like before—quiet, almost anonymous. The token fit a hidden slot. Stone sighed. The hatch edged open with a breath of air that smelled like hot dust and old water.
He listened. The city's sound dropped, cupped by brick. A faint mechanical hum lived below, steady and unbothered.
He slid down a narrow ladder. The world narrowed to a tunnel of brick and iron with thin walkways flanking a ribbon of dark water. Lamps spaced at exact intervals glowed pale amber. Somewhere near, metal tapped metal with the patience of a metronome.
He moved light and kept his hands where they could find edge and rail without looking. The tunnel branched once, twice. He marked left, then right, chalking small lines where mortar cracked.
At the second bend, he stopped. A scrap of fabric lay half-caught on a rivet. Not guard color. Not guild. The look of something bought to be ruined.
He crouched. The fabric smelled of oil and something sweet. The floor near it showed the wheel of a small cart and the erratic tick of small feet.
The metronome tap stopped.
Silence laid down. He breathed once.
Switch.
Hold motion. Let the tunnel move.
Left pipe—condensation beads. Drip interval: slow. Floor slick two steps beyond. Rail cool—touched recently.
He stayed low and let his eyes adjust to the lamp's curve. From under the pipe, something small emerged—a skitter unit, six wired legs, lens-eye like a gooseberry, brass cowl dented. It paused, then scurried to the fabric, snipped off a thread with a neat click, and retreated.
Hello, he thought, watching it work. Careful thing.
Another skitter, farther off. Two more. Gathering. Not hostile.
A thin squeal rose from the left branch—metal against something it didn't like. The skitters broke pattern and rushed that way in twitchy lines.
He followed at a walk.
The left branch opened above a junction where three water lines met through a gate frame. One valve was stuck. A small cart sat there with a bent handle, as if someone had wheeled it in and left in a hurry. The stuck valve had a torn tag stamped with a triangle and slit eye—the same mark as the graffiti.
He set two fingers on the valve, not to force—just to feel where the resistance lived. Not corrosion. Tension from misalignment two brackets down. He eyed the bolts. Maintenance had marked them with blue chalk last cycle. Someone had moved them without permission.
He didn't fix it. He noted it—the exact distance of the slip, the chalk shade, the way the metal sang against strain. The skitters fidgeted around his boots, lens-eyes whirring. One bumped his toe and corrected course.
Movement behind him: soft. Wrong cadence for pipes. He turned on the breath.
Three bodies in dull leather, faces banded to hide eyes, stepped from a dark rung. Their feet made no splash. The middle one held a short utility blade—the kind that cut rope and flesh without fuss.
"Leave the cart," the middle one said. Voice careful, almost polite.
"It isn't mine," Aiden said.
"Then leave," the left one said.
Aiden looked at the valve, then at the blade, then at the skitters. One had climbed onto the cart, secured a thread in its jaws, and tugged—habit more than purpose.
He weighed the angles, the slick, the rail. "Your bracket is off two notches," he said. "You'll shear the stem if you force that valve."
"We'll manage," the middle one said.
"You'll flood the junction and trigger an alarm upstream," Aiden said. "Maintenance will come down. You'll leave with nothing."
The left one shifted. The middle one didn't. "You can go now."
Aiden breathed once.
Switch.
Blade: utility. Short throw. Left man's heels lift before a shove. Right man late by half.
He stepped. The left moved first. Aiden was already inside the heel lift. He slid his palm to the wrist, turned—not pushing. The blade tracked past, found the rail, clanged. The right came late; Aiden let his shoulder meet the chest in a soft, full line and bled the momentum into the wall. The middle cut low. Aiden lifted the rail with his knee, caught the edge on metal, and pressed two knuckles into the tendon above the thumb until the grip eased.
"Stop," he said. No threat. Just the next thing, stated.
They stopped.
"Your bracket is off," he said again, tone unchanged. "You can fix it in eight breaths if your hands are good. Or break it and drown."
The middle one didn't blink for two beats. Then he let air out through his teeth. "Show me. Quiet."
Aiden didn't touch the bolts. He pointed. "Loosen here, not there. Half-turns. Two on that side. One on the low." He stepped back. "Now relieve pressure by hand. No wrench. If the stem chatters, stop and go back a quarter."
The man moved like he knew what he was doing, just not under watch. The bracket sighed a fraction into place. The valve turned with a small, grateful sound. The pipes settled.
The man straightened. "You could've called maintenance."
"I will," Aiden said, glancing at the cart. "After you're gone."
"We don't like alarms either," the man said. He wiped his hand and gave Aiden a small nod that wasn't quite thanks, then faded into the rung. Their steps kept that wrong cadence—quiet but off. Aiden marked it.
The skitters relaxed and dispersed. One paused by his boot again. He bent slightly, met its lens without touching it. "Good work," he said under his breath.
It made a soft tick like agreement and hurried away.
He retraced to the hatch, marked new notes in chalk, and climbed out. The city felt larger again. Sun slid along roof edges. People accumulated in the plaza as if drawn by heat and the promise of coin changing hands.
He stopped at the maintenance office, set the token on the counter, and gave his observations: the misaligned bracket, the cut tag, the cart, the three, the mark on the valve, the cadence of their steps.
The ink-stained man listened like a wall listening to rain—intently, without hurry. He took the token back and replaced it with a battered brass chit stamped with a flywheel.
"Report's good," he said. "You didn't fix anything."
"No," Aiden said. "I prefer the right hands on the right bolts."
"That's correct." The man paused. "If you see that mark again, keep your hands off it. We'll do the touching."
"I don't touch strangers' nerves," Aiden said. "Or pipes."
Back in the plaza, Kael and the others crowded a map near the Arc pillar. "So the hill route is safer," Lynet said, tracing a line. "But slower."
"Safer isn't slower if you're not fighting yourself," Aiden said, stopping beside them. "Your steps are too long."
Kael laughed, unbothered. "Everything about me is too long."
"Shorten your stance by a heel," Aiden said. "Count 'one-and-a-half.' Your guard will stop leaking."
Sora's mouth quirked. "He's right. Try it."
Faron flexed his wrist with a grimace. "I'll get there."
"You set the wrap too tight," Aiden said. "Loosen that pass. It's pinching."
Faron blinked, adjusted, and exhaled like a thought let go. "Better. Thanks."
A street crier read city notices as they cycled up the Arc pillar. Aiden glanced without shifting weight.
[City Event: Supply Escort — Outskirts to East Gate][Recommended: 4–6 players | Low Threat | Moderate Duration][Reward: XP, coin, rep, escort stamps]
Kael's eyes lit. "That's us."
"After the fundamentals block," Aiden said. "You'll outrun your frames otherwise."
Kael opened his mouth, then closed it and grinned. "Fine. We'll earn the cart first."
"I'm not your teacher," Aiden said, patient. "I just like clean motion."
Mara drifted near, hearing enough without showing it. "Second block starts at third bell," she said. "We'll set a drill—cross-steps under pressure. He"—she tipped her chin at Aiden—"will demonstrate."
Aiden didn't object. Mara didn't leave space for it.
The day tilted. They drilled. Cross-steps. Half-steps. Counters on the half-beat. The young swordsman from last night kept his guard high through the breath this time and didn't treat it like a miracle. Good.
They took water at a trough. Kael rolled his shoulders, suddenly lighter. "I feel shorter," he said, baffled.
"You were too long," Aiden said. "Now you're just a person."
By late afternoon, the escort notice chimed again. The group formed near the east gate—two carts, one driver, a guard who looked competent and bored. The road ran clean. Bandits tried once from a ditch—early with their hands, late with their hips.
Switch.
Cut the front foot. Turn the return. Don't chase the blade.
They folded without fuss. The guard yawned once and thanked no one. The carts rolled on.
At twilight, the city took its warm breath. Lamps lifted their small halos. Rowdy corners softened, then sharpened as taverns filled and certain alleys shifted rules. Aiden walked the line between loud and quiet. He checked the incense-stall alley—someone had patched the leaking gutter. He shifted a fallen crate with one hand. He caught a girl's elbow before she turned her ankle on a lifted stone.
"You're okay," he said, steadying her.
She nodded without looking up and ran on.
The HUD flickered once—not a warning, just a brush of static. It steadied. He rolled his shoulder a degree. Not important. Tomorrow's lines matter more.
Mara found him near the north wall. "You don't chase numbers," she said, not as praise or accusation.
"I chase alignment," Aiden said.
"Good," she said. "Numbers come when motion makes room."
They stood without speaking, watching two rogues practice mirror-steps and finally land the third cross on time. Surprise bloomed on their faces, then fled when they tried to repeat it. Work remained.
Aiden checked his inventory out of habit: bread, cheese, chalk, one maintenance chit with a flywheel, his blade, his breath, even.
Night settled. The plaza's noise bent low. He walked to the safe-logout glyph—a small circle of inlaid metal half-hidden beside the planter, as before. He stepped on it.
[Safe Zone Verified][Arc Terminal: Log Out Available][Proceed? Y/N]
He rested a hand on his guard. The city laid its sounds flat enough to fold—hammers distant, a bark of laughter, the whisper-scrape of a broom on stone.
Y.
[Saving State…][Anchor set: Eboncrest — North Plaza][Log Out Confirmed]
Haptics softened. Light drew down in tidy lines. Thought clicked, neat and final:
Morning watches.Evening answers.Tomorrow can argue.
He'd let it speak—and cut only what needed cutting. The world went dark.