BONUS CHAPTER: An advanced guide to unlocking awesome Skills

PART 1

Name: Eliza 

Level: 26 

Race: Human 

Age: 19 

Health Points: 500/500 

Aether: 300/300 

Stamina: 460/460 

Core Attributes (5 points per level, total: 130) 

Strength: 34 

Agility: 78 

Dexterity: 82 

Endurance: 46 

Vitality: 50 

Spirit: 40 

Wisdom: 30 

Intelligence: 75 

Skills 

• Daggers: 32 

• Venom Strike: 14 

• Twin Fang Style: 10 

• Quickdraw Throw: 9 

• Unarmed Combat: 18 

• Garrote Use: 15 

• Rapier Mastery: 18 

• Combat Reflexes: 28 

• Throwing Knives: 25 

• Poisoned Fan: 9 

• Sword Mastery: 12 

• Silent Step: 30 

• Lockpicking: 20 

• Sleight of Hand: 28 

• Deception: 22 

• Disguise Mastery: 19 

• Climbing: 28 

• Wall Vaulting: 16 

• Cat’s Balance: 27 

• Silent Dash: 22 

• Interrogation Resistance: 12 

• Reading Lips: 14 

Eliza lay sprawled on the narrow cot in her dimly lit room, the faint flicker of a single lantern casting elongated shadows on the damp stone walls. The underground base of the guild, her sanctuary and cage, was eerily quiet this late at night. Her small room was bare save for the cot, a battered trunk at the foot of it, and a rickety stool in the corner. The air smelled faintly of mildew and old wood, but Eliza hardly noticed. Her attention was entirely absorbed by the precious book in her hands. 

The book of skills was a rare find, stolen from a pompous nobleman just days ago. To anyone else, it might have seemed like another dusty relic from a noble's overstuffed library, but Eliza knew better. The faded leather cover bore no title, but its contents were more valuable than gold—a collection of instructions and insights on unlocking rare and advanced skills. Skills that most people could only dream of attaining. Skills that could change her life. 

She flipped through the delicate pages, her fingers careful despite her growing frustration. The book spoke in cryptic, almost poetic terms about unlocking skills that required aether. Aether was fickle and temperamental, as if it had a will of its own. And here in Alvar, it was scarce—or so she’d been told. One of the senior assassins had once remarked, offhandedly, that the city's aether levels had been dwindling for decades. Why, she didn’t know. But the thought of being limited by something so intangible made her grit her teeth. 

She let out a low grunt of irritation, her temper flaring before she tamped it down. Turning the book back to the same page she’d been studying since she first cracked it open, her sharp eyes traced the familiar lines of text. The skill described here was “Phantom Reaping,” a skill so rare she’d never even heard it mentioned in the guild before. 

The page was maddeningly vague, as if the author had intended it to be understood only by those already halfway to mastering it. "The blade is not wielded by hand, but by the will. To reap the unseen, the wielder must vanish their intent along with the steel. The strike is not seen, nor felt, until it is finished." The words were poetic, sure, but they told her nothing practical. How was she supposed to vanish her intent? What did that even mean? She imagined slamming the book shut, but she held herself back. This book wasn’t just valuable—it was her key to becoming something more than what she was. 

She’d unlocked plenty of skills over the years. Stealth, Disguise, Lockpicking—she was one of the guild’s most promising recruits. But those were tools. Practical skills. This was something else. Something grander. A skill like this would set her apart, not just in the guild but in Alvar itself. 

Her grip tightened on the edges of the book, her knuckles whitening. She had half a mind to tear the stupid thing in half and throw it across the room, but she forced herself to take a slow breath. 

She sighed and rubbed her temple. The book mentioned prerequisites: dexterity with daggers, precision, aether manipulation. The first two she had in spades. The last one? She… wasn’t so sure. Aether was elusive to her. She’d felt it once or twice, maybe, in fleeting moments when her life was on the line. But she couldn’t summon it at will, and she certainly didn’t understand it. It was like trying to grab smoke. 

Unlocking Phantom Reaping required mastery over several interlinked skills. The book was explicit about the technical foundation: Daggers (30+), for precise and devastating strikes; Sleight of Hand (25+), to make the blade vanish fluidly; Deception (20+), to manipulate the enemy’s perception mid-combat; and Spirit (40+), to command aether well enough to phase the weapon into the aetheric plane. Each requirement demanded years of practice, a level of dedication that left no room for error. 

Her fingers traced the drawing on the opposite page—a dagger, half-visible, with jagged streaks emanating from it like phantom slashes. It looked almost alive, as if the blade itself moved with a will of its own. 

“Low aether levels,” she muttered under her breath, the senior assassin’s words coming back to her. It wasn’t fair. How were people supposed to unlock skills like this if the very essence needed for it was so scarce? 

She slammed the book shut, the sharp sound echoing in her small, dimly lit room. She let out a low growl of frustration, leaning back against the cold stone wall. She glared at the closed book as if it had personally offended her.  

“Stupid book,” she muttered, glaring at the stubbornly cryptic page as if it might surrender under her gaze. 

She snatched the book back up and flipped it open to the page she’d been and began reading again as if by some miracle she would finally understand how to unlock the advanced skill. 

Foundation of the Blade – Precision and Intent 

“The dagger must be more than a weapon. It must become an extension of the will. When the blade moves, it is not drawn but released. Your grip must be firm but yielding, holding the dagger not with force but with trust.” 

Eliza shifted uncomfortably, her hand flexing as if to test the weight of an imaginary blade. Trust the dagger? She snorted softly. She trusted her skills, her instincts. A dagger was a tool, not some mystical partner. 

Phantom Infusion – Aether Manipulation through the Blade 

“Aether must not be forced into the blade. The weapon is not a vessel—it is a mirror. The wielder’s intent guides the aether, not the steel. Focus on the space where steel and energy meet.” 

Aether. That damnable, elusive force again. Her grip tightened on the edge of the book. To channel aether? To manipulate it like the book described? It felt impossible. Her mind drifted to Thorne, her insufferable friend. Thorne, who seemed to wield aether as effortlessly as he breathed. 

“Of course, he would,” she muttered to herself. The handsome bastard had always been good at everything. Unlocking peculiar skills, bending raw aether to his will, pulling off feats that seemed impossible. It came to him like second nature, as if he didn’t even need to try. She… she had to claw her way for every inch of progress, fighting tooth and nail against herself and the world. The thought sent a familiar heat rising in her chest—resentment and admiration in equal measure. 

The Vanishing – Blade and Body Synchronization 

“The body must move in harmony with the blade. You are not hiding the weapon. You are hiding the moment of intent. The hand must flow like water, the strike like wind. To vanish the steel, the soul must vanish with it.” 

She imagined the motion described, her hand moving in a fluid, almost imperceptible arc. It wasn’t enough to strike—the attack itself had to be invisible. She tried to picture it in her mind: the blade slipping into nothingness, her opponent’s body marked by cuts they couldn’t see until it was too late. It was an enticing image, but the path to achieving it remained maddeningly out of reach. 

Phantom Strikes – Delivering Cuts Without Form 

“To strike with a blade unseen, you must sever the enemy’s mind from their body. Their thoughts must chase the blade, but never find it. The strike is not made by the steel, but by the absence left behind.” 

Eliza growled under her breath, shutting the book again, but more gently this time. How was anyone supposed to unlock a skill like this? It wasn’t just about physical ability. It demanded something more—a mastery of aether, an instinctive understanding of timing and presence. And worse, the instructions hinted that the skill could only be unlocked under specific conditions. Conditions that involved mortal peril. 

Her gaze flicked to the battered dagger resting on her bedside table. She picked it up, turning it over in her hand. The blade caught the faint lantern light, the edge gleaming wickedly. Could she ever achieve what the book described? Could she reach that level of precision and control? Or was it a pipe dream, something meant for people like Thorne? 

With a sigh, she set the dagger down and leaned back against the wall, her fingers absently tapping the book’s cover. Maybe it wasn’t meant for her. Maybe it was a cruel reminder of the gap between her and those who seemed to have been born for greatness. But as the thought lingered, it only stoked the simmering fire in her chest. She’d clawed her way out of the gutters of Alvar. She’d survived training that had broken stronger recruits. She wasn’t about to let this beat her. 

“One day,” she muttered to herself, a faint smirk tugging at her lips. 

Feeling hungry, Eliza decided to eat something at the dining hall. She took a moment to hide the book in her cloak, tucking it securely against her body. It wasn’t uncommon for fellow recruits to search each other’s rooms for anything valuable. It wasn’t seen as theft—more like a challenge. That didn’t mean Eliza trusted anyone to leave her rare find alone. 

Satisfied the book was safe, she stashed about a dozen daggers across her body—in her boots, along her belt, and even tucked into hidden sheaths sewn into her sleeves. Two vials of poison she had purchased earlier slid into her pockets, and with a final glance around, she shut the door behind her. 

The common room was almost empty. Only Kael, slouched on a couch, was reading a parchment, his brow furrowed in concentration, and Rorick, who sat at a table meticulously inspecting his weapons. 

Kael was still bent over his parchment as she passed, his face twisted in concentration. "Looks like he’s solving the world’s greatest mystery," she thought dryly. Knowing Kael, it was probably a love letter or a poorly written ode to one of the trainers. 

Eliza nodded at Rorick, who glanced up from his work and gave her a brief, sharp nod in return. She crossed the room quickly, her boots soft against the stone floor. The common room was shared by all recruits, a space that managed to feel both too large and suffocatingly small. Every few months, a new batch of recruits arrived, and those who survived were added to the ranks. Only those who passed the final trial—the one that made them full members—earned the privilege of their own rooms. 

A face came unbidden into her mind, but she pushed it away, refusing to dwell on memories that had no place here. 

The common room housed nearly forty recruits, all from her year but originating from different batches. Most avoided the space like the plague. Poisonings, traps, and "accidents" had turned the room into a battlefield of mistrust. Recruits preferred the solitude and safety of their rooms, leaving the common area eerily quiet most nights. 

Eliza made her way into the large round room beyond the common space, where the bridges suspended from various heights stretched across the wide opening. It always gave her the feeling of being in the center of a web, as though an enormous spider would descend to snatch her at any moment. She glanced over the edge, looking both upward and downward, and as always, it felt like the room never ended. 

Stepping onto one of the swaying bridges, she crossed the gap and joined a small group of recruits heading toward the dining hall. The faint hum of conversation and the clatter of utensils greeted her as they entered. The dining hall was always full of members—eating, drinking, and resting between missions or training. It was easy to spot who had just returned from a job: tired faces and cloaks bearing the sigil of the Lost Ones marked them out. 

Eliza’s eyes flicked to a table where Thorne’s friends sat. Rielle, Rhea, and Vance were deep in conversation. Her lip nearly curled in distaste, but she caught herself and kept her expression neutral. She especially disliked Rielle, with her stone-cold face and detached demeanor. 

“What does Thorne even see in her?” she thought, her irritation flaring briefly. Even Ben, who had a knack for liking everyone, couldn’t stand Rielle. Eliza ignored the group as she passed, forcing her thoughts away from them. 

She reached the serving station, where a man handed her a plate. Taking it without a word, she found a quiet corner and sat to eat in peace. She savored each bite, chewing slowly and letting the warm food settle in her stomach. After all these years, she still wasn’t used to it. The idea that she could eat whenever she pleased still felt like a luxury. 

She didn’t have to hide in the shadows, snatching scraps from unsuspecting bakers or begging for coins. She didn’t have to scavenge through trash, desperate for a piece of stale bread. Those memories seemed so far away now, but they lingered like shadows at the edge of her mind. The dining hall, always open, was a stark contrast to the hunger she’d once known. The guild had given her a life—a purpose. Her entire world had changed the day she was chosen. 

Her musings were interrupted by the appearance of one of the guild’s handlers. He approached her table, his expression unreadable. 

“You’re needed in my office,” he said simply. 

Eliza set her fork down and wiped her mouth with deliberate calm, though her mind immediately sharpened. She nodded, rising from her seat.  

A new mission. 

Finally.