The moment the shield stabilized in its hover and ProlixalParagon’s mana harmonized with the construct, something in the game’s foundation recognized him. A system not just built on rules, but on resonance, responded to the act of creation.
>System Update:<
>Primary class resonance now exceeds containment threshold for “Tinkerer.”>
>You have forged a new identity in soul, steel, and shadow.<
>Choose your path forward:<
>Artifice Bladecaller
>Aegirant-Kin
>Umbral Synthete
Prolix stepped back, breath catching as the options shimmered before his eyes, not just as text, but as potential shapes of what he might become.
Haidrien’s voice came softly. “This isn’t advancement, Prolix. This is transformation.”
<1. Artifice Bladecaller
“Every spark sings a command. Every strike sets the rhythm of the field.”
A hybrid support-and-melee class forged for those who wield constructs like extensions of thought. Bladecallers command semi-autonomous weapon-forms — drones, blades, and shifting modular arms — that hover, guard, and strike in rhythm with their wielder’s movements. Built for adaptability, they can shift between aggressive mid-range flurries and reactive support, layering damage and defense through seamless recalibration.
Primary Role: Mid-range adaptive combat + reactive utility support
Core Mechanic: Harmonic Sync – Chain attacks and construct abilities build resonance. Resonance is spent to reprogram drone behavior in combat (block, harass, pierce, shield).
Affinities: Metal, Soul, Abyssal
Key Abilities:
Chainbind Halberds: Mid-range floating blades tethered to your pulse signature
Reactive Overclock: Instantly retune a construct to defend or strike
Memory Echo Frame: Construct absorbs an incoming effect and replays it with inverted affinity
Special Trait: Constructs "learn" enemy behavior with continued exposure, adapting their patterns dynamically>
<2. Aegirant-Kin
“Not all shields are walls. Some are teeth.”
A class born of Soul-steel loyalty and forged in battlefields where protection means movement, not stagnation. Aegirant-Kin are mobile vanguards who deploy transforming artifacts that shield allies and harry foes at once. Their core strength lies in modular constructs called Guardians, which take different shapes — shields, limbs, tendrils, or mirrored armor — to meet the demands of a chaotic field.
Primary Role: Frontline protector + disruption duelist
Core Mechanic: Adaptive Guardian Matrix – Maintain a modular construct bonded to your soul. It shifts based on combat triggers, acting as either shield, weapon, or support node.
Affinities: Soul, Metal, Earth (minor), Abyssal
Key Abilities:
Splitguard Leap: Guardian absorbs damage and repositions to defend another target
Forged Reflex: Convert a failed parry into an area push-back
Soul Anchor Protocol: Create a tether point — if you fall, your construct fights on autonomously
Special Trait: Shield forms evolve based on how often they’re used to save others vs. damage foes>
<3. Umbral Synthete
“I craft between moments — in the breath before calamity, I find form.”
The most esoteric and volatile of the three evolutions, Umbral Synthetes shape shadow-infused technology and reactive void-imbued machinery. Designed for quick thinkers and improvisers, they are tactical battlefield shapers who thrive in chaos, blending utility, illusion, and sabotage through gear that phases between reality states.
Primary Role: Reactive mid-range trickster + area control support
Core Mechanic: Inversion Array – Activate constructs that twist logic: redirect spells, reflect force, or create phantom copies. These constructs function best when no single solution will suffice.
Affinities: Abyssal, Metal, Soul, Air (minor)
Key Abilities:
Phaseglide Treads: Shift short distances through terrain using active constructs as anchors
Null Pulse Mesh: Destroys minor constructs and effects in an area, feeding their energy to your next device
Entropy Braid Drones: Leave false readings of your location, causing enemies to misfire or miscast
Special Trait: When a Synthete device breaks, there’s a chance it evolves into a temporary paradox tool>
The shimmering display hovered before him — three futures, all rooted in who he was, but none confined by what he had been.
Artifice Bladecaller, if he wished to turn adaptability into song and strike, becoming the fulcrum between blade and command.
Aegirant-Kin, if he chose to be the storm-forged shield that moved with his people rather than stood before them.
Umbral Synthete, if he dared dive deeper into entropy and invention, turning impossibility into an engine of control.
ProlixalParagon reached up, hand hovering just shy of the choices.
Haidrien stood quietly beside him, gaze not full of answers—but wonder.
“Whatever you choose,” he said softly, “it won’t just be your class that changes. The system is watching. You’re rewriting what a Tinkerer can become.”
>Please select your new Primary Class.<
>Artifice Bladecaller
>Aegirant-Kin
>Umbral Synthete
The glyphs shimmered before him like molten silver suspended in air. Each class title pulsed with subtle resonance, almost like a heartbeat waiting to sync with his own.
Artifice Bladecaller. Aegirant-Kin. Umbral Synthete.
ProlixalParagon’s tail flicked once, a slow, thoughtful motion as his mind spun through everything he’d learned, everything he’d built—and everything he might become.
He closed his eyes.
And let himself feel.
Bladecaller appealed to the rhythm of him. He could already envision it—an elegant dance between thought and motion, each command a thread that pulled a construct blade across the field with precision. But… it didn’t quite match the weight of the shield he’d built. Too sleek. Too focused on attack.
His shield had been a promise.
Not to harm.
To endure.
That pulled him, heavily, toward the Aegirant-Kin. The way it moved with the battlefield, flowing around allies like a tide of steel. Its modular guardian constructs mirrored the philosophy of his soul-bound shield almost perfectly. It even carried the same undercurrent of protect to survive that had anchored him since Dustreach.
And yet—
His eyes slid toward the third glyph, and it whispered in return.
Umbral Synthete.
The wild card. The trickster. The impossible engineer.
Everything about it rang with volatility… but also freedom. Its constructs weren’t bound by purpose—they became what was needed. They failed and transformed. They didn’t obey the world’s rules—they rewrote them. And wasn’t that exactly what he had done?
When he built the mana-reactive shield, he hadn’t followed blueprints.
He’d bent mana, affinity, and identity around a problem and forced a solution that hadn’t existed before.
His mind drifted to the three blueprints he’d found so far in the quest The Lost Workbenches of the Master Tinkerer.
The armor, with its modular plating and reactive venting — perfect for a support class that evolved through trial.
Unauthorized duplication: this tale has been taken without consent. Report sightings.
The weapon, uncertain but tuned to mana fluctuations and variable output — volatile, adaptable, unpredictable.
The third schematic — still unreadable, still undefined — possibly a construct, possibly something new entirely.
Those designs weren’t rigid like the Bladecaller’s elegant armaments. They weren’t steady like the Aegirant-Kin’s proud defenders.
They were... fluid.
Alive.
Like paradoxes sealed in copper.
Like Synthete code.
Prolix opened his eyes slowly.
And the choice was clear.
>New Primary Class Selected:<
>Class Trait Unlocked: Fractal Instinct — When wielding a prototype or incomplete construct, gain +20% adaptability and a chance for anomaly triggers.<
>Class Feat Unlocked: Inversion Array — Devices can be recalibrated mid-combat for alternate functions at the cost of temporary stability.<
>Crafting Feat Unlocked: Paradox Bloom — Failed constructs have a 33% chance to reform as limited-use glitch devices with unique effects.<
>Welcome, Synthete.<
The moment the class locked in, Prolix’s whole body shuddered—not in pain, but in resonance.
His internal mana lattice flexed and rewove itself. Glyphs flickered across his vision, old formulas collapsing into sparks and reassembling into foreign geometries that made more sense than they had any right to.
The shield—his first masterpiece—recoiled and then adjusted, reconfiguring itself in mid-air, its glyphwork twisting until the mana bubble briefly pulsed outward with hexagonal ripples, phasing twice before stabilizing again.
Haidrien took a step back, jaw slack.
“You… shifted the entire construct. It just changed with you.”
Prolix looked down at his hands, which now shimmered faintly with rune-dust — not lines of code, but suggestions of structure waiting to be finalized.
“I didn’t change it,” ProlixalParagon said softly. “I invited it to change.”
And it had answered.
With a thought he pulled up his character sheet and allocated his points.
Player Name: ProlixalParagon Level: 10
Class:Umbral Synthete
Subclass:None
Profession: None Specialization: None
Currently Active Title: -
Most used Skill: -
Alignment: Chaotic Grey
Health: 165/165 Mana: 140/140 Stamina: 90/90
Points Earned: 10
Reputation:
-OakHaven - 10
-Vermillion Troupe - 115
-Pella - 0
-Marx - 50
-Lyra - 100
-Kaelthari - 10
-Arelis - 5
-Lord Elmsworth - (-100)
-DustReach - (-100)
-Draggor - (-100)
-Yendrals Hollow - 50
-Soohan - 50
-Sern Ka’torr - 0
Attributes:
Strength:13 Constitution:14 Dexterity:22 Intelligence: 22
Wisdom: 20 Charisma: 12 Piety: 0 Luck: 12
Karma: 10
Combat:
Attack: 14 Accuracy: 10 Agility: 15 Speed: 8
Critical: 0.21 Endurance:12 Focus: 15 Defense:10
Magic Def: 10 Armor:10 Hygieian Meter: 15 Perception: 12
Affinities:
Earth: 0 Water: 0
Fire: 0 Air: 4
Blood: 0 Soul: 4
Celestial: 0 Abyssal: 20
Lightning: 0 Ice: 0
Metal: 4 Wood: 0
Currently Equipped Gear:
Worn Leather armor (Durability: 7/45)
Tinkerers beginners tool set (Durability: 22/45)
Low grade iron dagger (Durability: 8/25)
Makeshift trash Caltrops (Qty: 31 Pcs)
Marx’s Woven Cuff (Durability: 45/45) (Accessory — +1 Dexterity, +5% Mana Efficiency)
Jury-Rigged Mana Snare (Single Use)
Active Status Effects:
Abilities:
-
Titles
-
Passive Skills:
Improvised weaponry , Salvager’s Insight , Master Tinkerer’s Insight, Herbalism (Novice), Soul Sensitivity, Metal Sensitivity
Feats:
Inversion Array, Paradox Bloom
Character Background:
Fennician, Scholars Apprentice, Cursed Bloodline
Character Traits:
Lunar Reflexes , Unrooted Identity , Magical Burnout, Knowledge Retention, Dark Affinity, Fractal Instinct
Currently active Quest:
The Lost Workbenches of the Master Tinkerer (3/7)
With a final glance at the sheet he accepted the changes and dismissed it before turning to haidrien.
The shield hovered beside him, its surface now bearing a subtle texture of shifting glyphs—fluid, flickering, like echoes cast by thought rather than light. ProlixalParagon extended a hand toward it and watched the construct respond—not with a simple hover or pulse, but a curious tilt, like it was awaiting his next mood rather than command.
A new overlay flickered faintly in the corner of his vision.
He let out a slow, disbelieving breath. He could test one of these—right now.
His fingers twitched toward his tool pouch. He could load in the Scrap-Drift Shade, just to see what happened. Maybe observe how its anchor reformed around non-flat terrain. Or he could fire off the Inversion Drone, set it to mirror its own programming mid-loop…
It was all right there.
All of it.
A whole new suite of mechanics that bent logic, teased paradox, and turned battlefield improvisation into an artform.
He grinned, half-manic, half in awe. “Just a quick—”
Then he saw the light.
Golden-pink. Late.
He blinked and turned sharply toward the window. The sun was far past its apex, sliding toward the sea, the sky now streaked in salmon and violet and scattered gull silhouettes. The bells of the second dock tier had already chimed twice since midday.
And suddenly, his stomach dropped.
The Troupe.
“Oh no. Oh no.”
He fumbled to snatch up his toolkit, overstuffed pouch, and the still-hovering shield. “Haidrien—what time is it?!”
Haidrien, who had been watching him with a bemused air and arms crossed, arched a brow. “Judging by the light and the tide?” He cocked his head. “Time you were already back.”
“I was supposed to check in hours ago!” Prolix scrambled to fasten his satchel, clipping his prototype shield to a new magnetic bracer he’d rigged for load-bearing constructs. “They’re probably halfway to panic.”
Haidrien passed him a sealed vial of oil and a coiled wire assembly without needing to be asked. “They strike camp at dusk, don’t they?”
“They’re waiting for final papers to ship out—if Lyra thinks something happened, she might send Marx into the sewers looking for me!”
He darted toward the shop door, then doubled back. “Thank you! For everything! And if the construct starts singing, don’t touch it—just… I’ll explain later!”
He bolted out into the streets of Sern Ka’Torr, cloak snapping behind him like a banner of half-formed ideas and poorly timed genius.
Behind him, Haidrien simply smiled and muttered to the empty workshop:
“Run fast, Tinkerer. You’re not the same fox who walked in.”
The streets of Sern Ka’Torr rushed past in a whirl of shadow and copper light.
ProlixalParagon sprinted through a tiered corridor of wind-chimes and swaying ropes, boots striking against damp stone slick with windborne sea-spray. The sky had begun to dim toward indigo, slashed through with amber-pink sunfire as the last rays vanished behind the cliff-bound terraces.
The city, once vibrant and alive with noise and movement, now felt suspended — waiting, like a breath held too long.
And still, he ran.
His prototype shield clung to his back, humming with quiet kinetic energy. Tools clattered at his side with each stride, the modular drone casing clipped to his belt shifting like a restless insect. His lungs burned, but his legs didn't falter. He had spent hours lost in revelation, in innovation, in becoming — and now the world outside that transformation demanded reckoning.
The stairs down to the second dock tier nearly cost him his footing. He half-leapt, half-slid down the slick curve of coral-lined stone, startling a street bard and a merchant’s luminous crab-drawn cart in the process.
By the time he passed under the etched whale-bone arch of the trade causeway, the plaza where the Vermillion Troupe had set up camp came into view — framed in the last dying light of day and veiled in motionless silence.
The colorful vardos that had once formed a semi-circle around the perimeter of the camp now sat half-shuttered. No music. No laughter. The pennants that usually fluttered atop their wagons hung limp, dulled by the still air and fading light.
Even the children were quiet.
Prolix slowed, breath catching in his throat.
He crossed the open causeway as dusk kissed the sea, the light behind him casting his shadow far into camp. A few heads turned as he approached — Ralyria’s silver-etched helm twitching in recognition, Kaelthari’s gold-chained horns glinting faintly. One of the Goblin elders narrowed his eyes, but said nothing.
It was Lyra who stepped out from the central vardo.
She did not hurry.
She moved like sand shifting across old stone — slow, deliberate, her silver fur dulled with fatigue and salt. Her staff tapped against the stones as she crossed the final few feet between them, her expression unreadable.
There were new lines around her eyes. A stillness that hadn't been there before.
When she stopped in front of him, the hush around the Troupe pressed in like fog.
ProlixalParagon bowed his head, tail low. “I—”
“You vanished,” Lyra said, voice low and rasping, like wind through withered reeds.
Her golden eyes searched his face, as if looking through him, not at him. “No message. No escort. No sign. The Registry hadn't seen you. The guards didn’t know your name.”
“I—” he swallowed. “I was at a shop. With someone who—someone who helped me. I got caught up in something important. I didn’t mean to stay away so long.”
“Important?”
Her eyes flicked to the bracer on his wrist, the unusual shape of the shield mounted at his back, the subtle shimmer of newly bound glyphwork along his collarbone that hadn’t been there before. Faint, but visible to those who knew what to look for.
Something about ProlixalParagon had changed.
She did not question it.
Instead, she let out a slow breath, as if she had been holding it for hours.
“I sent Marx to the docks. Kaelthari to the under-tier. Ralyria stood guard. The children stayed inside. Every echo of you led nowhere.”
“I’m sorry,” he said. The words were hoarse, tight. “I didn’t think— I wasn’t careful. I got pulled into a crafting sequence and I lost track of time.”
She was silent a long time.
Then, slowly, her hand — lined with age and heat-callused from decades of sand and work — lifted and settled on his shoulder. Not harshly. Not with judgment. But firmly.
“We are not angry,” Lyra murmured. “We are afraid. For each other. Every soul we lose to silence is a name remembered in ash.”
Prolix’s breath hitched.
“I’ll do better,” he whispered. “I’ll earn back the trust.”
“You do not need to earn it,” Lyra said, squeezing once. “You simply need to not leave it behind.”
She stepped back and turned toward the firepit at the center of camp, where one of the Fennician cooks was slowly rekindling coals under a dented kettle.
“Come. Eat. Then sleep. You can explain what you've become after the sun rises.”
He nodded, throat tight. The weight of her gaze lingered even after she turned away.
As he followed her, several of the younger Troupe members glanced up. One of the kits — pale-furred and wide-eyed — whispered something to another. Ralyria gave him a small nod. Kaelthari looked at him for a long, unreadable moment, then turned back to his post.
The scent of dried root-broth and bitter herbs filled the air. The night wind returned. And with it, the calm of a caravan knit together not by perfection — but by presence.
ProlixalParagon sat near the edge of the fire, fingers still twitching with the memory of raw creation. He watched the coals shift, the embers blink. In his core, his new class whispered: There is more. You can become more still.
But for now… he stayed.
With them.
The fire crackled quietly, casting flickering shadows across the carved wheels of the nearest vardos and the muted silks fluttering from their awnings. The warmth soaked into ProlixalParagon’s fur, chasing the last of the sea-chill from his limbs. Across the embers, the quiet hum of the Troupe had returned—low conversations, the clink of wooden bowls, the rustle of cloth, the hush of worn bodies readying for another night beneath strange stars.
Lyra returned from the far side of camp just as a pair of kits curled up beside a resting Ralyria, her metal frame creaking gently as she adjusted to shield them from the wind. Prolix looked up as the caravan elder approached, her staff tapping once on the stone beside him before she settled down with practiced care.
For a moment, she simply stared into the fire, her golden eyes reflecting the embers.
Then, with the same tone she used when speaking of weather patterns and the mood of the moon, she said, “The next ship to BaiGai leaves in seven days.”
Prolix sat up straighter. “That long?”
Lyra gave a single nod. “It will take on cargo for the League of Six Isles first—lumber, saltfish, resin. We are listed as protected passengers under Red Fox sponsorship, but we do not dictate its pace.”
“Seven days…” he echoed, thinking of the flickering horizon of his quest. Of the people they might encounter. Of the mystery growing beneath his skin. “That’s enough time to prepare. But it’s a risk, too. The longer we stay in Sern Ka’Torr…”
“The more we’re noticed,” Lyra finished. Her eyes turned toward the fire again, shadows dancing across the deep whorls of her silver fur. “Even with the merchant guild shielding our presence, someone will sniff us out. Soldiers. Bounty-seekers. Or worse—curious minds with too many questions about a caravan of Fennicians and Goblins heading into the open sea.”
She leaned her staff gently against the rim of the fire pit. “We remain here until then. Quietly. No open trading. No performances. We’ve claimed space near the loading yard where we won’t be questioned—too close to the salt-haulers for the nobles, too clean for the rough crews. Ralyria and Kaelthari will rotate night watch. Marx will meet the captain once a day to verify schedule.”
“And me?” Prolix asked softly.
Lyra’s gaze slid sideways, full of layered knowing.
“You do what you do best, child.”
He blinked. “Which is?”
“Observe. Invent. Adapt. And perhaps this time…” her eyes crinkled slightly with faint amusement, “return before the sun has set.”
A smile crept across his face, faint but warm.
“I think I can manage that.”
Lyra rose, her motions careful but unburdened now, the tension in her shoulders eased slightly by certainty. “Then rest tonight. Tomorrow, I suspect, will begin the real work.”
As she stepped away, the fire popped softly, casting a brief flare of gold across his bracer and the glinting edge of his soul-bound shield.
Seven days.
A city to disappear within.
And a new class still humming under his skin, full of shadow and sparks and infinite, shifting possibilities.