Luck, it seemed, was not entirely unsympathetic to his plight. Just as the gnawing in his stomach reached a crescendo of operatic proportions, and the dockyard materialized before him in a chaotic sprawl of masts, rigging, and the pungent aroma of brine and fish, fortune, in the guise of a well-dressed gentleman, decided to intervene. He hadn't even needed to awkwardly hawk his jacket like a street vendor peddling questionable wares.

  As he stood on the edge of the bustling dockyard, taking in the dizzying scene of stevedores shouting in rapid-fire Japanese, creaking timbers, and the flapping of countless sails, a figure detached himself from a knot of bustling dockworkers and approached Faelyn with the purposeful stride of a man accustomed to getting his way. And getting it swiftly.

  “Say there, son,” the man addressed him in crisp, almost startlingly clear English. “That’s… quite the unusual garment you have there.”

  It was then, amidst the maritime chaos, that Faelyn gleaned his location from a nearby sign, boldly proclaiming in both Japanese script and surprisingly legible English letters: “Welcome to Kobe Port.” Kobe. Well, that narrowed things down considerably, if by “considerably” one meant “to an entire country.” At least it wasn't fire-breathing squirrel territory, yet.

  The man, upon closer inspection, was practically a caricature plucked straight from a ‘Stereotypical Merchant’ starter pack. Theodore Langford, he introduced himself, and he embodied the archetype to a tee. Forty-something, American, hailing from the concrete jungle of New York City, and professing to be a textile importer – though, judging by the cut of his fine navy suit and the ostentatious glint of a gold pocket watch peeking from his waistcoat, he likely imported more than just textiles. His dark hair was slicked back with almost military precision, and a neatly trimmed mustache perched above a shrewd, assessing gaze. He radiated an aura of brisk efficiency and the faint scent of expensive cologne, a stark contrast to the briny air of the docks.

  Theodore’s gaze lingered on Faelyn’s denim jacket, a flicker of genuine curiosity in his merchant eyes. Seeing this spark of interest, Faelyn, seizing the unexpected opportunity, launched into his sales pitch. “Denim, sir,” he declared, adopting a slightly more confident tone than he actually felt. “Remarkably durable fabric. Lasts practically forever, comfortable in all climates, and exceptionally versatile.” He even threw in some technical jargon he vaguely remembered from a documentary about jeans manufacturing. “And the stitch, sir, the twill stitch. Unparalleled strength.” He paused for dramatic effect, channeling his inner used car salesman. “And the craftsmanship, truly… unmatchable. No machine could replicate this level of… consistency.” He ended on a somewhat weaker note, realizing machines did in fact replicate consistency rather well, probably better than any human, but hopefully the merchant wouldn’t dwell on that minor detail.

  Theodore Langford stroked his mustache, genuinely impressed. Not just by the curious fabric, which did indeed possess a unique texture and appearance, but also by Faelyn’s unexpectedly fluent English. “You speak the King’s English remarkably well, young man,” he observed, his shrewd eyes narrowing slightly.

  The merchant was no fool. He’d been around the transactional block a few times, and desperation had a particular scent, a scent he was currently detecting emanating from young Mr. Denim Jacket. “You seem rather… eager to part with this… durable and versatile garment,” Theodore remarked, a hint of amusement lacing his voice. He didn’t mince words. “Lost your funds, have you?”

  Cornered and with nothing left to lose but his rumbling stomach, Faelyn decided honesty, or at least a carefully curated version of it, was the best policy. “All of it,” he admitted with a rueful shrug, “Money, possessions… vanished. As if by magic.” He omitted the ‘dimensionally displaced’ and ‘skill system’ aspects, figuring those might be slightly harder to swallow, even for a seasoned merchant. Then, pivoting smoothly, he added, “Though, I am quite fluent in English, as you’ve noted. If you, perchance, require a translator during your stay in Kobe…” He trailed off, letting the unspoken offer hang in the air.

  Sensing an opportunity, Theodore Langford made a swift decision. “Translator, you say?” he repeated, a smile playing around his lips. “Perhaps. Perhaps for the duration of my business here in Kobe. Consider yourself… temporarily employed.”

  If you discover this tale on Amazon, be aware that it has been stolen. Please report the violation.

  …

  Faelyn couldn't shake the prickling unease that Mr. Langford’s sudden offer, so readily given and so seemingly convenient, felt less like a stroke of luck and more like a meticulously laid trap, baited with employment and smelling distinctly of saltwater and something else… something like a practiced smile that didn't quite reach the merchant’s sharp, assessing eyes.

  Faelyn realized with a jolt of cold dread that he was fundamentally, laughably unprepared for this world. He needed a safety net, and he needed it in the morning. Preferably woven from something sturdier than wishful thinking and a bachelor's degree. He was, to put it bluntly, physically underwhelming. A stiff breeze could probably knock him over, and a serious threat? Well, against a serious threat, his best bet was probably advanced-level interpretive dance and hoping for mercy via sheer awkwardness. He needed muscle. Or, failing actual muscle, some magical skill-equivalent thereof. He vaguely recalled, from the mists of high school biology – a class he mostly aced through sheer panicked cramming – something about dense muscle fibers being good. And tendons. And ligaments. Were ligaments even related to muscle strength? Honestly, the details were hazy, like a textbook left out in the rain. These vague biological components swam in his mind, promising strength, but feeling frustratingly abstract and… build-it-yourself-furniture-level confusing. Then, a brighter, shinier, and decidedly more immediately appealing concept flickered into his thoughts: Adrenaline. Now that sounded like a shortcut.

  He knew the stories, the almost mythical tales of superhuman mothers. Faced with a child’s life hanging in the balance, they became forces of nature. Humans, yes, but momentarily transcending human limitations. Lifting tons of steel, shattering wood and metal with bare hands. He mentally drew a comparison, absurd yet compelling, between a human mother’s surge of protective power and the raw, untamed ferocity of a bear mother defending her cubs. The primal instinct, amplified by a cocktail of hormones, blurring the lines between species, unleashing something… extraordinary.

  Adrenaline. He dredged up fragmented memories from long-ago biology classes. Fight or flight. That primal jolt, a chemical cascade triggered by fear, by stress, by sheer, unadulterated panic. Secreted by the adrenal gland, those unassuming little factories perched atop the kidneys, ready to flood the system with a potent cocktail of… what exactly? Superhuman strength? Enhanced speed?

  The question hung in the air, thick with possibility. What would it be like to deliberately, consciously, summon a tidal wave of adrenaline? To ride that chemical surge, to weaponize his own body’s emergency response system? Would it transform him, even for a fleeting moment, into something… more capable? Less of a liability? Less likely to be caught unprepared in a dangerous situation? Only one way to find out, his inner daredevil, a deeply buried and usually well-suppressed entity, whispered with dangerous enthusiasm.

  Time, it seemed, for yet another foray into the uncharted territory of skill creation. He leaned against a stack of loosely bound crates, the rough wood scratching against his denim jacket – soon to be Theodore Langford’s denim jacket, if all went according to plan. He closed his eyes, mentally retreating inwards, preparing for another dive into the bizarre mechanics of his newfound ability.

  Conception. The concept bloomed readily in his mind, already half-formed by his frantic musings. Adrenaline surge. On demand. A mental tap he could turn on whenever he needed that extra… oomph. Like a hidden reserve tank of pure, unadulterated ‘don’t mess with me, world’ energy.

  Clarification. He mentally revisited the cartoonish, slightly ridiculous, but surprisingly effective visualization of the adrenal glands from his earlier brainstorming. Kidneys, tiny hats, panicked brain telegrams, power-up juice. He refined it slightly, picturing the adrenal glands more realistically this time, those small, vital organs nestled near the kidneys, waiting for the signal, the chemical command from the brain to unleash their potent brew into the bloodstream. He imagined the process, a chain reaction of biological events, culminating in that rush, that surge of chemically induced… something. Power? Focus? Desperation-fueled strength?

  Crystallization. He reached inwards, seeking that now-familiar, yet still elusive, sensation. The ghostly echo of the ‘Learning by Listening’ skill creation. The blurry, glowing cube, still stubbornly out of focus, stubbornly resistant to clear definition. The phantom nudge in his mind, the nascent tendril of potential waiting to be grasped, to be shaped. He focused, centering himself amidst the dockyard’s cacophony, pushing aside the smells of fish and brine, the shouts of dockworkers, the creak of ships. He reached for that ephemeral feeling, that almost-but-not-quite tangible presence of the Concept Engine, and with a mental push, he activated it.