Cole wrapped up his gravity practice around quarter to six and headed back toward the primary training facility. The others were already clustered outside; apparently everyone had gotten the memo about Fotham’s measurements.

  Miles had already jumped the gun with his fantasies when Cole walked up. “—been what, three weeks? Month? Ain’t no way we ain’t leveled by now; I’m just rarin’ to fuck shit up.”

  “That’s… optimistic,” Ethan said.

  “Optimistic?” Miles repeated, looking like he’d been personally offended.

  “I fear I must agree with Walker,” Elina said.

  “Brother, we’ve been bustin’ our asses out there. We’ve been trainin’ on the daily, and if ain’t trainin’ then it’s fightin’ ‘gainst real demons. Don’t tell me that don’t count for somethin’.”

  Cole almost wanted to agree, but he’d seen plenty of guys put in work and still hit plateaus. Maybe it counted. Maybe it didn’t. He could try his hand at swimming – hell, he could put his all into it – but at the end of the day, he still wouldn’t hold a candle to Phelps.

  Mack seemed to share the same sentiment, though fuck if Cole knew whether it stemmed from the same logic. “Probably does. For you guys, at least. I’m already at eighteen, so… I’m not expecting much.”

  Miles’ grin faded, the hype draining out of his voice as he shifted into a softer tone. “Still. Maybe it ain’t a full level, but it’ll be somethin’. Nothin’ ever moves fast as we want it to.”

  Their medic just shrugged, as if isekai, progression, and magic wasn’t his jam.

  It didn’t add up. Mack sat at level eighteen – highest in the group by a mile – and was their resident expert on exactly this kind of system. The man used to get animated about spell experimentation, about one-upping the other Slayer Elites in OTAC, about the whole meta, really. This should’ve been his conversation to own.

  But he chose not to. Either he understood diminishing returns well enough to be genuinely realistic about his odds, or he was too depressed to care about what should normally be his passion.

  Cole sure hoped it was the former, even though he knew in his gut it was probably the latter. Like Miles just said, nothing ever moved as fast as he wanted it to – and Mack recovering from the nightmare he was living in sure as shit wasn’t going to be the exception.

  He shelved the thought. Dwelling on it wouldn’t help anyone.

  “Well, we’ll find out soon enough,” Cole said. “C’mon, let’s not keep Lady Verna waiting.”

  Cole pushed through the front doors of the training facility and led them upstairs to Verna’s office. He knocked on the open door and entered without waiting for a response. There he found Lady Verna and Director Fotham, apparently handling some workplace bullshit.

  “—and incur Lady Kathyra’s displeasure? I think not. If you wish to borrow me for your diversions, you may first persuade her that her work can spare me.”

  Verna broke off as she noticed their entrance. “Ah. Our guests. How very punctual.”

  Fotham turned from Verna. His face betrayed exactly how much he’d been looking forward to this, professional detachment be damned. At least, for a split second. He cleaned it up quick, smoothing into the composure Cole recognized.

  Still, Cole couldn’t help but grin. “Excited to see us, Director?”

  “Captain.” Fotham inclined his head, fully locked in now. “I shall call it professional interest, though I confess the distinction proves rather thin. It has been over a month since your initial assessment, and I merely… find myself curious to see what your training has wrought. I do suspect you share that curiosity, no?”

  Cole had to admit, that was a good save. “Yeah, fair enough. We were just talking about it.”

  “Splendid.” Fotham made it one word into his response before already heading for the exit. “Then let us proceed without delay. I should very much like to see what a month of rigorous application has wrought. Lady Verna, if you would be so kind as to accompany us? I shall endeavor to make this as painless as possible.”

  Verna sighed like she’d just been voluntold for extra duty but rose from her chair anyway. “How unspeakably considerate of you, Director. I shall cherish every moment.”

  Fotham’s mouth twitched. “Your enthusiasm, as ever, is deeply moving.”

  He led them down the hall to one of the measurement rooms. Cole recognized the setup immediately – the same steampunk amalgamation of vials and tubes. Purple fluid sat inert in the base, the line on the floor marking a one-meter distance.

  Fotham walked up to the device and pulled out a notebook. He grabbed a quill from a nearby station, dipped it, then turned back to the group.

  “The methodology, I trust, remains familiar to you all. You stand at the marked line, channel mana into a barrier spell, and maintain output until either the measurement stabilizes or exhaustion intervenes. The fluid shall rise accordingly, providing a rather precise quantification of your current capacity.”

  He glanced around. “Now then – I wonder if any among you might care to volunteer first? Or shall we proceed in some orderly fashion?”

  Miles’ hand shot up before Fotham even finished the question. “I’ll go. Let’s see what we’re workin’ with.”

  “Very well. Step onto the line and begin applying mana.”

  Miles stepped up and planted himself at the line, shoulders rolling back like he was about to throw hands with the machine. He grinned like he was ready to prove a point, probably more to himself than to anyone else.

  He raised a hand and began pouring his mana into a barrier.

  The purple fluid in the device sloshed, stuttered, then surged upward past the ten mark. It slowed, still climbing until it finally leveled just past eleven.

  Miles dropped the spell. “Woo! Told y’all we’ve been cookin’!”

  The man’s relief was subtle, but there. Good thing the numbers matched the attitude; it probably would’ve been real embarrassing if Miles wrote a check his ass couldn’t cash.

  Fotham scribbled something in his notebook, mouth twitching like he’d just watched his investment portfolio beat projections – almost literally, considering they were technically the Kingdom’s investments. “From ten point two to eleven point three. Encouraging progress, and within the month, no less.”

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  “Yeah, I s’pose I’ll take that.” Miles feigned humility, but the performance couldn’t have been more half-assed. “Give me another year and I’ll be castin’ plasmaballs.”

  “An optimistic projection,” Fotham said – which was pretty much the diplomatic version of ‘sure, kid, whatever you say.’ “I do, however, admire the enthusiasm. Now then, who’s next?”

  “I’ll go.” Ethan volunteered himself forward while the rest of them naturally sorted into a queue – Cole behind him, Elina behind Cole, and Mack at the tail end just shuffling in like his brain was on autopilot.

  Ethan raised his hand and started pumping mana into his barrier. The device’s liquid lurched upward, climbing past ten, past eleven, before settling into a gentle wobble.

  “Eleven point four,” Fotham announced.

  Ethan nodded once and stepped back without even the slightest word of commentary. The contrast to Miles’ whole victory lap routine was pretty stark – but then again, not much of a surprise. Hard to get worked up over incremental mana growth when the day’s real win was apparently learning holy magic.

  Cole went next, walking up to the device.

  Miles’ and Ethan’s numbers suggested he’d land short of a full level, maybe somewhere close to thirteen if he was lucky. Exponential growth being what it was – a predictable pain in the ass.

  He let mana flow through his arm, warmth building up as his barrier sprung to life. The liquid crept past eleven, past twelve, finally stalling at the halfway point.

  “Twelve point five.” Fotham exhaled like someone had just told him his investment hadn’t tanked. “Excellent progress. Excellent indeed.”

  “You sound pretty… uh, relieved?”

  “Yes, I’ll admit as such. You see, some few find their progress stifled between the tiers – six and seven, twelve and thirteen, and so forth. Happily, you are spared that indignity. Your ascent has been rather smooth, I dare say, which spares both you and the Treasury a measure of concern until we near fifteen, no?”

  Cole raised an eyebrow. “Huh, you really do learn something new every day.”

  He’d figured the exponential curve was the only middle finger to growing his mana capacity, but it turned out there were bonus walls to potentially face-plant into. Still had the exponential problem, obviously, but hitting the 13-15 range would unlock techniques with hard minimums. Large-scale telekinesis, for example, needed that tier just to initialize.

  Some spells like that simply didn’t care how efficient his casting was or how well he understood the theory. If his tank was too small, he wouldn’t be able to generate the output. A level one mage could study nuclear physics all day and still never have the juice to manifest a hypothetical nuke.

  Pleasant news just became excellent news. Growing steadily and dodging problems he hadn’t known existed.

  “How fast can I push to thirteen?”

  Fotham looked up from his notebook. “Eager, are we? Quite right, I suppose. We’ll speak of acceleration once these measures are concluded; I’ve a notion or two that may interest you.”

  “Looking forward to it.” Cole stepped aside as Elina moved forward and ran the same test.

  “Fifteen point seven,” Fotham announced. “Up from fifteen point four at your last measurement.”

  She nodded and walked back to the group, leaving Mack up next.

  The medic approached the device with all the enthusiasm of someone renewing their driver’s license.

  Still, he put his all into it. The liquid shot past seventeen, finally stabilizing just above eighteen.

  Fotham scribbled in his notebook, looked up to announce the result – and hesitated. Something had caught his attention, made him study Mack longer than necessary. But he opted to just let it go, as everyone else had. Even his commentary lacked its usual snark.

  “Eighteen point one. A tenth’s rise may not sound grand, but the margin between these tiers far surpasses the lower ten levels combined. You’ve done well enough.”

  Mack accepted it with a simple nod.

  “That said,” Fotham continued, still eyeing him, “yours is precisely the sort of talent that tempts a man to keep records. I shall return each month to observe your progress, if you’ve no objection.”

  Mack gave another automated nod before retreating to his spot like he’d just finished some mandated corporate training module.

  Fotham scribbled away for another few seconds before snapping his notebook shut. “Now then, let us proceed to the matter of acceleration, shall we? You’ve all made commendable progress – the constant drills and engagements since your arrival have served you well. Still, with your impending leave, I rather expect that schedule will suffer some disturbance.”

  “Alright. What’ve you got in mind?” Cole asked.

  “Something rather simple, I dare say: diet. As the soldier’s strength is built upon protein, so a mage’s reserves depend upon fare that is rich in mana. Some favor the flesh of wyverns or other such creatures steeped in the arcane – and it does have its uses – but in practice, the most efficient course remains the humbler one. Mana potions, naturally, form the backbone of that regimen.”

  Miles seemed about as skeptical. “So wait – we keep takin’ potions even when we’re not trainin’? Like… vitamins or somethin’? Supplements?”

  “Quite so. Though that is hardly the entirety of it. There are matters of timing, absorption, and the like – dull necessities, best left to your quartermaster. For now, adherence will do.”

  So there was more to it. Cole wouldn’t have minded the full breakdown, actually. Nutrition had been drilled into him hard enough that he knew the details mattered. Macros, timing, absorption rates – all that shit could make or break performance. But Fotham’s body language said he was keeping this brief on purpose, probably had a stack of paperwork waiting for him.

  Fair enough. They could circle back to the technical stuff later if it became relevant.

  Ethan cut in. “You said you had a notion or two. What’s the other one?”

  “They’re rather more…” Fotham tilted his head, as though trying to find the right description, “involved. I’ve two others, in fact. The first is simply exposure to mana-dense environments. We maintain a chamber below that draws in and compresses mana, wherein you might meditate or train. Alternatively, and considerably less civilized, is fieldwork – near the border, or within the Istraynian Wastes themselves, where the density arises naturally.”

  Altitude training, but for mana. Seemed simple enough, even if it was pretty damn ‘involved,’ as Fotham had put it.

  The Director continued, “The last method is mana circulation – internal exercises, cycling the current through one’s system without external release. Rather like holding tension without motion, if you will. It builds capacity through endurance, albeit not in the fashion most might term ‘training.’”

  This one was a bit harder for Cole to put a finger on, but he eventually landed on isometric holds, but for magic. He’d done enough planks and wall-sits to know just how effective that type of exercise could be. It hurt like hell, and it definitely wasn’t fancy, but the results spoke for themselves.

  “However,” Fotham added, raising a hand before anyone could ask follow-up questions, “those matters are for after your leave. The potions will suffice in the meantime. We shall revisit the rest once you’ve returned – and properly recovered.”

  Cole couldn’t argue there; they actually needed to chill out for a bit.

  “I shall arrange a delivery to your residence,” Verna added. “High-potency, calibrated to your current level. One vial a day, and do be mindful of your dosage.”

  “Appreciate it.” Cole paused. “Wait, high-potency? Does that mean it’ll taste worse than the regular stuff?”

  Fotham’s expression shifted into something that might have passed for sympathy if it weren’t buried beneath diplomatic composure. “I’m afraid so. Quality, in this case, comes at some expense to the palate.”

  Great. So they tasted like ass, but worse.

  The only person among them who looked totally unbothered was, of course, Elina. “Come now, it isn’t half so dreadful as you make it. I’m certain Lisara’s hand can persuade even bitterness to behave.”

  That didn’t convince Miles. “Well, I reckon it’ll taste like shit either way. Just gotta choke it down.”

  Fotham’s mouth twitched. “Succinctly put, Sergeant Garrett.”

  He then returned to his usual composure, clasping his hands. “Now, I believe that concludes our business here. Do enjoy your leave, gentlemen, Lady Gracer. We shall reconvene once you’ve returned.”

  Cole got the gist well enough – no more training. They actually had to take a break, and honestly? He could get behind that.

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