First up’s Teddy—a red-haired Irish guy with a bushy beard that looks like it’s hiding half his face. He’s grinning, all teeth, clapping me on the back. “Right, lad, show me this healin’ trick!” I wince, then explain: “Touch only—focus the ether, let it flow.” I grab his beefy arm, demoing on a shallow cut. Mist curls, the skin knits. Easy. He nods, eager, and tries it on a guy with a scraped-up elbow. Ether flares—too much, too fast. Flames burst out instead, singeing the poor bastard’s arm hair. The guy yelps, Teddy curses in Irish—something about “feckin’ hell”—and I jump in, touching the burn. Mist fixes it, no harm done. “Uh, maybe less… fire next time?” I say, coughing smoke.

  Next is Pete—nerdy as hell, skinny, glasses sliding down his nose, practically vibrating with excitement. “This is so cool, man! Like RPG stats IRL!” I barely get out “touch the wound” before he’s waving his hands like a conductor—no contact, just flailing. “Wait, Pete, you gotta—” Too late. His ether doesn’t trickle; it blasts out, a wild Aura stretching ten feet. Fire flickers, then water splashes, ice crackles, wind slashes—blades of it ripping leaves off vines. A rock lifts, hovering, then drops with a thud. I stare, jaw slack. “Dude,” I mutter, “I’m so jealous. Why can’t I lift rocks?” Pete’s too busy geek-squealing to notice, conjuring mini-tornadoes. Zero healing, all chaos. OP nerd.

  Then there’s Rebecca—cute, friendly, dimples when she smiles. My stomach does a dumb flip. “Okay, uh, touch here,” I say, guiding her hand to a guy’s bruised shin. “Focus the ether—gentle.” She nods, nails biting her lip, and tries. Mist flows soft from her fingers, the bruise fading fast. She’s a natural—picks it up like she’s done it forever. “Whoa,” I say, grinning. “You’re good.” She looks up, green eyes catching mine, and smiles back. “Thanks, Tim.” My face heats up—stupid, naked blushing—and I can’t look away. She doesn’t either. It’s just us, the ether humming, and—

  “Oi, lovebirds!” the patient barks, yanking his leg back. “Shin’s fixed—quit starin’ and help someone else, yeah?” He’s a grizzled guy, glaring, and I snap out of it, coughing. “Right. Uh, yeah. Next!”

  Teddy’s still rubbing his hands, muttering about “bloody flames,” while Pete’s conjuring tiny water spouts six feet out, giggling like a kid with a new toy. Rebecca’s testing her six-inch healing mist on a scraped knee, and I’m just standing there, watching my own ether fizzle out at six inches too. “Okay,” I say, scratching my head, “so Pete’s got range—six feet from his hands, easy. The rest of us, we’re stuck at, what, six inches? Lame.”

  Teddy snorts, flexing his beefy arms. “Speak for yerself, lad.” He focuses, and ether flares—not just from his hands but a full foot out, rippling off his arms and shoulders too. It’s like a damn aura jacket, shimmering blue. “Reckon I’m the odd one, eh?” he says, grinning.

  “Show-off,” I mutter, but I’m half-impressed. “So Pete’s long-range, Teddy’s got this weird full-body thing, and me and Rebecca are… close-up wizards. Cool, I guess—”

  Ahem. Pardon me, dear readers, but if we allow Tim to continue prattling on, this tale shall become dreadfully dull and utterly incomprehensible. Permit me to seize the narrative reins, as it were. I am your Narrator, here to guide you through this muddle with poise and clarity. Do allow me to proceed.

  As our intrepid lead, Tim, fumbles through his newfound powers with his usual haphazard zeal, he eventually stumbles—quite by accident—onto a semblance of meditative practice. That is to say, he breathes obnoxiously loud and hums like a malfunctioning appliance. By some miracle—likely the meddling of that insipid Helper—he taps into his ether well, the root of his abilities. To Tim, it manifests rather predictably, much like one of his tiresome video games: a branching skill tree of possibilities glowing in his mind’s eye.

  Two distinct paths emerge. The first, a close-range Aura—his current forte, extending mere inches from his hands. The second, a broader zone stretching farther out, clearly where Pete’s talents lie. Simple enough, even for Tim. From the close Aura path, four options branch further, alongside a chance to enhance the Aura itself—explaining Teddy’s peculiar full-body mastery. These four are: Forcefield Projection, which Tim’s shield trick proves he’s dabbled in; Regenerative Healing, his toe-and-nose-fixing knack; Elemental Specialization, a tantalizing prospect; and Material Adaptation, a curious wildcard.

  Tim, ever the impatient dreamer, fixates on Elemental Specialization. He envisions himself a grand sorcerer, wielding fire, ice, wind—the works. Alas, he’s horrified to discover what we in the business call a drop-down list. One element only, alas. His dreams of elemental mastery crumble like stale biscuits. Sulking, he pivots to Material Adaptation. “Isn’t that what I need?” he muses aloud. ake a rock lighter, it floats. "Make water colder, it’s ice. Perfect!”

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  Eager as ever, he selects it, noticing an option labeled Skill Tree Focus—a chance to supercharge this path by sidelining the others for quicker gains. "Efficiency, baby," he says, slamming the mental button with all the gusto of a wizard-to-be. He’s picked Material Adaptation, locked it in, ready to soar.

  Herein lies the rub, ladies and gentlemen. For our dear Timothy, in his haste, has misunderstood. Material Adaptation isn’t sorcery—it’s crafting. Adapting materials, shaping them, not hurling spells. He’s chosen the power of a glorified blacksmith, not a mage. Oh, the irony.

  Having locked in his ill-fated choice of Material Adaptation, our dear Timothy now stands amidst his motley crew, eager to flex his supposed sorcery, he snatches a nearby rock—jagged, unremarkable—and focuses his ether with all the gravitas of a child playing at wizardry.

  The possibility that he's been tricked by Helper however Timothy remains blissfully unware of, after all why would meditation alone allow one to aquire new Skills, the absurdity!

  “Float, you beauty,” I declare, hands hovering, expecting it to lift like Pete’s levitating pebbles. The ether hums, warm in my chest, and I glare at the rock, willing it to soar. Nothing. Not a twitch.

  “ARGH, WHY ISN’T IT WORKING?” I yell, shaking my fists like that’ll change physics. The rock just sits there, mocking me, and I’m two seconds from hurling it into the jungle.

  “Hey, Timothy!” Mr. Simons’ Texan drawl cuts through my tantrum. I spin around—he’s been barking orders this whole time, assigning tasks like some naked camp counselor. People to keep watch, people to hunt for water, people lugging lumber for shelters and firewood. I didn’t even notice—too busy failing at wizardry while everyone else plays survivor.

  “You and Teddy,” he says, jabbing a thumb, “go start a fire. Keep it contained, yeah?”

  I blink, still clutching my dumb rock. Teddy’s already lumbering off, grinning.

  “Aye, boss!” he calls, and I trudge after him, muttering. Fine. Don’t want enemies on day one. Plus, with Teddy’s flame-happy Aura, I’m probably just there to babysit.

  Doesn’t take Teddy long. He’s got a pile of sticks sparking in minutes, ether flaring off his shoulders like a human torch. I plop down nearby, sulking, picking up two random twigs.

  What am I even doing? Rub them together like a caveman? I roll my eyes and—half distracted—push some ether into them, not even thinking. The sticks glow, shimmer, and—whoa—fuse into one bigger stick, thicker, sturdier. I stare at it, brain lagging.

  “Oi, lad!” Teddy’s voice booms, mid-laugh.

  “Did ye just pick craftin’?”

  I freeze, the stick heavy in my hands. It hits me like a brick—the skill tree, Material Adaptation, that “efficiency” button. Not sorcery. Crafting. I’ve turned myself into a glorified stick-gluer. My soul shrivels, a dry, rending pain. “I’m an NPC,” I whisper, horrified, staring at my creation like it’s betrayed me.

  Teddy squats beside me, clapping a meaty hand on my shoulder. “What’s all this, then? Spill it, lad.” I groan, spilling the whole mess—skill tree, my sorcery dreams, the crafting screw-up.

  He nods, bushy beard bobbing, then—because he’s Teddy—starts yakking to anyone who’ll listen. “Oi, ye lot! Our Tim here wanted to be a grand wizard, floatin’ rocks and all, but he’s gone and picked craftin’! Made a big stick outta two wee ones—poor sod’s gutted!”Heads turn—Pete snickers, juggling ice shards, while Rebecca glances over, smirking softly.

  The chatter spreads, and soon Mr. Simons stomps up, arms crossed, that Texan grin gleaming. “Craftin’, huh? Well, shoot, son, that’s gold! A dedicated crafter’s worth ten fighters out here—tools, weapons, shelters, you name it.” He claps me hard, nearly toppling me. “You’re movin’ to the heart of camp—most defensible spot. Gotta keep you safe.”

  “Safe?” I echo, still clutching my stupid stick, but he’s already dragging me off. We weave through the crowd—naked bodies hauling lumber, sparking fires—until we hit a tight clearing, vines draped like walls. And there she is: Sophia. She stands, arms relaxed at her sides, an ice queen beauty—skin flawless, pale as moonlight, not a scar or blemish anywhere.

  Her voice cuts through, elegant and cool, like silk over steel: “What have we here?” But her eyes—God, her eyes—glow with a purple ethereal haze, piercing, like she’s peeling me apart and already knows every dumb choice I’ve made. I freeze under that gaze, stick in hand, feeling less like a wizard and more like a bug.

  Mr. Simons chuckles. “Sophia, meet Tim. Keep him in one piece—he’s our ticket to survivin’ this hellhole.” She tilts her head, a faint nod, those eyes never blinking.