The world peeled away with a soft snap.
One heartbeat he was standing in the Hunter Exam forest, boots biting into raw dirt, wind carrying the smell of bark and sweat and adrenaline—
The next heartbeat he was back in the settlement space.
Everything was still. Still like a library. Still like someone had put reality on mute.
A soft pulse followed along his skin, traveling from the base of his neck down his arm: the Panel checking in, syncing, recognizing he had crossed a boundary. Ethan let the sensation settle. He was home—if the word meant a place where the rules stopped trying to kill you and started trying to measure you.
The training bay lights flickered awake at his presence.
He inhaled once, letting the silence level him. The return from a world always carried leftover weight—things your body learned faster than your mind, habits you didn't know you'd picked up.
He flicked open the internal ribbon with a tiny thought.
HUD synchronization: complete.
Recent trip: Hunter × Hunter (Rookie Domains).
All logged rewards applied ×10.
Talent progression: 92%.
Integration stable.
The stats shimmered into place:
• Strength: 32
• Agility: 37
• Endurance: 37
• Perception: 48
• Will: 26
• PP: ~2,240
Skills and traits followed like quiet footnotes.
Fold Slip. Shadow Sense. Alpha Sense. Exam Reflexes. Emotional Insight. Combat Rhythm. Pack Instinct. Calm Veneer. Cliffmaster. Eternal Multiplier Body. Integrated Interface.
He scanned the list without ego. It wasn't impressive in a flashy way. It was impressive in a functional way. Everything he'd earned was small, precise, useful. Nothing noisy enough to break canon. Nothing loud enough to attract attention.
Good. He needed the quiet.
Ethan let himself stand there for a moment—just stand. Feel the familiar texture of the floor panels through bare feet. Hear the faint resonance in the walls from distant systems humming. The return always felt like this: a moment where the body tries to remember which physics it lives under.
He dropped his pack on the bench and stretched his arms behind him. Muscles adjusted cleanly. Fold Slip responded like a coiled spring ready to behave.
"…okay," he murmured to himself. "Let's see what stuck."
He walked into the training bay. The panels overhead unfolded a soft grid of light. Motion drones stirred from their alcoves, waiting for commands. He didn't activate them yet.
He wanted to test the basics first.
He exhaled, then snapped into a short Fold Slip.
The world flicked—no visual glitch, just a small displacement of air—and he was two meters to the left. No hesitation. No aftershock.
Fold Slip latency: 0.04 seconds.
The Panel whispered the number into his mind like a teacher placing a grade card on the desk.
He felt a tiny flick of pride. Not the loud, triumphant kind. The quiet kind that said progress is progress.
He ran a second Slip, longer. Smooth. He drifted into a stance, weight centered.
Alpha Sense brushed against the environment. Subtle movement vectors—like faint pencil strokes—drew themselves in the edges of his perception. The bay's air circulators, the tiny sway of power cords, the automated breathing of the room itself.
He closed his eyes. Let the Panel's integrated interface dilute the noise until only relevant lines remained.
Good. This was clean.
He brought the drones online with a single mental push. The first one zipped toward him—no warning, no warm-up. Ethan moved instinctively, stepping inside its arc and tapping its core with two fingers. The drone shut down, clattering lightly onto the mat.
The second zipped high—he bent backward under it, felt it skim his hair, and caught it on the rebound. The third had the courage to try a feint. Cute. He knew the rhythm already.
He caught it, too.
Calibration +0.4%.
Talent: 92.4%
He didn't smile, but his breath loosened.
He dismissed the drones, let them roll back into their alcoves like disciplined pets. His body hummed a little—fatigue mixing with focus. Every return from a world stretched him. Every integration forced him to learn himself again.
He walked to the observation wall and activated the neutral-face simulator. A hundred expressions floated into being: strangers, composites, silent watchers. Emotional Insight stirred like a lens being turned.
He read them.
Anxiety. Neutrality. Irritation masked under politeness. A smile that wasn't honest. A blank face that was actually fear.
The readings felt easier than before. Cleaner.
Emotional Insight I: calibration improved.
+0.3% Talent Progression.
He shut it down.
"…it's sticking," he said quietly.
The room hummed in acknowledgment—just the machinery, not the Panel.
Without needing to be told, he moved into a cool-down routine. Slow footwork across the grid. Controlled breathing laps. Testing balance, micro-muscle fatigue, joint alignment. Everything aligned smoother than yesterday.
That was the thing about the settlement space: no danger, no narrative, no stakes. Just improvement.
Finally, he sat on the edge of the bay's platform and let his legs dangle.
The Panel opened softly:
Recommendation:
• Continue calibration to 100%.
• Field Test option unlocked.
• Purchase slot available.
• Talent thresholds approaching.
Ethan rubbed the back of his neck. "Yeah. I know."
He didn't rush to pick a new ability. Not yet. He wanted to make sure he wasn't leaning on borrowed strength. He wanted to understand the foundation he already had.
He drank water from the dispenser, wiped sweat from his brow, and let the Ribbon fade from his mental view.
The settlement space was still quiet, still stable, still patient.
Ethan exhaled once more and stood.
Training wasn't done. Not for a long time.
But for now?
He felt okay.
And that was enough.