Several weeks ground by in a rhythm of pain, patience, and paranoia. Each cycle blurred into the next: the pre-dawn chill of the sewer tunnels leading to the hidden junction, the exhausting mental focus of absorbing minuscule amounts of pure Aetherium Echoes; the return journey, senses straining to detect Crimson Hand patrols; the brutal afternoon session behind Kaelen's forge, enduring muscle-screaming stances and bone-jarring impacts under the blacksmith's relentless gaze; the targeted hunts for resonant scraps, bartering them for the pungent salve and basic necessities; and finally, the application of his slowly growing Aether Pool to soothe the worst of the physical trauma, knitting muscle and easing bruises just enough to face the next day's torment.
Rhys felt the changes, subtle yet undeniable. His body, though still lean, was becoming harder, denser. He moved with a wiry resilience he hadn't possessed before, the constant pain forging a certain tolerance. Kaelen's training was less about finesse, more about sheer endurance and the ability to absorb punishment. His Aether Pool had grown too, perhaps tripling its initial size since the fountain courtyard. It was still pitifully small by any imagined cultivator standard, but it felt more stable, responsive, a cool, clear presence within him that hummed with latent potential.
But potential wasn't enough. The constant scraping for survival, the slow pace of advancement, the ever-present threat of discovery – it fueled a growing impatience within him. Sera Bellweather's words echoed in his mind: absorb… weave… He had managed the absorption, painstakingly slow as it was. Now, the urge to use the energy, to actively manipulate it, became a persistent itch he couldn't ignore. The fragmented rumors about the 'Weaver's Era' ruins only amplified this desire. If ancient Weavers had mastered energy, understanding their methods, even in fragments, could be the key.
He began experimenting in the relative safety of the cellar, Boulder watching with quiet curiosity. His initial attempts at Echo Weaving were clumsy, frustratingly ineffective. He tried simply pushing Aether outwards from his palm; the result was a faint sensation of warmth, barely detectable, and a noticeable drain on his precious Aether Pool. It was like trying to move a boulder by blowing on it.
He refined his approach, focusing on the elemental affinity he felt most attuned to from his practice spot – the cool, stable Water/Earth essence. He tried to consciously shape the Aether. He concentrated fiercely, visualizing a single drop of water coalescing from the ambient humidity in the air before him. After several moments of intense mental strain, the air felt momentarily damper, a single bead of condensation perhaps forming and evaporating instantly. His Aether Pool dropped by a tenth. Discouraged but resolute, he tried mimicking the energetic signature of the Nexus surge, focusing the Aether into a tiny spark. With a surge of effort that left him momentarily lightheaded, a single, brilliant blue spark, no bigger than a grain of sand, leaped from his outstretched fingertip with a faint crackle. It startled Boulder, making him jump, and cost Rhys nearly a fifth of his Aether reserve.
He experimented with sensory enhancement, trying to channel Aether to sharpen his hearing. For a fleeting second, the sounds of the cellar – the drip of water, the scuttling of unseen vermin, Boulder's steady breathing – became almost painfully acute, before the effect sputtered and died, leaving his ears ringing and his Pool significantly diminished. Control was the main issue; the energy felt volatile, difficult to shape precisely, eager to dissipate uselessly.
His conclusion was sobering. Echo Weaving, at his current level, was incredibly difficult, energetically expensive, and yielded almost negligible results. The minuscule effects he could produce were useless in any real confrontation. Its only potential application lay in subtle, non-obvious tricks or momentary sensory boosts, and even those carried a significant cost. Combat applications seemed laughably distant. The shard, held during these attempts, helped maintain his focus under the mental strain, but it didn't inherently make the weaving process easier or more efficient.
The harsh realities of survival soon intruded on his experiments. Their supply of lamp oil was critically low, and the specific type of long-burning, luminescent fungi they relied on grew only in certain damp, hazardous sections of the Undercity. Rhys's Echo Sense detected a promising cluster – unusually vibrant, indicating potency – located deep within a network of old, partially collapsed aqueduct tunnels, a sector rarely frequented due to instability.
He and Boulder navigated the crumbling passages carefully. The air was thick with the smell of stagnant water and decay. As they rounded a bend, the soft, greenish glow of the fungi patch came into view, illuminating a small cavern carved by time and water. But they weren't alone.
Three figures were already there, methodically harvesting the best specimens. They weren't Crimson Hand; their clothing was worn but practical, sturdy leather reinforcing key areas, and they carried well-maintained short swords at their hips, not crude Syndicate stun-batons. They moved with a practiced efficiency that spoke of experience, their energy signatures wary, coiled, and territorial. Rhys immediately recognized the leader – the same lean, sharp-featured individual, Corbin, whose group they had briefly clashed with weeks earlier near a different resource node. They were likely independent operators, or perhaps retainers for one of Meridian's struggling minor factions, aggressively carving out their own territory in the Undercity's resource wars.
Corbin looked up as Rhys and Boulder emerged from the shadows, a predatory smirk touching his lips. "Well, look what the slime dragged in. Lost again, rats?" He straightened up, placing a hand possessively on the largest cluster of fungi. "This patch is claimed. Move along before you get hurt." His two companions shifted, subtly positioning themselves to flank him, hands drifting towards their sword hilts. They clearly outnumbered and likely outmatched Rhys and Boulder in any straightforward fight. Boulder instinctively moved forward, placing himself slightly ahead of Rhys, a silent, immovable challenge.
Rhys felt the familiar cold calculation take over. Direct confrontation was suicide. Retreat meant returning empty-handed, wasting precious time and energy. His eyes, and his Echo Sense, scanned the immediate environment frantically, searching for an advantage, any advantage, while maintaining an outward appearance of cautious assessment.
He found it. Almost directly above Corbin's head, the damp, crumbling ceiling of the aqueduct showed signs of severe water damage. Several sizable rocks, loosened by moisture and time, clung precariously. And just behind Corbin, near the cavern wall, a patch of the floor glistened with a slick, black, oily residue – likely runoff from some ancient machinery or chemical spill. An idea sparked, desperate and requiring perfect timing and execution.
"Just passing through," Rhys said, his voice deliberately mild, buying a crucial second as Corbin relaxed slightly, assuming intimidation had worked.
In that instant, Rhys acted. He didn't attempt a spark or a physical manifestation. Instead, he poured almost his entire Aether Pool – holding back only the barest minimum needed to remain conscious – into a single, focused, invisible push of kinetic energy. He visualized a tight thread of force striking one specific, key stone in the crumbling ceiling above Corbin. It was a technique born of desperate experimentation in the cellar, requiring immense concentration to shape the Aether into directed force rather than letting it dissipate uselessly.
There was no sound, no visible beam. Only a faint ripple in the air, lost in the cavern's gloom. But the targeted stone, already unstable, shifted. It didn't fall directly on Corbin, but tumbled down with a loud crack, striking the rock face beside him and sending smaller fragments skittering across the floor.
Startled by the sudden rockfall, Corbin flinched violently, instinctively leaping backward to avoid being hit. His boots landed squarely on the slick, oily patch Rhys had spotted. With a surprised yelp, his feet shot out from under him. He flailed wildly, arms windmilling, before crashing hard onto his back, the impact knocking the wind out of him.
The moment Corbin went down, Boulder reacted instantly. He didn't charge or attack lethally. He surged forward with surprising speed for his size, delivering a powerful, open-handed shove to the chest of the nearest rival, who was momentarily distracted by his leader's fall. The man stumbled backward, colliding heavily with the third member of their group, throwing them both off balance.
"Now!" Rhys gasped, already feeling the dizzying wave of near-total Aether depletion wash over him. His legs felt weak, his vision tunneling slightly.
He and Boulder didn't wait for the rivals to recover. They snatched handfuls of the nearest luminescent fungi, stuffing them into their sacks, and immediately plunged back into the shadowed maze of the aqueduct tunnels, ignoring the furious curses and threats echoing behind them.
Back in the suffocating safety of their cellar, Rhys collapsed onto the blankets, body trembling from adrenaline and the profound exhaustion of emptying his Aether Pool. Boulder stood over him, breathing heavily, a mixture of relief, confusion, and a dawning respect in his eyes. He'd seen Rhys do something inexplicable, something that had turned a losing confrontation into a successful escape.
Rhys, however, felt little triumph. The encounter starkly highlighted his weaknesses. His Aether Pool was woefully inadequate for sustained effort. Emptying it left him almost completely helpless. Direct combat was impossible. His only advantage lay in cleverness, environmental awareness, and the precise, strategic application of his limited weaving abilities for non-direct effects. It was a razor's edge to walk.
Furthermore, the encounter proved the Undercity was becoming more contested. Resources were scarce, and competition was growing fiercer. Not all threats wore the Crimson Hand's colors. There were other players in the shadows, equally desperate, equally dangerous.
The need for a breakthrough, for a significant leap in power or knowledge, felt more urgent than ever. Sera Bellweather's dangerous offer regarding the Sunken Archives seemed simultaneously impossible and increasingly necessary. And the whispers of the Weaver's Era ruins beckoned, promising potential knowledge and richer Echoes, but undoubtedly guarded by dangers far exceeding territorial scavengers. Riskier paths seemed the only way forward, pushing him deeper into the shattered heart of Meridian's perilous depths.