Three days passed before Kai had enough credits for another lesson.
He cleaned workshop floors. He organized materials for Ms. Venn. He ran errands for older students who couldn't be bothered to walk across campus. Each task earned him a credit here, a half-credit there—barely enough, but enough.
The first day, he swept the same corridor three times because a senior decided the corners weren't clean enough. Kai didn't argue. He just swept again. One credit.
The second day, Ms. Venn had him reorganize an entire shelf of core blanks by grade, then by species of origin, then by date of acquisition. She watched him the whole time, saying nothing, judging everything. Two credits.
The third day, he carried packages for a Term 4 student who acted like carrying things was beneath him. The packages were heavy. The student was rude. Kai said nothing. One credit.
By the time he had two credits saved, his hands were raw, his back ached, and he'd never been more relieved to hand over money.
Senn met him in the same quiet corner of Workshop Hall 41, the same shadows pooling around them, the same smell of resin and dust. He looked tired—dark circles under his eyes, ink stains on his fingers, his hair pulled back carelessly. But he nodded when Kai approached.
"You came back," Senn said. "Most don't."
Kai held out the two credits. Senn took them without comment, pocketing them in a worn pouch at his belt. The pouch was old, stained, held together with rough stitching. Kai wondered how many credits had passed through it, how many lessons, how many students.
"Today," Senn said, pulling out a fresh practice blank, "you learn to make a line."
He set the blank on the low table between them. Rough surface, cheap material, identical to the one he'd left Kai with three days ago. Kai had stared at that blank every night, willing himself to understand it, willing his fingers to remember the feeling of the tool. But it had remained stubbornly blank, a silent accusation.
"Watch first." Senn produced a small vial from his pouch—resin, Kai recognized, but thinner than the starter-grade stuff Ms. Venn issued. "This is practice-grade resin. Flows easier, dries slower. Harder to ruin, easier to learn. Costs more, but worth it for beginners."
He uncapped the vial and dipped a thin metal tool into it—an inscription needle, Kai realized, like the ones at every station but finer, more precise. The light caught the resin, making it gleam for a moment before Senn lifted it.
Senn's hand moved across the blank's surface, steady and unhurried, leaving a thin line of resin behind. His wrist didn't wobble. His fingers didn't shake. The line flowed from the needle like water from a stream, even and smooth and perfect.
The line was perfect. Straight. Even. Effortless.
Senn set the tool down. "Your turn."
Kai picked up the needle. It felt wrong in his hand—too light, too delicate, like it might snap if he breathed on it wrong. He dipped it in the resin, watching the liquid cling to the metal, feeling its weight, its viscosity.
"Don't think," Senn said. "Just move."
Kai moved.
The line wobbled. Thick in some places, thin in others, fading halfway through before dying completely. Ugly. Wrong. Useless.
He stared at it. His first real attempt at inscription, and it was garbage.
Senn didn't react. Didn't frown, didn't sigh, didn't offer empty encouragement. He just said, "Again."
Kai tried again.
Another wobble. Another failure. The resin pooled at the start, then thinned to nothing. He pressed harder, and the needle caught on the blank's rough surface, skidding sideways and ruining the entire attempt. A jagged line now crossed the blank like a scar.
"Again."
Third try. The line was thicker, but at least it was consistent. For about an inch. Then his hand cramped and the line veered off course.
"Again."
Fourth. Fifth. Sixth.
By the tenth attempt, Kai's hand cramped and his vision blurred, and the blank was covered in ugly, useless lines. Some were too thick. Some were too thin. Some started strong and faded. Some started weak and pooled. Not one of them resembled the clean stroke Senn had made.
"I can't do this," Kai said.
Senn leaned against the cubicle wall, arms crossed. His expression hadn't changed the entire time—not encouraging, not disappointed, just present. "No. You can't do it yet. There's a difference."
Kai looked at the ruined blank. At the evidence of his failure covering its surface. "How long did it take you?"
"Three months to make a clean line." Senn's voice was flat, matter-of-fact. "Ruined more blanks than I can count. Wanted to quit every week. Actually quit twice. Came back both times." He shrugged. "Didn't stay quit."
Kai picked up the needle again. His hand shook slightly from exhaustion, from frustration, from the weight of wanting something so badly and failing so completely.
"Your grip's wrong," Senn said.
Kai looked at his hand. It looked fine to him. Functional. Normal.
"You're holding it like a weapon. Like you're fighting the blank." Senn demonstrated, holding his own needle loosely, almost casually, his fingers relaxed around the shaft. "It's a tool, not a sword. Relax your fingers. Let the resin flow, don't force it. The needle guides. Your hand follows. That's all."
Kai adjusted his grip. Tried to relax. Tried to let go of the tension that had built in his shoulders, his arm, his hand.
Tried again.
Better. Not good, but better. The line was still uneven, still wobbly in places, but it didn't die halfway. It made it to the end. A complete line, from one edge of the blank to the other.
Senn nodded. "Progress. Now do it again."
Kai did it again. And again. And again.
An hour later, his hand was numb and his eyes burned and he'd filled half the blank with lines that ranged from "ugly" to "less ugly." None were clean. None were good. But some were almost... not terrible.
Senn watched in silence, only speaking when Kai's grip slipped or his resin pooled or his line started to fade. No praise, no criticism—just corrections. Small adjustments. Tiny tweaks.
"Too much pressure."
"Too little."
"Your wrist is locked. Loosen it."
"You're holding your breath. Breathe."
Each correction was a small thing, barely noticeable. But together, they added up. By the end of the hour, Kai's lines were still ugly, but they were consistently ugly. The same thickness from start to finish. The same pressure throughout. He could see the pattern emerging, the shape of something that might someday be called skill.
Finally, Senn held up a hand. "Enough. You're done for today."
Kai set the needle down. His fingers wouldn't stop trembling. They twitched and spasmed, overworked and exhausted.
Senn capped the resin vial and tucked it away in his pouch. "You made progress. Not much, but some." He gestured at the blank. "Keep that. Practice on it every day. Twenty minutes, no more. After that, your hand's useless and you'll learn bad habits."
Kai nodded, flexing his cramped fingers, trying to work the stiffness out.
"Next lesson, two more credits. I'll teach you circles." Senn stood, stretching, his back cracking audibly. "And Entoma?"
Kai looked up.
"There's a library in this academy. Ten floors. First floor has basic inscription manuals—costs one credit per hour. Cheaper than my lessons, if you're patient." He almost smiled. "I wasn't patient. That's why I charge."
He walked away before Kai could respond, disappearing into the maze of cubicles and shadows.
Kai sat alone in the corner, staring at the practice blank. Ugly lines covered its surface—a testament to an hour of failure. But underneath the ugliness, he could see progress. The last few lines were almost straight. Almost even. Almost acceptable.
Three months, he thought. Senn had said it took him three months to make a clean line.
Kai had been practicing for one hour.
He tucked the blank into his bag and stood. His legs were stiff from sitting so long, his back ached from leaning over the table. He felt exhausted and frustrated and strangely hopeful.
The library. First floor. One credit per hour.
He had zero credits now. He'd spent both on today's lesson. But Ms. Venn always needed help organizing materials. The older students always needed errands run. There were always ways to earn, if you were willing to work.
Kai walked toward the lobby, already planning his next move.
The commission board was crowded when he reached it. Students pressed around, reading postings, pulling cards, arguing over who'd seen what first. The board was covered with papers—some fresh and white, others yellowed with age, some torn and partially missing.
Kai waited at the edge, watching, learning.
A Combat student pulled a card and grinned. "Finally. Someone's offering good credits for a simple job."
A General student argued with a Support student about who'd seen a posting first. Their voices rose, attracting attention, until an older student shoved between them and took the card himself.
Kai filed all of it away. The way the board worked. The way students competed. The way some jobs were popular and others were ignored.
He read the postings carefully:
WANTED: Simple detection charm. Will provide materials. Pay: 8 credits. — Combat squad, Barracks 3
WANTED: Resin seal for cracked dagger handle. Urgent. Pay: 5 credits. — General student, Hall 12
WANTED: Beginner healing potion (any quality). Have ingredients. Pay: 6 credits. — Support student, Hall 41
*OFFERING: Practice-grade core blanks (5). Need clean inscription patterns. Will pay 3 credits each. — Ms. Venn, Materials Counter*
Kai's eyes stopped on the last one.
Clean inscription patterns. Three credits each.
He thought about the practice blank in his bag. The ugly lines covering its surface. The progress he'd made, tiny as it was. The detection patterns he'd seen in the booklet, waiting to be tried.
Not yet. He wasn't ready yet. But someday—maybe soon—he would be.
He turned away from the board and walked toward the materials counter. Ms. Venn sat behind it as always, her gray eyes scanning the room like she missed nothing. A stack of ledgers sat beside her, each one filled with neat handwriting recording every transaction.
"You again," she said.
Kai nodded. "Need work. Credits."
Ms. Venn studied him for a moment. Her gaze was heavy, assessing, like she was calculating his worth in some invisible ledger. Then she pointed toward a stack of core blank trays behind her. "Those need sorting by grade. Proto-grade here, Enhanced there, True at the back. By species of origin. By date of acquisition. Alphabetically by the name of the harvester."
Kai looked at the stack. There were dozens of trays, each filled with dozens of cores. Hundreds of tiny, identical-looking blanks.
"Two credits," Ms. Venn said. "Take it or leave it."
Kai took it.
Two hours later, his back ached and his eyes crossed from staring at tiny core blanks, but he had two more credits in his badge. His fingers were sore from handling so many cores. His vision swam when he looked at anything too closely. But the trays were sorted, organized, perfect.
Ms. Venn inspected his work without comment. Ran her finger along a row of cores. Nodded once.
She slid two credits across the counter. "Acceptable."
Kai took them. Two credits. Enough for another lesson with Senn. Enough for two hours in the library.
He walked back to his dorm on tired legs, the practice blank heavy in his bag. His body was exhausted. His mind was racing. He'd learned something today—not just about lines and pressure and grip, but about the academy itself. The way it worked. The way you had to push, scrape, fight for every single credit.
Milo was already there, sitting on his bed, staring at his own practice materials with the expression of someone watching a disaster unfold. His practice blank was covered in even uglier lines than Kai's. His fingers were stained with resin. His hair was sticking up in three directions.
"How was your day?" Milo asked.
Kai thought about it. The failed lines. The small progress. The credits earned. The library waiting. The board full of jobs he couldn't do yet. The hours of work for two tiny coins.
"Productive," he said.
Milo blinked. "That's... not what I expected."
Kai almost smiled. Almost. "What did you expect?"
"I don't know. 'Terrible'? 'Awful'? 'I want to quit'?" Milo gestured at his own practice blank. "Because that's where I am."
Kai looked at Milo's blank. The lines were worse than his. Much worse. But underneath the ugliness, he could see effort. He could see someone trying, failing, trying again.
He sat on his bed and pulled out his practice blank. Ugly lines stared back at him. But underneath the ugliness, he could see the shape of something better. The last few lines were almost straight. Almost even. Almost.
He picked up a pencil—not the inscription needle, just a pencil—and began practicing on paper. Circles. Lines. The same movements, over and over. Training his hand without wasting materials.
Milo watched for a while, then picked up his own pencil and joined him.
They practiced in silence. The scratch of pencil on paper filled the room. Occasionally one of them would curse softly and erase a line, start again.
"Kai?" Milo said after a long while.
Kai didn't look up. "What?"
"Do you think we'll ever be good at this?"
Kai thought about Senn. About his three months of failure. About the lines he'd made today, ugly but consistent. About the detection patterns waiting in the library, the cores waiting to be carved, the Pingband waiting to be built.
"Yes," he said.
Milo was quiet for a moment. Then: "How do you know?"
Kai finally looked up. Met Milo's eyes. Saw the fear there, the doubt, the desperate need for reassurance.
"Because we're still trying," he said. "That's all it takes. Just not quitting."
Milo stared at him. Then, slowly, he nodded.
They practiced in silence until the lanterns dimmed and sleep pulled them under.