Time management was, supposedly, one of the great virtues of the efficient man. A discipline, a craft, a damn *skill.* Unfortunately, Jack had never picked it up. Not even close.
If anything, Jack operated like a dog with a single chew toy—he'd fixate on one thing obsessively or ignore everything altogether. Multitasking? Ha. Scheduling? Please. He could have divided his days like a proper little soldier—allocated one part to sword drills, another to practicing Gal'le's eerie, silver-and-black blessing with the old crone. But no. That would've required foresight. And effort.
Instead, the second week blurred past in a haze of idiocy and indulgence.
Nine whole days, gone.
Spent goofing off with Duri—wrestling in the dirt, racing over rooftops, knocking on doors just to run away like a pair of jackasses. Or playing errand boy for Nari in exchange for a handful of gaus, which he promptly blew on village swill barely fit for pigs. No legal drinking age here, after all. Just a raised eyebrow and the occasional disapproving glare, both of which Jack ignored with professional ease.
If fate hadn't kicked him in the shin, he might've kept drifting along like that forever.
But then came the axe. Or more precisely, the axe *slip*.
He'd been chopping firewood for the old crow when the blade bounced and bit into his own hand. It wasn't deep, but it was bloody—and that was all it took.
Because that was when the black-silver fire flickered to life.
Jack had stared as the strange flame curled over the wound, cold and gleaming like a dying star. It didn't burn—it *devoured* the pain, spread over his skin like liquid frost, sealing the cut with shimmering dust. It should've terrified him.
Instead, it reminded him.
That chill in his chest—tight and unnatural, like frost forming on the inside of his ribs—wasn't just a weird aftereffect. It was a *gift*. It was something that came from Gal'le, the god who'd plucked his sorry ass off Earth and dumped him into this fantasy mess.
So he got to work. Sloppy, unscientific, and weirdly obsessed—but work nonetheless.
For eight days straight, Jack sliced the pad of his finger open with the survival knife he had found in the chemistry teacher's desk . Over and over again. Just deep enough to sting. Then he'd sit there, staring at the blood, trying to *will* the power to come.
He didn't ask for help. The old crow offered to teach him, and he declined—said he wanted to feel it for himself. Control it from instinct, not instructions.
Every time the flame came, it brought that now-familiar chill: a freezing pulse at the center of his chest, like a star of winter lodged behind his sternum. He focused on it. Breathed around it. Dug into the sensation like a lunatic trying to scratch an itch in his soul.
Then came the second phase: *movement.*
Jack tried to guide the chill. Push it outward. Picture it sliding through his veins like mercury. The result was... static, the feeling of a limb that had fallen asleep.
Once, it pooled in his lungs. That felt like trying to breathe through a frostbitten sponge—every inhale sharp, every exhale rasping. Another time it settled in his shoulder, and he lost feeling in his left arm for an hour.
But Jack didn't care.
He was in love with the damn thing. A lunatic with a new toy. The kind of madness that drove people to chase ghosts or set themselves on fire—except in his case, it was frost that danced like flame.
Eventually, he reached the third step: *release.*
It took all his focus, but one afternoon, hunched over in the hut, gritting his teeth, Jack shoved that cold fire into his right hand and *out.*
What emerged was barely a flicker.
Not even a flame. More like the pathetic burp of light from a cheap lighter at the bottom of a pocket. But it shimmered in impossible colors—black veined with silver, crawling across his palm like oil on water.
It didn't burn. Not in the traditional sense. It moved and danced like fire, but anything it touched didn't blacken—it crystallized. Froze into delicate, glowing silver that disintegrated into fine dust at the barest touch.
It was weak. Utterly useless in a fight.
Jack couldn't even light his cigarette with it.
But none of that mattered.
Because it was *his*.
And in that pathetic little flicker, Jack saw a future. A weapon. A *power*. All it needed was time—and for once, he was ready to stop wasting it.
"Not bad,Jay," he muttered to himself, watching the silver dust curl off his fingertip. "Let's see what else you've got."
And for the first time since arriving in this world, Jack was *hungry*. Not for drink. Not for mischief.
But for growth.