I spent the next three days pacing the cabin's perimeter, mapping the energy flows in my mind. The blizzard howled beyond the walls, but I no longer feared the cold in my layered garments.
Now at level six, my sharpened perception revealed details once invisible. The winter Ether did not swirl. It spread in thick plates of golden inertia against the northern walls. I identified the ethereal thermal bridges where frost penetrated most fiercely. I located the natural pockets of stability near the future garden plot.
I gathered twelve smooth river stones. Dense silicate pebbles, perfect for storing energy or rather, the ethereal information I intended to imprint into them.
I arranged them on a flat slab of rock. The modification required less energy than I had anticipated. The newly acquired Etheric Economy skill was working as promised. Before, altering the atomic structure of even a single stone repeatedly would have brought on violent retro-orbital pain and forced three hours of sensory overload. Now, only a dull pressure behind my eyes was my penalty.
I reorganized their internal pores into microscopic labyrinths. I folded the inertial Ether back on itself to create ultra-stable holding structures. I charged each stone with residual heat drawn from the hearth, transforming them into passive thermal accumulators.
I buried these stones like sentinels, positioned precisely in a one-meter square grid. I set them twenty centimeters deep, exactly where future roots would reach. The frozen ground resisted the spade. I had to shape cavities using Rock Affinity without disturbing the surrounding permafrost. It was meticulous, ant-sized work. Each stone was a thermal anchor against the Nordet's relentless chill.
The next morning, a uniform blanket of hoarfrost coated the world. Dew had frozen into crystalline arabesques on every twig.
Except within the square marked by my stones. The earth remained dark, damp, unfrozen. I crouched and placed my palm on the soil. Residual warmth lingered, shielded by the ethereal barrier I had woven. My stones were working. They held a stable microclimate in place.
I looked up toward the pale sky. Level one Agriculture would find its perfect terrain here.
My stones, which I had decided to name Pierre-Cœur, were no longer just a theory.
At dawn, the stream gurgled between its frost-lined banks like an artery refusing to yield. I crouched at its edge. Sheets of mist rose from the surface, swirling in the freezing air. My breath formed short, sharp puffs that vanished instantly.
I watched the water’s surface. No visible ice, but the current slowed near the banks where frost began to take hold. I had already tried ice-hole fishing in the previous days. An exhausting chore. Breaking through the ice demanded tremendous effort, and the hole resealed as fast as I could chisel it. The fish, from what I had seen, stayed near the center of the strongest current. Far from the edges. Far from me.
I sat on a flat stone. Closed my eyes. Let my perception drift beneath the surface.
The Ether in water behaved unlike that in earth or air. More fluid, more reactive. Threads stretched in the direction of the current, flattened like grass before a wind. They formed luminous streaks that undulated with the flow.
Sometimes denser nodes appeared. Concentrations of life. The fish.
I perceived them as diffuse glimmers, clusters of Ether moving in tight schools. Their signature differed from hares or wolves. More primitive, more instinctual. A simple pulse, a survival reflex coded into every cell.
Hunting level one gave me an unexpected insight: the fish were not just evading the cold. They followed Etheric gradients. Where the flow became disturbed, where the filaments tangled near obstacles, they found… something. A more stable current, perhaps. Or an accumulation of invisible microorganisms. I lacked tools to confirm it, but my perception showed a clear truth: the fish favored zones of controlled turbulence.
I remained seated for a long while. The cold numbed my fingers. I sought a solution that would avoid breaking ice.
The idea came slowly.
A net.
I had cords woven from braided plant fibers. My hands knew how to work them since gaining the Woodcraft skill. But a standard net, with its uniform knots, regular mesh, and passive fibers, was a purely mechanical tool. It captured through obstruction, not attraction.
What if I modified the fibers?
I spent the afternoon preparing my materials. I unearthed strands of wild flax collected in autumn. I dried them over the hearth. They first turned brittle, then pliable with handling. I split them into fine threads, three times thinner than sewing thread. My fingers moved with a precision I hadn’t known they possessed. Woodcraft smoothed away imperfections, turning my motions into fluid, practiced gestures.
But the real work began after.
I took a piece of raw quartz. The quantum stylus. I ran it slowly along each thread, focusing my intent. I was not just reinforcing the fiber. I was imprinting a pattern into it.
The Ether within the flax was dormant, inert. I awakened it with a light touch, like skimming a finger across water’s surface. I traced tiny bridges and microscopic tendrils that coiled around the molecular strands. I created micro-structures. Crude, perhaps, but functional. Not magnets, but ethereal attractors.
The treated thread did not glow. It was simply… receptive. Like an antenna tuned to a precise frequency. The frequency of aquatic life.
I wove the net from these modified fibers. Each knot became a convergence point. Each mesh formed a small ethereal funnel, a passive zone of attraction. The work cost me four hours of intense concentration. My eyes burned when I finished. The fatigue surfaced behind my temples as a low hum, a reminder of my limits.
The net was far from perfect by earthly standards. Some mesh sizes varied. But it was alive in a way. I could feel it in my hands. The strands subtly trembled, as if breathing.
I placed it at the confluence where the main stream met a smaller tributary. There, the current slowed, forming a natural eddy. A zone of relative calm. The perfect spot for a passive trap.
I anchored it with stones. Spread it beneath the surface in about a meter of water. I stepped back. Waited.
The first hour yielded nothing. The net lay submerged in murky water, invisible. I sensed it slightly, a small cloud of dim luminescence blending into the ambient flow.
The second hour brought a first tremor. A fish approached. I felt it more than saw it. A compact glow drifting upstream. It touched the edge of the net. Stopped. Hesitated. Like an insect pausing before a lamp.
Then it swam under. Exited on the other side. Continued on.
Not attractive enough.
I adjusted my strategy. I returned with a bucket of water nearly warm — not hot, but significantly warmer than the outside temperature. I poured it slowly near the net, into the current. Not enough to disrupt the flow. Just enough to create a micro-thermal gradient. A pocket of slightly less frigid water.
The Ether responded. My perception registered a local fluctuation. Ethereal density around the net increased by a fraction. A faint tension, a soft… hum.
The result was immediate.
A second fish arrived. Then a third. They did not flee. They converged. They gathered beneath the net, drawn to the thermal and ethereal anomaly I had created. They swam in tight circles, pressed together, like customers drawn to a free food stand.
I pulled the anchor rope. The net shot upward. Eight fish thrashed in the freezing air, their scales glittering under the pale winter sun. I tossed them into a bucket. They continued to wriggle.
Eight fish in so short a time. With the right method, at least. It could still be improved, but it was far better than what I’d managed during long, arduous ice-fishing sessions.
I repeated the process to check if it had been luck. The net took position again. Warm water flowed. The fish returned. Ten minutes later, I had twenty-three.
Twenty-three fish. Enough for a week. Maybe two, if I preserved them well.
I handled storage the same evening.
The cellar was cold, but not cold enough. Temperature hovered near zero, sometimes dropping to -1 or -2 °C at night. Cold enough to freeze flesh, but not enough to preserve it long-term. Classic freezing destroyed the cells. After a few days, the meat turned mushy, tasteless. Unusable.
I decided to experiment.
I placed the fish in wooden boxes over beds of deeply compacted snow I had collected from the rocks’ shade. Then I built a stone casing around the boxes using my Rock Affinity skill. I wasn’t creating heat. I was stabilizing cold.
I etched microscopic channels into the stone. Grooves that ran from the outer surface inward, like leaf veins. Through these, Ether could flow, redistribute, and maintain a state of low, constant excitation. A passive cold chamber.
The air inside grew drier and still. The stone walls no longer wept moisture. Frost no longer formed in random crystals. It settled in uniform layers like a smooth ice blanket.
The fish would preserve for weeks. Their cells wouldn’t be destroyed by brutal freezing. They would be… in stasis. Suspended by the thermal regulation I had imposed.
The net worked, too. I had retrieved it, dried it, stored it for the next day. The fibers retained their properties. The Ether I had woven into them did not fade. It remained, dormant, waiting for the next use.
I had created a passive trap. A tool requiring no continuous energy. One that worked on its own, once set.
That evening, I sat before the hearth, its warmth radiating through the cabin like a miniature sun. I had eaten fresh fish until my belly ached. Pearlescent flesh seared in a pan, seasoned with salt and dried herbs.
The taste was... not bad at all. Not a feast, but a reminder that life went on.
I looked out the window. Night had fallen long ago. Stars blinked in a cloudless sky.
I thought of the fish. Of the instinct that pulled them toward anomalies. They didn’t understand what drew them. They followed a pulse, a call they couldn’t name. It was... fascinating. Slightly unsettling.
Was I doing the same thing? Were my own instincts leading me toward anomalies I couldn’t perceive? Was my arrival on this mountain, the creation of this Place of Rest, just an instinct amplified by Ether?
I shook my head. Tonight, I’d eaten well. I was warm. I had a roof. Philosophical questions could wait.
I lay down near the hearth. Flames cast shifting shadows on the stone ceiling. Outside, the cold whispered beyond the walls.
I closed my eyes.
Sleep came quickly.
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