I just shrug. Hell if I know. Until today, I was dead sure my Perception was nothing special. It was always just another stat I never bothered to think much about—something ordinary, unremarkable, just enough to get by. Never did it cross my mind that it might actually be... different. A hidden edge, quietly brewing beneath the surface.
"Don't wanna talk? Your call," Wind says, misreading my silence. His tone is casual, but I can feel the subtle curiosity lurking beneath his words. He's not just brushing me off—he's trying to read me, trying to figure out what I'm thinking. But I don't answer. I just keep staring ahead, lost in my own thoughts.
Wind hooks a herb-gathering sack to his belt and scans the dense forest area we've stumbled into. We were chasing game, barely paying attention to our surroundings. The thrill of the hunt had our heads spinning, and the details around us seemed secondary—until now. His eyes flicker toward the path we came from, and I can tell he's mentally running through the map of the Forbidden Garden. About a kilometer east, there's a spot he'd planned to hit first—a known patch for decent herbs and resources. But now, knowing my Perception is some kind of freakish anomaly, he's itching to push further out, past where only seasoned gatherers dare to venture.
Meanwhile, I sink back into myself, closing my eyes for a moment as I spread my Perception outward in every direction, like invisible tendrils reaching through the dense foliage. Almost instantly, I pick up a few faint movements—some people heading northwest—and the faint spiritual signatures of a couple of plants. Not nearly the quality of the Slicing Stalk Grass we nabbed earlier, but still worth noting. I open my eyes and let Wind know.
"Some folks moving northwest, huh?" he says, a grin tugging at his lips. "There's a couple of small, profitable spots that way. Also, the Sage's Cave—entrance to some abandoned underground complex from an ancient race. What's with that look? You think ruins this close to the city haven't been picked clean? I've been there. Bare walls, dust everywhere. As for those herbs, no sense letting 'em go to waste. Let's grab what we can and head to a better spot, yeah?"
I nod, and without hesitation, we move out. Sure enough, along the way, we find two basic spiritual herbs: Yellow Bellflower and a two-year-old Dragon Knot. Wind tells me each is worth one merit point. Unlike the rare and guarded Slicing Stalk Grass, these plants are lower-tier—easy pickings with no defenses against gatherers. We pluck them carefully and toss them into the sack, the soft rustle of leaves and faint scent of the herbs filling the air.
With that task done, we head east. The trek to Wind's chosen spot will take about forty minutes. Barely a few minutes in, Wind can't keep quiet anymore. The guy's a damn chatterbox when he's got something on his mind.
"Listen, brother," he begins, eyes sparkling with excitement. "Your senses are fucking unreal! How the hell are you, at your age, still stuck at one tattoo stripe? That's not normal! I've heard stories about kids who couldn't break past one stripe, but I thought they were bullshit. Can't imagine what it was like growing up… damn. I'm at five stripes myself, aiming for at least six for my pattern. You heard about those elite clan warriors? They build their patterns on eight stripes! Think about the foundation that gives 'em!"
I tilt my head, genuinely curious now. "Is it that big a deal? How many stripes do you start your pattern with?"
This kind of knowledge always slipped past me. I never had anyone to ask, but now seemed like a solid chance to fill in the gaps.
Wind glances back, squinting like he's checking if I'm messing with him. Seeing that I'm dead serious, he shakes his head, surprised, then dives into his explanation.
"Damn, man, you're full of surprises. First grown-ass guy I've met who doesn't know this. Alright, here's the deal. Everyone's born with a one-stripe tattoo. Kids start training around five years old, picking up more stripes—second, third, fourth, you get it. Your talent's measured by how fast you hit those stages. Take me: second stripe at six, third by eleven. Now I've got four and I'm close to five. My pace? Below average. The geniuses in the big factions blow through these stages way faster, with pills and master mentors helping 'em out. Us servants? We don't get that shit. But even those city bigshots ain't the limit. In the Empire, clans, sects, and Pavilions pour way more into their kids. Forming a pattern on nine stripes before eighteen? That's not rare for them! Nine fucking stripes at that age!"
He suddenly trips over a barely visible root and curses under his breath, then keeps going without missing a beat.
"Got sidetracked. So, you train as a kid, day after day, week after week. To get that second stripe, you grind, learn, practice like hell. You climb—one stripe, two, three, whatever. But time's a bitch. The older you get, the harder it is to add stripes. At some point, your growth can stall or even regress. Most folks, when they hit their limit—that 'thin spot,' they call it—make the breakthrough to pattern formation. You can start a pattern at five stripes or more. It's like jumping from the first stripe to the ninth in one go. The more stripes you've got when you form it, the stronger your foundation on the Pattern stage. Simple example: I'm fourteen, a Fifth Lord, and I'll probably hit two more stripes. That's seven by my peak. A warrior with a seven-stripe pattern? That's Dark Star City's great factions level! In a few years, I could join a sect or clan!"
Wind stops, grinning like he's just won the lottery. He's so caught up in his own excitement that he doesn't even realize I'm a First Lord, a couple years older than him.