Thane lifted an arm and gave a cautious sniff, bracing himself for the ripe stench of sweat, dirt, and adrenaline that should have been baked into his skin by now. But… nothing. Not even a hint. No sour musk, no earthy forest grime—not even the faint trace of him. It wasn't the crisp, soapy scent of stepping out of a hot shower. It wasn't new car smell, fresh laundry, pine-scented anything. It was the absence of smell entirely—like his body had been wiped from the sensory register.
He frowned and glanced around. The courtyard was quiet, lit with drifting motes of ambient mana, but even that didn't help. He couldn't smell the cracked stone beneath his boots, or the air itself. No damp, no dust, no trace of the old world around him.
It was like walking through a memory instead of a place. Sterile. Too quiet. And now, apparently, scentless.
A small thread of unease curled in his chest. Losing a sense—even just muting one—felt unnatural. Like something was missing, and he couldn't quite name it. Still, the armor didn't seem to be hurting him. Just… adjusting him.
"Guess I'll have to get used to that," he muttered, more to the empty air than anything else.
Thane pulled up the list again, letting his eyes drift down the floating text. Stay Cool… No Scratching… Frictionless… Some of it sounded great in theory, but how was he even supposed to test half of it?
Bathroom Portal? Hard pass. That one was staying in the "only as a last resort" category.
No Scratching? He wasn't even itchy. He gave his side an experimental brush just to be sure—nothing. But that didn't prove much.
Stay Cool? He hadn't noticed the temperature since putting it on, which maybe was the point, but how was he supposed to know? Run laps and see if he broke a sweat? Could he even sweat, or would it just instantly evaporate with the You're Clean feature?
He tapped his index finger on his thigh absently… then paused.
Wait. Frictionless.
He rubbed his palms together, slowly at first, then faster. The fabric didn't drag. It didn't even grip. It was like trying to slide satin over oil—completely smooth. No resistance, no heat. He didn't feel warmer, or colder—just… perfectly neutral.
His eyebrows lifted. Okay. That's kind of awesome.
He gave his thighs a similar test, rubbing one leg against the other. Same thing. No sticking, no bunching, no chafing. The result was borderline comedic. With zero friction, his movements felt like he was stranded in the middle of a frozen lake, limbs flailing for traction that didn't exist. No sticking, no bunching, no chafing—just pure, effortless glide.
"Alright, that's at least two checked off," he muttered, starting to smile.
Then he caught sight of his flail, resting on the floor where he'd left it—his smile faltered.
Wait. What if he couldn't grip it now?
The idea hit like a cold slap. It was his only weapon. If he couldn't hold it, he was screwed.
He crouched and reached out. His fingers closed around the flail's handle—and the moment he tightened his grip, it shot out like a greased eel. The haft yanked forward, only to be abruptly halted as the chain snapped taut, the spiked ball anchoring it in place with a dull clunk. The handle landed half a foot from his outstretched hand, perfectly angled back toward him.
It just sat there. Smug. Like it was mocking him. Thane stared at it.
"No. Nope. Not okay."
He tried again, more carefully. Same result. The thing might as well have been made of oiled soap.
Panic prickled at the edge of his thoughts. Was he seriously going to get taken out by a wardrobe because his magic armor didn't let him hold his own gear?
Then something occurred to him. He looked down at his feet.
He'd just walked across the room. Easily. If the armor made him frictionless everywhere, he should've skated into the wall already. But he hadn't. Which meant—
"The bottoms of my feet still have grip…" he murmured, realization dawning.
So the friction wasn't totally off—it was selective. Or maybe it reacted to intent? He took a deep breath, narrowed his eyes at the flail, and focused. You're mine. I can hold you.
He reached out with that thought fixed in his head—and this time, the handle stuck. His fingers curled around it, firm and solid.
A laugh bubbled out of him, half-relief, half-disbelief. "Okay. Mental toggle. Got it."
Naturally, the next step was obvious. He backed up to the far side of the room, leaned forward, and pushed off. Socks on hardwood. Armor on zero-friction mode. He sailed. Wind rushed past his ears. The walls blurred. And then he met the far wall with an impressive thud, arms splayed out for balance as he drifted slowly away from the wall, his momentum spent. His body complaining softly in protest at the abuse.
"...Nailed it," he choked out, slightly winded from the collision. Thane continued to slowly glide back across the room, one hand still out for balance the other rubbing his ribs. "Alright. Zero friction: check." He engaged friction on his feet again, and came to a stop. He'd rather not fall again—and didn't trust his coordination while reading from his character screen. Alright next ability.
Holes – Want to eat without stripping? Make a mouth-hole. Need another kind of hole? We don't judge.
He blinked. Then blinked again.
"…Charming," he muttered, face scrunching slightly. Who wrote this description?
Wait. WAIT! If he could make holes where he needed them… maybe he could get around having to use the Bathroom Portal ability altogether. The tiniest spark of hope flickered in the back of his mind. He perked up—until a far more sobering realization set in. No toilet paper. The spark of hope died a quick, unceremonious death.
He exhaled sharply through his nose and focused on the interface again.
Fine. Focus. Task at hand. A mouth-hole sounded practical. Maybe nose-holes? Hold up—why not just… take the whole thing off his head?
He concentrated, mentally picturing the armor pulling back, and stopping at the base of his neck. And to his surprise, it responded. But not all the way. The fabric peeled itself back from his face, sliding with liquid precision—stopping neatly at his forehead, chin, and just before the ears. The musty smell once again invaded his nose.
"Nice," he murmured, reaching up to rub his jaw—
And froze.
His fingers brushed smooth, bare skin.
No stubble. No five o'clock shadow. Not even peach fuzz.
"What the heck?" His hand shot up to his scalp.
He couldn't feel any hair bunched up under the slick material. He was Bald. Completely, unnervingly bald. He pressed his fingers gently where his eyebrows should've been. Nothing. He made a hole and checked his armpit like a man trying to disprove witchcraft. Gone.
"Okay. Okay—nope. That's not okay. What kind of armor comes with full-body waxing?"
He paced, muttering under his breath. "Is this a bug? A feature? Is there a microtransaction store somewhere? Do I have to buy hair DLC now? What happens if I take it off—oh wait, that's right, I can't. Am I going to be Mr. Clean for the rest of my life?"
He ran a hand over his smooth scalp again. Still bald. Still horrifyingly aerodynamic.
"...Okay. Deep breaths. It's fine. I'll just lean into the monk aesthetic. Own it. Full bald's not bad—this just moved up the timeline. I did promise I'd never linger in the balding zone. It's not that bad. Yeah, it's all good in the hood."
He paused. Blinked.
"…Wait. No. It's literally the hood's fault. The hood did this. The hood stole my hair!"
His voice pitched up as he yanked at the edge of the slick material. "You follicle-thieving head condom! What else are you hiding in there? My dignity? Really, did you have to take my eyebrows too?!"
He paced in a circle, gesturing wildly. "I didn't agree to this! I didn't click 'accept' on the 'go bald forever' terms of service!"
Once he'd cooled off—emotionally, not temperature-wise, because thank you "Stay Cool"—Thane opened the interface again, side-eyeing it like it owed him money.
"Alright. Last one," he muttered, squinting at the glowing script. "There better not be any more unwelcome surprises."
His eyes landed on the final entry:
Color Me Pink – Or any color. Change it with a thought. [Mana Cost: N/A]
He snorted. "Of course. Sure. Go ahead—color me pink, see if I care."
The armor immediately obeyed. In a blink, the deep matte black vanished, replaced by a retina-melting, eye-searing, flamingo-slap of pink so loud it could be heard in another dimension. The shock hit him like a spell—he yelped, flailed, and fell square on his butt. He stared at his legs. Pink. So freaking pink.
"…Okay," he breathed, slowly lifting one hand in front of his face, fingers flexing. Then he thought, and the color shifted—midnight blue, forest green, molten gold, snowy white. His jaw dropped.
His eyes flicked back to the status screen. (Mana Cost: N/A) "Oh, I am so abusing this."