Breathing was something no human could live without—it was essential to survival and to the enjoyment of life. Yet ever since becoming a Half Soul Being, Frank no longer needed to breathe, nor did he truly know how to breathe. He had lost most of the organs that once sustained him: lungs, blood, even his heart. So even if he attempted to draw air, he doubted it would matter. He suspected that any air entering his body would simply pass through him without effect.
Still, Frank decided to test himself. He forced the act of needing air by pinching his nose shut, believing that if he held his breath long enough, the urge to breathe would surface and trigger the Breathing skill. But as he held his breath, nothing changed. His body felt exactly the same as when his nose was open.
Minutes passed—five, by his estimation—before he finally released his nose. Yet even then, he felt no different. Whether he held his breath or let it flow freely, the result was the same: emptiness, as though breathing had no meaning for him anymore.
Frank looked dumbfounded at the result of his experiment. Yet, being accustomed to the stark differences that New Darkovia constantly revealed, he didn't dwell on it for long. Instead, he began searching for another way to breathe—or at least to trigger the Breathing skill. He tried countless methods, fumbling through strange practices, until suddenly a familiar window appeared before him:
[Breathing has enabled you to absorb a harmful gas]
[You have lost 1 life.]
Shock washed over him once again. The realization struck hard: every skill he had relied upon was cursed. Their activation carried hidden costs. He tried to recall the exact action that had triggered Breathing, repeating it in hopes of controlling the skill. But no matter how many times he retraced his steps, he failed to drift successfully.
Failure weighed heavily on him. Negativity and insecurity welled up, pressing down like a physical burden. His head bowed, his body squatted low, as if the weight of his own despair had forced him to the ground.
Frank waited until the wave of negativity passed over him. He felt as though he had reached the end of the rope, no longer willing to continue his endless cycle of observation, hypothesis, and theory about drifting. Yet before surrendering to despair, his eyes fell on the last notification still hovering before him. He read it aloud:
"Breathing has enabled you to absorb a harmful gas."
Strangely, speaking the words aloud gave them weight. He lingered on their meaning, probing what the system was hinting at. The more he reasoned, the wider his eyes grew—until at last, understanding dawned.
The Breathing skill was passive, while Drifting was active. He had never truly considered the difference before, and perhaps he couldn't be blamed. Most active skills he knew were shrouded in mystery, requiring magical energy or another skill to unlock. Passive skills, by contrast, were usually triggered the moment they were acquired, running constantly without conscious effort.
It became clear: Breathing was always active, silently functioning in the background. Drifting, however, required deliberate activation—and Breathing served as the key to unlock it.
The moment understanding struck, it was as though a veil lifted from Frank's eyes. He knew what to do. A subtle notion guided him—he didn't need to focus solely on his nose to breathe. After all, he was no longer human. Instead, the very act of releasing the purple substance from within and absorbing the gases of New Drakovia's atmosphere could itself be called Breathing.
Armed with this knowledge, Frank stepped forward—not with uncertainty or stubborn persistence, but with clarity. He used Breathing to unlock the Drifting skill. At first, the purple substance surged without warning, launching him high into the sky. But after several trials, he stabilized the "ethereal hoverboard" beneath him, gliding forward with ease. When he faced bends and curves, he drifted.
Frank's expression transformed; no longer somber, he beamed with joy. "This is cool!" he shouted, exhilarated by the sheer fun of it. The time and energy he had poured into learning the skill finally felt worthwhile. He was reaping the fruits of his labor. And with good reason—he no longer had to cower in fear at the dreaded notification that always appeared at the worst moments:
[You have lost control of your leg]
But all good things must end. Even as he reveled in the thrill of drifting, his mind returned to a darker truth: he was wielding a cursed skill. Every cursed skill carried its hidden price. He tried to guess what curse Drifting concealed, but the skill description remained vague.
It would take days before Frank uncovered the truth. Though Drifting itself had no immediate drawback, its activation relied on Breathing. And Breathing carried its own curse. For every life it granted, it also stole one. In fact, throughout his time in Orn's mine, he had never gained a single life—only lost one each day. Making his health dwindle to 90/100.
So, for today, Frank resolved to walk to work, hoping to preserve what remained of his life. Yet as he made his way forward, another thought lingered in his mind: what did his occupation—Orn's Official—truly entail?