Fenrir groaned as he stepped into his lab, rubbing his shoulder with a wince.
His back ached, his arms throbbed, and even his fingers felt stiff after hours of swinging around the C-grade sword.
It might not have weighed much to most, but to someone whose body wasn't trained for melee combat anymore, it was as if he'd been lifting concrete slabs all day.
He dropped into a chair and leaned back, scowling at the ceiling.
"My body isn't built for this crap anymore…" he muttered.
Sure, the potions he made were miraculous.
They could heal wounds, amplify strength, enhance reflexes—but they didn't erase fatigue.
The micro-damage and tension from repeated motion were still there, accumulating deep in the muscles. The potions could hide the pain temporarily, but not solve the root issue.
And now, after just a short dungeon session, he felt like he'd aged twenty years.
"Stupid sword. Never again."
He grumbled.
