The morning light slipped through the small window and warmed Zen's face. He stretched until his shoulders unclenched, a low breath leaving him. Two months here had folded into a routine: wake, train, read, sleep, repeat.
He glanced at his forearm. A faint line of muscle ran beneath the skin—quiet proof of the work. He didn't flex for the mirror; he only noticed how his shirt sat a little different.
Quick bath, towel, then downstairs. The inn smelled like fresh bread and stew. The innkeeper looked up and nodded.
"Morning, Zen."
"Morning. Something warm, please."
She moved to the stove without fuss.
He called the panel up the way he always did—calm, automatic.
System: Show status.
Name: Zen Lawkey
Rank: E
Strength: 42
Agility: 34
intelligence:22
charm:8
Mana: 700
He couldn't help but grin.
"Finally hit E-rank, huh?"
Progress felt slow, but steady. Every day spent training, every drop of sweat in the forest, had finally paid off.
The innkeeper arrived with his breakfast. Zen devoured it quickly — eggs, bread, and a thick meat stew that smelled far better than it looked. When he finished, he leaned back and exhaled.
"Alright," he murmured. "Time to test what this E-rank really means."
He'd been training in solitude for too long. Books and wooden dummies couldn't replace real combat. If he wanted to grow stronger, he needed real opponents. So, he decided to head toward the town training ground, where adventurers and guards often held friendly sparring matches.
Before leaving, he tied a plain black mask around his face. His looks had already caused a few scenes around town — and he had no interest in unwanted attention.
"Better safe than surrounded," he muttered as he stepped out.
The arena was louder than usual:the sharp crack of wood on wood. Two fighters moved in the ring; sparks flashed where practice blades met. People leaned forward at each strike.
This wasn't just for practice — people were betting on the matches.
Zen approached the registration counter. "I want to join," he said. The guard in charge raised an eyebrow. "New face, huh? Name?" "Zen." "Wooden weapons only, no magic. Try not to die."
He signed his name and waited. When the call came, he stepped into the ring and faced a man a head taller, broad-shouldered, eyes practiced from years of hits taken and given. Zen found a stance that felt balanced. His heart wasn't calm, but it was steady.
"Try to last a minute, kid," the man said. "No promises," Zen replied, smiling under the mask.
"Match start!
Their wooden blades met with a clean, biting sound. The impact went up through his wrists into his shoulders; his boots slid on packed dirt. He tasted grit and a burst of adrenaline.
"System," Zen whispered. "Scan his rank." [Target Rank: D]
Zen's eyes widened.
"Oh, great. I'm screwed."
The line landed like a quiet fact. Zen steadied.
The man's next swing came faster. The practice sword glanced off Zen's ribs, a sharp pain that stole his breath. He tightened his core and moved—small adjustments, a planted foot, a shorter step. Combat came down to tiny shifts more than raw strength.
"Damn, that hurts!"
Another clash. Sparks jumped where wood struck wood. The crowd's noise settled into background rhythm. A sweep hit his thigh; he staggered, found footing, pushed back. A quick feint clipped his shoulder. Each hit stung and taught: where he'd been slow, where his weight leaked.
"System (low): Trust your instincts—shorten your follow-through and look for the counter"
He let the tip of advice sit in his head like a friendly nudge and tried it on the next exchange. The change was small but real; one block felt cleaner, one counter landed without wasted motion.
The opponent adjusted. Their exchanges sped up. Zen stopped thinking of hits as punishment and started cataloging them: the angle of follow-through, the half-step before each swing, the way weight shifted when someone tired.
A quick combination finished with the practice blade grazing his collarbone. The force snapped his head back; the wooden edge stopped an inch from skin. The referee's voice cut through.
"Match over!"
He dropped to one knee, lungs burning. Pain mapped itself across ribs, shoulder, thigh. He'd been hit more times than he could count, but he'd stayed upright—which mattered more than applause.
Back at the inn he collapsed onto the bed, every muscle humming with the ache of honest work. The system's familiar chime slipped into his head—warm, oddly human.
[Ding!] [Congratulations! You have been thoroughly beaten.]
[New Attribute Unlocked: Defense +5]
Zen blinked. "Did… did the system just mock me?"
"System (light, almost amused): Affirmative. You took a proper beating. Learned more than two months of solo drills would teach you."
He let out a half laugh, half groan. "You're seriously enjoying this, huh?"
"System (friendly): Not enjoying—observing. Proud, actually. You moved better on the last exchange. Keep this up and you'll stop being someone's entertainment."
He called the panel again without ceremony.
System: Show me status.
System: Show status.
Name: Zen Lawkey
Rank: E
Strength: 42
Agility: 34
intelligence:22
charm:8
Mana: 700
Endurance:5(Newly Unlocked)
Numbers, a new line for Defense. Small progress. The system added one practical note, said like a companion handing him sensible advice.
"System: Recommendation — keep daily sparring."
Zen smiled, small and private. He'd been beaten, but he'd learned something real. Tomorrow he would go back with steadier feet and a clearer read on timing. The voice in his head felt less like a machine and more like someone who'd been there through the drills and nights of repetition—quiet, direct, and a little candid.