The second day started the same as the first—dawn, work, exploitation.
But I'd made a decision during the night. If I was going to be trapped in Kang's shop for hours each day, I needed to use that time efficiently. The body required physical stress to grow stronger, and I could create that stress even while doing sedentary work.
As I walked to the shop, I picked up stones from the road. Small ones, smooth and round, each about the size of a chicken egg. I slipped them into my pockets until the weight was noticeable.
PRINCIPLE: Constant low-level resistance builds foundational strength.
When I arrived, Kang was already berating someone—a thin man with nervous eyes.
"—don't care about your excuses, Chen. You owe me three taels, and I want them by the end of the week."
"Please, Merchant Kang, my wife is sick. The medicine cost everything I had—"
"Not my problem. Pay up or I'll take your house as collateral."
The man—Chen—left looking defeated. I filed away another data point: Kang targeted the desperate, the sick, the vulnerable. Standard predatory lending.
"You're late," Kang said, though the sun had barely risen.
"I'm early. The sun isn't fully up."
His eyes narrowed. "Don't get smart with me, boy. Get to work. More inventory came in last night. Count it, record it."
I went to the storeroom and found new crates stacked haphazardly. As I began counting, I also began my exercise regimen.
Squat down to check a low crate—hold the position for five seconds. Stand up slowly, engaging leg muscles. Repeat.
Reach for a high shelf—full extension, engage core, hold. Lower slowly.
Carry heavy sacks across the room—one at a time, focusing on form and control.
Every movement became deliberate, calculated to build strength. The stones in my pockets added resistance to every motion.
It was inefficient compared to proper training. But it was better than nothing.
Two hours in, my legs were shaking and sweat soaked my shirt despite the cool morning air. But I'd counted and recorded everything, and I'd put stress on muscles that desperately needed it.
Progress.
"Boy!" Kang's voice echoed from the front. "Customer needs help loading rice. Get out here."
I emerged to find a large man with a cart waiting. He looked me up and down skeptically.
"This scrawny kid? He'll never manage those sacks."
"He'll manage or he'll regret it," Kang said pleasantly. "Boy, load six sacks of rice onto this cart."
Each sack weighed at least twenty kilograms. In my current state, that was near my maximum carrying capacity. Six sacks meant six trips, each one pushing my limits.
Perfect.
I approached the first sack, analyzing the optimal way to lift it. Bend at the knees, not the back. Engage core. Use leg strength. Keep the load close to the body.
I lifted, and my muscles screamed in protest. The shoulder wound throbbed. But I made it to the cart and set the sack down carefully.
Five more to go.
By the third sack, I was trembling. By the fifth, I could barely stand. The sixth took everything I had—I nearly dropped it twice, and when I finally got it onto the cart, I had to lean against the wall to stay upright.
The customer laughed. "Pathetic. You should feed your workers better, Kang."
"He eats what he earns," Kang replied. "Which isn't much."
They both laughed, and I focused on breathing. The body was at its limit, but limits could be pushed. That's how growth happened—stress, recovery, adaptation.
The customer left, and Kang turned to me with a calculating expression.
"You're weaker than I thought. That's a problem. I need someone who can handle physical work."
"I'll get stronger," I said between breaths.
"You'd better. Otherwise you're not worth feeding." He waved dismissively. "Take a break. You're useless like this."
I went to the back room and collapsed onto a crate, my entire body shaking. This was the edge of my current capability. But I'd reached it, which meant I knew where the boundary was.
Tomorrow, I'd push a little further.
As I rested, I heard voices from the front—Kang talking to someone new.
"—need it done quietly. No witnesses."
"That'll cost extra." A different voice, rough and cold.
"I'm aware. Here's half now, half when it's done."
The sound of coins changing hands.
"Who's the target?"
"Old woman named Cho. Lives on the east side. Make it look like an accident."
My blood went cold.
Grandmother Cho.
"Any particular reason?" the rough voice asked.
"She's been asking questions. Talking to people about the bandits, about where they might be operating from. Can't have that kind of curiosity spreading. The new boss doesn't like loose ends."
"The Ghost? He's that paranoid?"
"He's that thorough. That's why he's in charge now."
"Understood. When?"
"Tonight, if possible. Tomorrow at the latest."
"Consider it done."
Footsteps, then the door closing.
I sat frozen, my mind racing through implications and options.
Kang had just ordered Grandmother Cho's death. Because she'd been investigating the bandits—probably trying to find out who killed Jin Seo-yun's parents.
ANALYSIS:
Time until threat: 12–24 hours
My current capability: Insufficient to fight an assassin
OPTIONS:
1. Warn Grandmother Cho (she runs, but where? Kang will find her)
2. Go to authorities (village elder is compromised)
3. Eliminate the assassin (how? I'm too weak)
4. Eliminate Kang (same problem, plus more witnesses)
5. Find help (who? who can I trust?)
The blacksmith. Yoon something—the name was in Jin Seo-yun's memories. A former martial artist who'd left his sect. If anyone in this village could fight, it would be him.
But would he help? I had no relationship with him, no leverage.
Except...
His daughter. Min-ji. Jin Seo-yun had known her, maybe even cared about her. And if Kang was willing to kill an old woman for asking questions, he'd be willing to target anyone who became inconvenient.
Including a blacksmith's daughter who might catch his nephew's attention.
I stood up, my body still weak but my mind clear. I needed to move fast.
"Kang," I called, walking to the front room. "I need to make a delivery."
He looked up from his ledger. "What delivery?"
"The Chen family. You said they owed money. I should go collect it, or at least assess what collateral they have."
It was a gamble—would he buy the initiative?
Kang studied me for a moment, then nodded slowly. "Smart thinking. Yes, go assess their situation. If they can't pay, note what they own that might cover the debt."
"I'll need the address."
He wrote it down and handed it to me. "Be back before sunset. And boy? Don't try anything stupid. I have eyes everywhere in this village."
"I understand."
I left the shop and immediately changed direction, heading not toward the Chen family but toward the forge.
The blacksmith's shop was easy to find—the sound of hammer on metal echoed through the village. I approached cautiously, observing.
The forge was a sturdy building with an open front, heat radiating from within. A large man worked the anvil, his movements precise and powerful. Each strike of his hammer was controlled, purposeful.
This was someone who understood violence.
A girl sat nearby, maybe thirteen years old, working on what looked like a small knife. She had her father's focused expression, her movements careful and deliberate.
Min-ji.
I approached the forge's entrance and waited. The blacksmith noticed me after a few moments and set down his hammer.
"Help you with something, boy?" His voice was gruff but not unfriendly.
"Are you Blacksmith Yoon?"
"I am. And you're the Jin boy, aren't you? Heard you were working for Merchant Kang now."
"I am. But that's not why I'm here." I glanced around, making sure no one else was in earshot. "I need to talk to you about something urgent. Something dangerous."
His eyes sharpened. "Go on."
"Not here. Too exposed. Is there somewhere private?"
He studied me for a long moment, then nodded. "Min-ji, watch the forge. I'll be in back."
The girl looked up, her eyes curious as they met mine. There was something in Jin Seo-yun's memories—warmth, nervousness, the confused feelings of adolescence. But I pushed that aside. This wasn't the time.
I followed Yoon into a back room filled with tools and half-finished projects.
"Talk," he said, crossing his arms. "And this better be worth my time."
"Merchant Kang just hired someone to kill Grandmother Cho. Tonight or tomorrow. Because she's been asking questions about the bandits."
Yoon's expression went cold. "You're certain?"
"I heard him arrange it. Half payment up front, half on completion."
"Why come to me?"
"Because you're the only person in this village who might be able to stop it. You were a martial artist once, weren't you? Before you came here."
His jaw tightened. "That's not common knowledge."
"Jin Seo-yun's father mentioned it once. Said you were from Iron Scripture Temple."
"I left that life behind."
"Maybe. But you still know how to fight. And Grandmother Cho doesn't deserve to die for trying to find justice for murdered villagers."
Yoon was quiet for a moment, his expression unreadable. Then: "What's your angle, boy? Why do you care? You've been in this village less than a week since you woke up from that fever."
"Grandmother Cho saved my life. That creates an obligation."
"An obligation." He snorted. "You sound like a merchant calculating debts."
"Maybe I am. But the debt is real, and I intend to pay it."
He studied me with sharp eyes. "You're different from how I remember you. The old Seo-yun was quiet, timid. You're... something else."
"The fever changed me."
"Clearly." He sighed. "Alright. I'll protect the old woman. But this is going to cause problems. Kang won't take kindly to his plans being disrupted."
"I know. That's why I need to ask you something else."
"What?"
"Teach me to fight."
Yoon laughed, a short, harsh sound. "You? Boy, you can barely lift a rice sack. You think you can learn martial arts?"
"I don't need to be a master. I just need to be dangerous enough that people think twice before coming after me. Or the people I care about."
"That takes years of training."
"Then I'll train for years. But I need to start now."
He looked at me for a long moment, then shook his head. "You've got guts, I'll give you that. Stupid, but gutsy." He walked to a shelf and pulled down a wooden practice sword. "You know what this is?"
"A bokken. Practice weapon."
"Right. And you know why we use wooden swords for training?"
"Because real swords are expensive and dangerous."
"Wrong." He tossed the bokken to me. I caught it awkwardly, nearly dropping it. "We use wooden swords because if you can't handle wood, you'll kill yourself with steel. Martial arts isn't about the weapon. It's about the body, the mind, the spirit. The weapon is just an extension."
He picked up another bokken. "Show me your stance."
I had no idea what he meant. I held the sword in front of me, trying to remember action movies from my previous existence.
Yoon sighed. "Terrible. Your grip is wrong, your posture is wrong, your balance is wrong. Everything is wrong."
"Then teach me the right way."
"It'll hurt. You're already exhausted from working for Kang. Training on top of that will break you."
"I'll heal."
"You'll fail."
"I'll adapt."
He stared at me, then slowly smiled. "You know what? I believe you. You've got something in your eyes—determination, maybe. Or madness. Hard to tell the difference sometimes."
He moved into a stance, the bokken held with casual confidence. "This is the basic guard position. Feet shoulder-width apart, knees slightly bent, weight on the balls of your feet. Sword held at a forty-five-degree angle, ready to attack or defend. Copy it."
I tried. My body didn't want to cooperate—muscles too weak, coordination too poor. But I forced it into something approximating his stance.
"Better. Now hold it for five minutes."
"Five minutes?"
"You want to learn or not?"
I held the stance. Within thirty seconds, my legs were shaking. Within two minutes, they were burning. By three minutes, I was trembling so badly I could barely stand.
"Four minutes," Yoon said calmly. "Keep going."
I focused on breathing, on distributing weight, on anything except the pain. This was just data—nerve signals indicating muscle fatigue. I could process data. I could endure data.
"Five minutes. Good." Yoon lowered his sword. "Most people give up at two. You've got endurance, at least in terms of willpower."
I collapsed to my knees, gasping.
"That's your first lesson. Martial arts is about pushing past your limits. About finding strength you didn't know you had. Every day, you'll hold that stance a little longer. Every day, you'll get a little stronger."
"When... do I... learn to fight?" I managed between breaths.
"When you can hold that stance for an hour without shaking. Until then, you're not ready to learn techniques. You'd just hurt yourself."
An hour. At my current rate of improvement, that would take weeks. Maybe months.
But I'd start today.
"I'll be back tomorrow morning," I said, forcing myself to stand. "Before dawn. Before I have to go to Kang's shop."
"You're serious about this."
"Completely."
Yoon nodded slowly. "Alright. But understand something, boy. I'm not doing this out of kindness. I'm doing this because I see something in you—something dangerous. And I'd rather have that danger pointed at people like Kang than at innocent folks."
"Fair enough."
"Now get out of here before someone notices you're not where you're supposed to be."
I left the forge, my legs barely functional, my body screaming in protest. But I'd accomplished something important.
I had a teacher. I had a path to strength.
And tonight, Grandmother Cho would be protected.
The assassin would find more than an old woman waiting in the dark.
He'd find a former temple martial artist who still remembered how to kill.
And if things went well, I'd learn something from watching.
Because that's what I did. Learn. Adapt. Evolve.
One painful step at a time.
END CHAPTER 3