Chapter 4: The Fire and the Poison
The warehouse stank of old fish and rot, but it was private. That's all I cared about.
I'd found it three days ago, same place where I'd first tested the weight manipulation. Nobody came here. The roof leaked. Half the floor was rotten. But it had walls and a door that barred from the inside.
Perfect for what I needed to do.
I set down the brazier I'd stolen from a blacksmith's scrap heap. Piled kindling inside—bits of broken crate, dry straw, a few chunks of coal I'd swiped from the docks. Struck flint against steel until sparks caught.
Fire bloomed in the metal bowl, orange and hungry.
I stared at it, feeling heat wash over my face.
This is going to suck.
I'd researched this. Well, "researched" was generous. I'd dug through Ulf's fragmentary memories and my own knowledge of the adaptation system. Fire resistance was possible. It required exposure. Controlled, repeated exposure that would hurt like hell but wouldn't kill me.
Probably wouldn't kill me.
I held my right hand over the flames. Not touching. Just close enough to feel the heat intensify from warm to uncomfortable.
One second. Two. Three.
The discomfort sharpened to pain. I gritted my teeth.
Four. Five.
My palm started turning red. The pain climbed, wrapping around my hand like a vise.
Six. Seven.
I yanked my hand back, hissing through my teeth. My palm was bright red, skin angry and tender. Not blistered yet, but close.
Again.
Left hand this time. Same process. One second. Two. Three. The pain built faster now, my nerves already sensitized.
Seven seconds. I pulled back.
Both palms were red and throbbing. I forced myself to wait thirty seconds, letting the initial shock fade. Then I did it again.
Right hand. Seven seconds. Getting harder to hold still. My hand wanted to flinch away automatically.
Left hand. Seven seconds. The red deepened to an angry crimson. Blisters formed at the base of my fingers.
I kept going.
By the tenth exposure, I couldn't hold my hands steady. They shook, trembling from pain and adrenaline. Blisters covered my palms, some already weeping clear fluid.
I stopped. Sat back against the wall, cradling my hands against my chest. The pain was a living thing, pulsing with every heartbeat.
Worth it. Has to be worth it.
I unwrapped the cloth bandages I'd prepared earlier and wrapped my hands carefully. The fabric stuck to the blisters. I bit back a curse.
Tomorrow, I'd check the healing. If the adaptive resistance was real—if this body actually worked the way I thought—the burns should heal faster than normal. Days instead of weeks.
If not... well, I'd have crippled myself for nothing.
I kicked dirt over the brazier, smothering the fire, and left the warehouse.
The alchemist's shop sat wedged between a tanner and a butcher, both of which contributed to the overwhelming stench of death that hung over this corner of King's Landing. I pushed through the door, a bell tinkling overhead.
Shelves lined the walls, packed with bottles, jars, dried herbs hanging in bundles. Behind a counter, a girl maybe twenty years old looked up from a mortar and pestle.
"Help you?" Her voice was flat, uninterested.
"I need rat poison."
She raised an eyebrow. "Rats that bad in Flea Bottom?"
"Yeah."
She studied me for a moment longer, then shrugged and turned to the shelves. Pulled down a small clay bottle, set it on the counter.
"Arsenic solution. Three coppers. Don't drink it."
I handed over the coins. "How much would kill a man?"
Her hand froze halfway to the money. "What?"
"Just curious. Want to know how careful I need to be."
"Very careful." Her eyes narrowed. "A spoonful of this could drop a full-grown man in an hour. You pour it in someone's drink, you're a murderer."
"Good to know."
I took the bottle and left before she could ask more questions.
That night, back in my hovel, I stared at the clay bottle.
This is insane.
But I'd already burned my hands to blisters earlier. What was a little poison on top of that?
I poured water into a chipped wooden cup. Added three drops of the arsenic solution. Swirled it. The liquid turned faintly cloudy but otherwise looked normal.
Adaptive resistance. Poison specifically mentioned. This should work.
I lifted the cup to my lips and drank.
The taste was bitter, metallic. I forced it down, grimacing.
Then I waited.
Thirty seconds. Nothing.
One minute. A faint queasiness in my stomach.
Two minutes. The queasiness intensified. Nausea rolled through me in waves. Sweat broke out across my forehead.
Three minutes. My stomach cramped. Hard. I doubled over, gasping.
Not vomiting. Don't vomit. Body needs to process this.
Four minutes. The cramps peaked, a grinding pain that made me want to scream. My hands—already throbbing from the burns—clenched into fists, blisters screaming in protest.
Five minutes. The pain started to fade. Slowly. The nausea remained, but dulled.
Ten minutes. I could breathe normally again. The cramps had subsided to a low ache.
Fifteen minutes. I felt almost normal. Tired. Shaky. But functional.
I lay back on the pallet, staring at the ceiling, and laughed. A single bark of sound that bordered on hysteria.
It worked. The adaptive resistance actually worked.
This body wasn't normal. Whatever transmigration bullshit had dropped me here, it had given me tools. Real tools. I just had to be willing to hurt myself to unlock them.
Tomorrow, I'd try four drops.
Morning came with a knock at my door.
I sat up, groggy and aching. My hands were still bandaged. My stomach felt hollow. The knock came again, louder.
"Ulf! You in there?"
Pate's voice.
I stood, wincing as my burned palms protested, and opened the door.
Pate stood outside, arms crossed, scowling. "You look like shit."
"Thanks."
"What happened to your hands?"
I glanced down at the bandages. Thought fast. "Grabbed a hot poker. Wasn't paying attention."
"A hot poker." His scowl deepened. "While drunk?"
"No. Just... careless."
"Careless." He pushed past me into the hovel, looking around like he expected to find a bottle hidden somewhere. "You said you were done being stupid, Ulf. This is stupid."
"I know."
"Do you?" He turned back to face me. "You got a second chance. Gods-touched vision, nearly drowned, all that. And you're going to throw it away by burning yourself like an idiot?"
The irony of him lecturing me about my own cover story wasn't lost on me. I bit back a laugh.
"I'll be more careful," I said.
"You better." He jabbed a finger at my chest. "I don't want to see you back in the gutter, Ulf. You're actually doing something with your life for once. Don't fuck it up."
"I won't."
He held my gaze for a long moment, then sighed. "Alright. Just... be smart, yeah?"
"Yeah."
He left, shaking his head.
I closed the door and leaned against it, examining my bandaged hands.
Pate was wrong. This wasn't stupid. This was necessary. Every burn, every dose of poison, every moment of pain—it was building something. Making me stronger. More resistant. Harder to kill.
When the Dance came, when the dragons started falling from the sky and the rivers ran red with blood, I'd need every advantage I could get.
I unwrapped the bandages carefully.
The blisters had already started to heal. The redness had faded from angry crimson to dull pink. The weeping had stopped.
One night. In one night, my body had healed damage that should've taken a week.
I smiled, rewrapping the bandages to maintain the appearance of injury.
Adaptive resistance confirmed. Fire resistance: progressing. Poison resistance: functional.
I had work in an hour. Gavrel would expect me at the docks. But tonight, I'd come back here. Burn my hands again. Maybe my forearms too. Push the adaptation further.
And tomorrow night, five drops of arsenic.
The pain was temporary. The strength would last.
I grabbed my training sword from under the pallet, felt its weight. Soon, I'd need to practice with this. Learn actual combat, not just the theoretical Rokushiki techniques rattling around in my head.
But first: survive. Get stronger. Build the foundation.
The Dance was coming.
I'd be ready.
I had to be.
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