Four months had passed since I began living under Duracal's roof.
The first three were nothing but endurance.
From morning until evening, my body belonged to labor—hauling coal, cleaning chimneys, grinding blades. Nights were worse. Thick books filled with metals, alloys, properties, and failures. Every morning brought an oral test.
Duracal never scolded me.
If I answered wrong, the work increased.
If he "forgot" to bring water, I was sent to the well—two buckets at a time—until the bathtub overflowed. If my explanations lacked clarity, the chimney somehow needed cleaning again.
Yet he never let me starve. Meals were simple, but filling.
Each month, ten gold coins arrived—the king's stipend. Compensation for my existence. From the second month onward, I quietly gave Duracal one gold coin for my expenses. He accepted it without comment.
By the end of the third month, my body adapted. Pain dulled into background noise. Exhaustion no longer crushed me instantly. I gained something precious—time.
Late at night, after memorizing metal properties until my eyes burned, I slipped outside.
I trained where no one could sense me.
Beast Breathing one night. Beast Skin Absorption the next. Thirty minutes each time. Aura was safe. Miasma was not something anyone should ever feel near me.
Slowly, my limits expanded.
At the beginning of the fourth month, Duracal smiled for the first time.
"Less work now," he said. "Chimney stays. After that—you work with me."
That same day, he handed me a sword.
"Sharpen it."
He demonstrated once. No corrections.
"This belongs to a mercenary," he said calmly. "If you do it wrong, he may die. If he dies—remember this—you killed him."
The weight of those words settled heavily on my hands.
I worked as if the blade were already stained with blood. Every stroke measured. Every angle checked twice. When I finished, the edge hummed faintly under the forge light.
Duracal inspected it in silence.
"Good work," he said.
The words carried more weight than praise.
The forge brought people.
Mostly regulars—retired mercenaries and adventurers forced to quit due to injury or age. To them, weapons weren't tools.
They were parts of themselves they could no longer move.
Rathen came often. A swordsman whose blade never wasted motion. No flourish. No hesitation. Every strike existed to end the fight.
Siena followed. A spearwoman. Aggressive. Dominant. She relied on reach, positioning, and pressure rather than brute strength. She openly criticized swords—and the blacksmiths who made them.
Then there was Bharam. A ranger. Quiet. Observant. His eyes missed nothing, especially terrain.
When work allowed, I asked Bharam a simple question.
"Can you take me outside the village?"
He raised an eyebrow. "Why?"
"I want to understand terrain," I said. "Where fights are decided before blades meet."
That answer earned a nod.
We walked forest edges and mountain paths. He explained footing, sightlines, ambush angles—how the land itself chose who lived.
Rathen joined us sometimes. Afterward, I asked questions. Not about techniques—but about positioning, timing, distance.
They didn't treat me like a child.
By the fifth month, I sharpened blades regularly, repaired handles, and assisted in simple forging. True forging was still forbidden.
"Your arms are thin," Duracal said. "Two or three months."
I accepted it.
Without realizing it, I began applying what I learned. My movements became more deliberate. My footing steadier. Nothing flashy. Nothing named.
Just survival.
Duracal noticed. He began granting longer breaks. Occasional days off.
That was when Rathen made a mistake.
He bragged.
Not loudly. Not maliciously. Just enough.
About my questions. My observations. My seriousness.
It reached the wrong ears.
It was my day off when it happened.
I stepped outside—and stopped.
Siena stood there.
Wooden spear in hand.
She tilted it slightly.
"So," she said, eyes narrowing, "you've been asking about terrain and distance."
She stepped closer.
"But not once," she continued, "did you ask about spear stances. About angles of attack. About how reach controls space."
Her gaze hardened.
"Why?"
I opened my mouth—then stopped.
"I wanted to understand how fights begin," I said carefully. "Before weapons decide them."
She stared at me.
Then smiled—slow and dangerous.
"Good answer," she said. "But incomplete."
She turned away.
"Two days a week," she said over her shoulder. "If you want to understand combat, you don't ignore reach."
Later, when I went to confront Rathen, he said nothing—only handed me a wooden sword.
"I'll train you," he said. "The day before she comes."
As I left, Bharam watched me.
I felt it again.
Pressure.
Not hostility.
Expectation.