Suguru learned the city by its weight.
Not its names. Not its districts. But the way it pressed down on him the longer he stayed. Stone underfoot. Noise in the air. Eyes that slid past him as though he were part of the street itself.
Morning came with aches.
His back stiffened when he stood. His fingers resisted curling, skin cracked and raw. He flexed them slowly, watching the pale lines turn red again.
He didn't linger.
Staying still invited attention. Attention invited questions. Questions led nowhere good.
So he moved.
He carried water from a public well until his arms shook. Hauled refuse from a butcher's stall, the smell clinging to his clothes long after he'd washed his hands. Held crates steady while merchants argued over coin like his presence was part of the furniture.
Some paid him.
Most didn't.
"You're slow," one man said, shoving a crate into his chest harder than necessary.
Suguru stumbled but didn't fall.
"Sorry," he said.
The word came easily now.
He learned where not to walk. Which streets ended in fights. Which corners drew thieves. Which guards ignored him and which looked for excuses.
At midday, he watched the sword yard again.
The same men trained there each day. Their movements were repetitive, practiced until sharpness became habit. Blades flashed, catching the light. Wood struck wood. Steel rang against steel.
Suguru stood at the edge, careful not to step too close.
He copied the footwork silently.
Only in his head.
When he tried later—alone, behind the stable—the imbalance surprised him. His legs didn't obey the way he expected. His weight shifted wrong. He nearly fell over holding nothing at all.
He sat down heavily in the dirt.
"…Of course," he muttered.
Strength wasn't something you imagined into existence.
That night, rain came.
It soaked the city in minutes, running through gutters and cracks, turning alleys slick and reflective. Suguru pressed himself beneath a narrow overhang, water dripping steadily near his feet.
A boy about his age stood nearby, barefoot, hair plastered to his forehead.
"You new," the boy said flatly.
Suguru glanced at him. "I think so."
The boy snorted. "That means yes."
They stood in silence.
"You work?" the boy asked.
"When I can."
"That's not work." A pause. "That's surviving."
The rain softened to a mist.
"Name's Iren," the boy said. "Don't bother remembering it. People don't."
Suguru hesitated. "Suguru."
Iren nodded once, like that was enough. "There's a tannery near the river. Always need hands. Always smells like rot. Pays copper if you don't complain."
"Why tell me?"
Iren shrugged. "You'll find out anyway. Or you won't."
He left without waiting for an answer.
The tannery was worse than he imagined.
Hides soaked in foul-smelling vats. Water stained dark with old blood. His stomach rebelled, but he didn't stop. He scrubbed, lifted, wrung, and carried until his arms went numb.
The foreman watched him once, expression unreadable.
"You come back tomorrow," the man said eventually. "Or don't."
Suguru came back.
Each day after that, his hands grew tougher. The skin thickened. The blisters broke and healed poorly. He stopped noticing the smell.
At night, he collapsed where he could, too tired to think.
Magic passed him by in glimpses.
A flame sparked between a woman's fingers to light a lantern. A sigil shimmered briefly on a warehouse door before fading. Each time, his breath caught—
And each time, nothing followed.
No pull.
No response.
No awakening.
The city did not reward curiosity.
One evening, as he washed his hands in the river, Suguru caught his reflection.
He barely recognized it.
His face looked thinner. His eyes more alert. The uniform he'd arrived in hung differently now, worn to something closer to work clothes than memory.
Time hadn't stopped.
It had been waiting.
And slowly—quietly—Suguru Tenshi was learning something the forest had begun to teach him:
If he wanted a place in this world,
he would have to build it himself,
one unremarkable day at a time