Chapter 12: The Training Accelerates
The smith looked at my sketches like I'd lost my mind.
"You want me to make clothing that weighs... this much?" He tapped the numbers I'd written. "Thirty kilograms for bracers? That's madness."
"Can you do it or not?"
"I can do it. Question is why you'd want it."
"Training."
"Right. Training." He scratched his beard, calculating. "Lead plates sewn into leather. It'll look normal but weigh a ton. Two gold dragons."
I handed over the coins. My last gold dragons, except for one I'd kept back.
"How long?"
"Five days."
"Three."
He scowled. "You're in a hurry to cripple yourself?"
"Three days. I'll pay an extra silver if it's ready."
He pocketed the gold. "Fine. Three days. Don't come crying to me when you can't walk."
The weighted gear arrived on schedule. Bracers first—thick leather that looked normal but had lead plates layered inside. Thirty kilograms each. I put them on, felt the immediate drag on my arms.
Heavy. Good.
Next: ankle weights. Twenty-five kilograms each. My legs protested immediately.
Finally: the vest. Fifty kilograms distributed across my torso, hidden under a loose shirt.
Total additional weight: one hundred thirty-five kilograms.
I tried to walk. Nearly fell over. My body wasn't used to this much constant load.
But I'd fix that.
I wore the weights constantly. Walking to the docks for Corlys's work. Training alone in the warehouse. Even sleeping, though that first night I woke up three times from muscle cramps.
The trick was the Kilo Kilo ability. I'd shift my body weight down to fifty kilograms, which offset most of the added weight, letting me move semi-normally. Then, when I needed power, I'd spike up to two thousand kilograms—my natural weight plus the gear plus the weight manipulation.
The strikes I could deliver at that mass were devastating. I tested them on fence posts. Shattered wood with palm thrusts. Left craters in packed earth with stomps.
After ten days, I removed the weights.
The world felt wrong. Too light. Too easy. I could jump higher than I should, move faster than expected.
My body had adapted. Muscles denser. Bones thicker. The constant strain had forced rapid development.
Progress. Real, measurable progress.
The forge was in Flea Bottom's industrial quarter, run by a man named Mikken. Older, scarred, missing two fingers on his left hand. He worked alone, preferred it that way.
I approached him on day forty-two with my last gold dragon.
"I need access to your forge. Nights. Private."
He looked at the gold, then at me. "What for?"
"Training."
"Right. More training." He pocketed the coin. "You're that bastard everyone's talking about. The White Demon."
"That's me."
"Fine. You can use the forge after I close. But you clean up your own mess, and if you burn my shop down, I'll kill you."
"Deal."
That night, I began the real fire training.
Standing beside the forge was tolerable. The heat was intense but manageable. I'd done this before.
Gripping heated metal bars was agony. Mikken had left several iron rods in the coals. I pulled one out with tongs, set it on the anvil, and gripped it with my bare hand.
The pain was instant and total. My palm blistered immediately, skin turning red then white. I held on for three seconds before my hand spasmed open.
The burn was already healing when I examined it. Faster than before. Adaptive resistance accelerating.
I did it again. Four seconds this time.
By the end of the first week, I could hold heated iron for five seconds without screaming.
But I wanted more.
On day fifty, I did something stupid.
Mikken's forge had a metal grate over the coals, used for heating large pieces. I placed my hand directly on it.
The pain was indescribable. Every nerve shrieking. My vision went white. I bit through my lip trying not to scream.
One second. Two. Three.
I yanked my hand back, gasping. The palm was blackened, blistered so badly the skin had split. Blood and clear fluid mixed.
It healed overnight.
The next night, I did it again. Five seconds this time.
This is what it takes. Pain. Repetition. Breaking yourself and healing stronger.
By day fifty, I could hold a red-hot iron bar for five full seconds without flinching.
My hands looked normal. No permanent scarring. The adaptive resistance had turned my skin into something more than human.
Not fireproof. Not yet.
But getting there.
The street children gathered in the alley behind my rented room.
Four of them. Two boys, two girls. Ages ranging from maybe eight to twelve. Dirty, wary, with the sharp eyes of survivors.
I'd asked around until I found them—kids who knew the city, who could move unseen, who needed coin badly enough to take risks.
"I need information," I said, showing them the last gold dragon. "Watch the Red Keep. Note which ratcatchers go in and out. When they enter, when they leave. Any patterns."
The oldest boy—maybe twelve, with a scar across his cheek—spoke up. "Why?"
"None of your business. But I'll pay a silver stag for every week of reports. More if the information is good."
They exchanged glances. A silver stag was a fortune to street kids.
"What else?" the girl asked. Sharper than the others.
"Watch for unusual activity. People meeting in secret. Gold Cloaks acting strange. Anyone talking about the royal family."
"That's spying."
"That's information gathering. And it pays."
The boy with the scar nodded. "We'll do it. But if we get caught—"
"You don't know me. Never saw me. Just some crazy bastard who asked questions."
They took the deal.
Within three days, reports started coming in.
A ratcatcher named Cheese drank at the Silk Street tavern every night. Got drunk, talked too loud, mentioned having access to "places nobles don't know about."
Prince Aegon visited the same brothel every third night, always drunk, always loud.
Princess Helaena walked the godswood on her schedule. Never varied.
Information. The kind that could save lives or end them.
I filed it all away, building a mental map of the Red Keep's rhythms.
Soon. When the time comes, I'll know who to watch. Who to stop.
Day fifty. Night. The abandoned warehouse.
I stood in the center of the empty space, weighted gear removed, body feeling light and dangerous.
Time to test everything.
Soru. I kicked off the ground, burst forward. Ten meters. Didn't crash. Kicked again. Another ten. A third time. Thirty meters total without stopping.
Chains working. Control improving.
Tekkai. Full body hardening. I concentrated, felt every muscle compress and harden simultaneously. Held it. Ten seconds. Twenty. Thirty. Forty-five.
At forty-five seconds, the cramps started. I released it, gasping.
Better. Much better.
Rankyaku. I kicked toward the wall. The compressed air blade formed—visible this time, a crescent of force that cut through the air. It hit a wooden support beam and sliced clean through, the beam falling with a crash.
Functional. Not mastered, but functional.
Geppo. I jumped, kicked the air. Once. Launched higher. Kicked again. Twice. I was ten feet off the ground, suspended by nothing but my own force.
Landed. Stuck it.
Around me, the warehouse was damaged from my testing. Cracked floor. Cut beams. Scorch marks from fire training sessions.
But I was stronger. Faster. More dangerous than I'd been three weeks ago.
Not a master. Not yet.
But something the world hadn't seen before.
I left the warehouse, walking through Flea Bottom's night streets. Heading back to my room.
In three days, I'd return to the godswood. See Helaena again.
And this time, I'd be ready for whatever came next.
Ready or not, Helaena. I'm coming back.
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