Osric noticed it the moment he stepped outside.
The world felt… sharper.
Not brighter, not louder—just clearer. The uneven stones of Lowbrook's streets stood out beneath his boots. The cold morning air bit his lungs, but it no longer stole his breath. Even the weight of his own body felt different, balanced in a way he wasn't used to yet.
He paused, frowning slightly.
Yesterday, he would have ignored it. Written it off as adrenaline or coincidence.
Today, he knew better.
Strength wasn't just about hitting harder. It was about control. About knowing where your body ended and the world began.
Osric rolled his shoulders once, testing the movement. No sharp pain followed. Only stiffness—and beneath it, something solid.
Growth.
The silver crown rested safely hidden against his chest, and for the first time in his life, it didn't feel like a miracle waiting to be stolen.
It felt like proof.
Osric exhaled slowly and started walking.
Lowbrook was already awake.
Eyes followed him as he passed. Some curious. Some resentful. Some calculating. He noticed those too—and didn't like how easily he noticed them.
That was when he remembered the system's last words.
A fight.
Not in the forest.
Not against beasts.
Against people.
Osric's steps slowed as a familiar alley came into view—one most people avoided without thinking twice.
He stopped just short of it.
"…So that's how it wants to train me now," he murmured.
Osric waited until dusk.
Lowbrook changed when the sun went down. Fires burned lower, voices grew rougher, and the narrow alleys filled with people who didn't want to be seen in daylight. That was when he moved.
The entrance wasn't marked.
No sign. No guards in uniform.
Just a narrow passage between two crumbling buildings, half-choked by shadows and trash. At the end of it stood a door set into old stone — not wood, not reinforced — just heavy, weathered slabs that looked like they had been part of something important long before Ashbrook had rotted into what it was now.
An abandoned watch post.
Or a forgotten cellar from an older age.
Two men leaned near the door.
Neither wore armor. Neither smiled.
They didn't stop Osric when he approached — they looked at him.
Slowly.
From his boots to his shoulders. From his posture to the way his hand twitched near his belt.
One of them finally spoke.
"Watching or bleeding?"
"Watching," Osric said.
The man held out a hand. "Five copper."
Osric didn't hesitate. He dropped the coins into the man's palm.
No receipt. No record.
The door opened.
Warmth hit him first — stale heat mixed with sweat, iron, and old stone. The space beyond was wider than he'd expected, a hollow chamber carved into thick rock. Cracked pillars supported the ceiling. Torchlight flickered along rough walls stained dark in places Osric didn't want to think about.
Less than a hundred people filled the room.
Men and women packed close together on broken benches, overturned crates, and stone steps carved into the walls. Some drank cheap ale. Some shouted. Some watched in silence, eyes sharp and hungry.
At the center was the pit.
Not a ring. Not a stage.
Just a lowered stone floor, uneven and scarred, surrounded by a rough wooden barrier barely waist-high. Old blood darkened the cracks between stones.
Two fighters stood inside.
No armor. No rules spoken aloud.
The fight ended quickly.
One man went down hard, coughing blood onto the stone. The other didn't celebrate. He simply stepped back, breathing heavily, eyes unfocused.
A runner tossed him a small pouch.
The crowd roared — not for honor, but for violence.
Osric's stomach tightened.
So that's how it works.
No entry fee to fight.
No protection.
No promises.
You survived — you got paid.
He leaned against a pillar, watching.
Some fighters were desperate.
Some were experienced.
A few were frighteningly calm.
He noticed something else too.
A board near the pit, chalk-scratched and constantly updated.
Names. Odds. Winnings.
Fighters could bet on themselves — if they had the coin. The house took its cut regardless. Winners earned more if they lasted. Losers earned nothing if they walked away.
If they didn't walk away…
Osric exhaled slowly.
This place wasn't about strength alone.
It was about endurance.
About knowing when to stop.
About choosing when to step in.
His body still ached beneath his clothes. His shoulder pulled when he shifted. He wasn't ready — and for once, he didn't pretend otherwise.
Not today.
Osric turned away from the pit and headed for the exit, the noise of the crowd following him like a living thing.
Behind him, someone screamed — not in pain, but in excitement.
Outside, the cold night air hit his face.
Osric breathed it in deeply.
Two days, he thought.
Two days to heal.
Two days to watch.
Two days to decide how far he was willing to go.
The system remained silent.
And somehow, that felt worse.
Osric returned to his room in Lowbrook without incident.
He washed the grime from his hands with cold water, changed into dry clothes, and lay down on his blanket without bothering to light a fire. The aches returned slowly once he stopped moving—dull, deep, and honest. He welcomed them.
Pain meant limits.
Limits could be measured.
Tomorrow, he would come back to the pit and watch longer. Not as a boy staring at brutality, but as someone trying to understand it. He would study footwork. Timing. Which fighters burned out fast and which ones conserved their strength. Who panicked. Who didn't.
Who fought like animals.
And who fought like killers.
Osric closed his eyes.
'Not yet.'
'But soon.'