Osric woke slowly.
Not to pain—at least, not the kind that stole his breath—but to stiffness that reminded him he still had limits. His body felt heavy, like iron left out overnight, cold and reluctant to move.
He lay still for a moment, listening.
Lowbrook was already alive. Distant voices. Footsteps on stone. Someone coughing violently a few huts away. Life, grinding forward whether you were ready or not.
Osric sat up and tested his shoulder.
It pulled, but it didn't scream.
Better.
He exhaled through his nose and stood, rolling his neck once, then his arms. Each movement was careful, deliberate. Yesterday would have been impatience. Today was restraint.
'I'm not healed. But I'm healing.'
That was enough.
He broke his fast with the last of the bread he'd bought, chewing slowly, forcing himself not to rush even though hunger gnawed at him. He washed it down with cold water and packed his things neatly—knife, coin pouch, cloak—then stepped outside.
The day passed without drama.
Osric avoided the forest and the guild alike. Instead, he moved through Lowbrook with purpose, not wandering, not hiding—watching.
He paid attention to people's stances. To the way dockhands carried crates. To how brawlers outside a gambling den shifted their weight before shoving someone. He lingered near corners where fights had broken out before, studying the aftermath instead of the violence itself.
Who walked away.
Who limped.
Who didn't stand back up.
'Fighting isn't just strength,' he thought. 'It's timing. Position. Knowing when you're already losing.'
When his body protested, he listened.
He stretched when stiffness crept in. Rested when his breathing grew shallow. This wasn't training meant to impress anyone—it was survival, measured in hours instead of glory.
By the time the sun began to sink, his muscles felt warm instead of tight.
Ready—but not eager.
Osric returned to his hut briefly, drank water, and adjusted his cloak. The silver crown stayed hidden. No reason to invite attention.
When dusk finally settled over Lowbrook, he turned toward the familiar alley once more.
Tonight wasn't about fighting.
Tonight was about learning who bled quickly—and who didn't.
And whether he could be one of the latter.
The door opened again for five copper.
Osric stepped inside and this time, nothing surprised him.
The heat. The noise. The smell of old blood and sweat baked into stone. His eyes passed over it all without lingering. He didn't need to relearn the place—only the people in it.
He took a spot near the edge of the chamber, half-shadowed by a pillar, where no one paid him any attention.
The crowd gravitated toward familiar names. Fighters with reputations. Men and women who drew shouts the moment they stepped into the pit.
Osric ignored them.
Instead, his gaze drifted to the quieter bouts.
The ones announced without excitement. The fights where only a handful of people bothered to watch.
New blood.
Unremarkable fighters.
Those who won once—and never twice.
He leaned forward slightly as the first of them entered.
A young man. Too stiff. Shoulders tight. Every movement telegraphed. He won anyway, more through stubbornness than skill. His opponent made a mistake first.
Osric watched the exchange twice in his mind before it ended.
Noted.
Another fight. A woman with decent footwork but no power behind her strikes. She lasted long enough to frustrate the other fighter, then collapsed the moment she was pressured properly.
Noted.
A third. A broad man with reach but no idea how to use it. His swings were wide, exhausting. He won because the other man tired faster.
Osric's attention sharpened.
He didn't cheer. Didn't react. He watched hands. Hips. Breathing. How long it took before a fighter stopped thinking and started reacting.
He began to separate them mentally.
Those who fought again tonight—and those who didn't.
The ones who returned to the pit were crossed out immediately. Either too confident, too reckless, or too hungry for coin to be careful.
The ones who won once and left?
Those mattered.
By the end of the night, Osric had memorized them all.
Six fighters.
Each face. Each stance. Each bad habit.
One stood out.
A man in his late twenties. Lean, but soft—no real muscle definition beneath his skin. His technique was poor. Footwork sloppy. He overextended constantly, relying on wild swings and luck to carry him through.
And luck had.
Barely.
The man won by a single desperate shove that sent his opponent sprawling. No clean strikes. No control. Just survival.
But when he left the pit, he wasn't limping.
No blood in his eyes. No shaking hands.
Tired—but intact.
Osric's gaze followed him until he vanished into the crowd.
'That one.'
He replayed the fight again. And again.
The sloppy footwork. The wide, panicked swings. The way the man froze when pushed backward, instincts collapsing the moment control was taken from him.
Osric committed every flaw to memory.
When the fights began to thin and the crowd grew restless, he stepped away from the pillar and headed for the exit. No hesitation. No second thoughts.
Outside, the cold air struck his lungs, sharp and clean.
He welcomed it.
Tomorrow wasn't for watching.
Tomorrow was for stepping into the pit.
Osric rolled his shoulders once, feeling the stiffness still there—but manageable. Enough.
He started back toward his hut, footsteps steady against the stone.
No bravado.
No rushing.
Just preparation, measured and deliberate.
He already knew who he would fight.
And more importantly—
He knew how that fight would end.
Osric slowed as he reached his door.
For a moment, his hand lingered on the latch.
Not long ago, he wouldn't have been standing here. He would have crossed the street instead. Lowered his head. Endured.
He hadn't forgotten what it felt like to be helpless.
He hadn't forgotten that this confidence was new — untested.
'I might be wrong,' he admitted quietly.
Then he opened the door.