Osric was home again by the time the city had fully gone quiet.
He knelt on the floor and loosened the pouch at his side, letting the coins spill out onto the stone beside his blanket. Copper crowns rolled and clinked softly before settling. He counted them once. Then again.
More than yesterday.
Enough to matter.
Osric gathered them back into a small stack, his thoughts drifting as his breathing finally slowed. The fight replayed itself in fragments—wide swings, missed timing, the moment his opponent's endurance had nearly carried him through sheer stubbornness alone.
He raised a hand.
"Status."
The familiar blue text appeared.
Strength: 10
Agility: 9
Stamina: 8
Endurance: 8
Vitality: 8
Mana: 0
Osric studied the numbers longer than he had before.
Above average, he decided. Especially strength. It explained why his blows carried weight even without proper technique. Why men larger than him still recoiled when he landed cleanly.
But tonight's opponent—
Osric's jaw tightened slightly.
Stronger than he'd expected. Tougher, too. He was certain now that the man's strength and endurance had been at least twelve. Maybe more. If not for the openings, if not for persistence, the fight could have gone very differently.
He lowered his hand and leaned back onto his blanket.
Two fights in a row.
He wouldn't rush that.
Tomorrow, he would rest. Watch. Learn. Let his body recover while his eyes worked instead. The night after that—he would step into the ring again.
Prepared.
Persistent.
And ready to prove that tonight hadn't been luck.
Osric sat quietly for a moment, then counted the coins again—slower this time.
Seventy-eight copper crowns.
And the silver.
He separated it from the rest and set it aside, its pale sheen catching the faint light in the room. One silver crown and seventy-eight copper. More wealth than he had ever possessed at once, earned not through favors or luck, but with his own body.
That thought settled deeper than the weight of the coins.
Enough for food. Enough to survive comfortably for a while. Not enough yet for real equipment—but close. Close enough that the path forward no longer felt abstract.
Osric gathered the coins back into the pouch and tied it shut, careful, deliberate. He placed it beneath the blanket, where he could feel its presence even while lying down.
Tomorrow would be for recovery.
No fighting. No risks. Just watching—learning how others moved, how they failed, how they endured. If he was expected to win two fights in a row, then strength alone wouldn't be enough.
He lay back, eyes open, staring at the ceiling.
The system had given him a challenge.
This time, he intended to meet it on his own terms.
Osric returned to the underground ring the following night without intent to fight.
His body still ached when he walked, not enough to slow him, but enough to remind him that rest had been the right choice. He slipped inside the abandoned stone building as the evening deepened, familiar with the path now, familiar with the smell and heat waiting below.
No one stopped him.
To most, he was just another face in the crowd.
Osric stayed near the wall again, arms crossed loosely, eyes forward.
The first fight was over quickly. Too quickly.
One man rushed in with reckless aggression, swinging wide and hard. The other barely moved—just enough to let the blows pass—before stepping in and ending it with a single clean strike to the jaw.
The crowd roared.
Osric frowned.
He hadn't noticed it before the punch, but looking back, it felt obvious now. The way the first fighter's feet had crossed for half a second. The way his weight had tipped forward just a little too far.
He hadn't been balanced.
The second fight lasted longer.
Two men circled each other, cautious. One had clean technique—tight guard, efficient movement—but lacked power. The other was heavier, slower, but stubborn in a way that made him hard to put down.
Osric watched their exchange carefully.
The cleaner fighter landed again and again. Sharp jabs. Short hooks. Nothing wasted.
Still, the heavier man kept coming.
Not faster.
Not smarter.
Just… there.
By the time the fight ended, both were breathing hard, but only one was standing. The technician's arms trembled as he stepped back, exhausted. The heavier man remained upright, bruised and bleeding, but unbroken.
Endurance wins fights too, Osric realized.
That stayed with him.
The third fight was messy.
Both fighters rushed each other without restraint, trading blows with little thought for defense. It ended in a clumsy scramble on the ground, one man eventually unable to rise.
Osric barely blinked.
Even in the chaos, patterns emerged.
Every time one fighter pressed too hard, his guard dropped. Every time the other tried to finish things quickly, he left himself open.
Osric shifted his stance unconsciously, adjusting his footing.
He hadn't meant to.
As the night went on, he noticed more.
A tightening of shoulders that always came before a swing. A shallow breath before a desperate rush. A slight hitch in movement when fatigue began to take hold.
Sometimes, a moment before something went wrong, he felt it—a brief sense that something was off. Not a warning. Not certainty.
Just enough to make him pay attention.
And more often than not, he was right.
Osric didn't feel stronger.
Didn't feel faster.
But the fights no longer blurred together.
Each one separated itself in his mind, pieces fitting together in ways they hadn't before. Mistakes stood out. Openings lingered longer.
He understood now why yesterday's opponent had been dangerous. Not because of technique, but because of what he could endure. Why persistence had mattered more than power in the end.
Two fights in a row wouldn't be about finishing fast.
They would be about minimizing damage. About breathing. About choosing when to press and when to wait.
Efficiency.
Osric stayed until late.
By the time he finally turned to leave, his body felt heavy—but his mind was clear.
Tomorrow, he would fight again.
Not blind.
Not reckless.
And not unprepared.