Osric woke before dawn to the dull weight of his own body.
Pain greeted him instantly.
Not sharp. Not blinding. Just there—settled deep into muscle and bone, unavoidable. His ribs protested when he breathed too deeply, the bruises along his side sending a slow, pulsing reminder of every knee and elbow driven into him the night before. His leg felt stiff, heavy, like it hadn't fully agreed to move yet. Even the split skin above his brow tugged when his eyes opened, dried blood pulling unpleasantly.
The thin blanket beneath him did nothing to help.
Cold seeped up from the floor, pressing through cloth and skin alike. Osric lay still for a moment, staring at the cracked ceiling above him, tracing familiar lines in the stone as his body caught up to consciousness. Each breath came easier than it should have.
That didn't go unnoticed.
He shifted carefully, testing himself.
The pain was real—but muted. Manageable. It didn't spike the way it would have before. His ribs hurt, yes, but they didn't steal the air from his lungs. His leg complained, but it didn't threaten to buckle. Even his head felt clearer than expected.
Osric frowned faintly.
"…So it wasn't just last night."
He pushed himself upright, slow and deliberate. The cracked chair sat where it always did, useless as ever. The room looked exactly the same—bare walls, cold air, nothing softened by comfort or wealth. If not for the ache in his body and the faint copper taste still lingering in his mouth, it would have been easy to believe nothing had changed.
But something had.
He rolled his shoulders and felt the difference again. Subtle. Real.
Not strength handed to him for free.
Strength earned.
Osric exhaled through his nose and swung his legs over the side of the blanket, bare feet touching the cold floor. The day was coming whether he was ready or not—and for once, he didn't feel like it would crush him.
Not today.
Osric sat on the edge of the blanket and called the System.
The response was immediate.
A translucent panel unfolded in his vision, steady and silent.
Status
Name: Osric
Potential: E
Strength: 11
Agility: 10
Stamina: 9
Endurance: 9
Vitality: 9
Mana: 0
Skills:
Pain Resistance (E)
Combat Instinct (E)
He studied it without hurry.
The numbers weren't impressive. He knew that. Anyone trained from birth, anyone born into the right family, would scoff at them. But Osric wasn't comparing himself to nobles or knights.
He was comparing himself to yesterday.
Strength at eleven. Agility finally at ten. His stamina and endurance no longer lagging behind his body's demands. And vitality—quietly doing its work, dulling pain, helping him recover just enough to keep moving.
It matched what he felt.
He clenched his fist, watching the tendons shift beneath his skin. The movement was cleaner than before. More controlled. His balance, even sitting still, felt… anchored. Like his body knew where it was supposed to be.
No wasted motion.
No panic.
Combat Instinct at E wasn't loud, but it lingered. A faint awareness at the edge of his thoughts, nudging him when he replayed moments from the fights—angles he'd chosen without thinking, timing he hadn't consciously calculated.
And Pain Resistance…
Osric inhaled deeply, ribs aching but holding.
"…That would've dropped me before."
The thought wasn't bitter. Just factual.
He dismissed the panel and stood, bracing himself out of habit. The expected spike of pain never came. Instead, his leg stiffened, then loosened as weight settled onto it. Not healed. Not even close.
But functional.
He crossed the room slowly, retrieved the water he'd saved from the night before, and drank sparingly. Each swallow grounded him further in the present. In what he was becoming, piece by piece.
This wasn't sudden power.
It was accumulation.
Osric wiped his mouth with the back of his hand and glanced once more at the loose floorboard hiding his coin pouch. Food. Rest. Another fight, eventually.
And after that?
He didn't know.
But for the first time, uncertainty didn't feel like a threat.
It felt like space.
—
The bar fell quieter as Jeffrey finished speaking.
For a moment, no one said anything.
Ruben leaned back against the table, arms crossed, eyes unfocused—not on Jeffrey, but on the image forming in his mind. Osric. In a ring. Standing. Winning.
It didn't sit right.
He felt it as a tightness in his chest, faint but persistent. Not fear. Not doubt.
Discomfort.
He didn't show it.
Ruben scoffed instead, sharp and dismissive. "So what?"
A few of the others laughed, quick and eager.
"He's still just an insect to me," Ruben continued, voice steady. "One lucky night doesn't change that." He pushed himself upright, grabbing his mug again. "I've got better things to worry about. My knight instructor's already breathing down my neck. Says if I keep slacking, I'm out."
That wiped the smiles away.
Ruben took a long drink, then slammed the mug down. "If I ever see that bastard Osric again," he said coldly, "I'll crush him. Simple as that."
The tension eased. The answer they wanted.
It was Philip who spoke next.
He hadn't laughed. Hadn't interrupted. He sat slightly apart from the others, fingers loosely intertwined, watching Ruben with calm, assessing eyes. Physically, he was the weakest among them—but no one there mistook him for harmless.
"Sure," Philip said mildly. "You're right."
Ruben glanced at him.
Philip tilted his head just a little. "Still… no harm in knowing more, is there?"
Jeffrey stiffened.
Philip continued smoothly, "Why don't you send Carl along with Jeffrey this time? Just to keep an eye on Osric. If they see an opportunity—" he smiled faintly, "—they can test him properly."
The name alone drew attention.
Carl looked up from his seat near the wall, broad shoulders filling the space like a block of stone. He wasn't subtle. Never had been. His strength and endurance were unnatural, the kind that made weapons unnecessary.
He grinned slowly. "I wouldn't mind."
Philip met Ruben's gaze again. "Nothing reckless," he added. "Just observation. And if the chance presents itself… well. Better to know now than later."
Ruben considered it.
Testing. Information. Control.
Finally, he nodded once. "Fine."
Jeffrey exhaled without realizing he'd been holding his breath.
"Don't make a mess," Ruben said. "And don't embarrass me."
Philip's smile widened just a fraction.
"Of course."
Outside, the night carried on—unaware that Osric's name had just become a topic of interest rather than a forgotten insult.
And that was far more dangerous.
—
Osric lay still for a long while after the system window faded.
The room was quiet except for the faint creak of wood settling and the distant sounds of the city winding down. His body ached in familiar places—ribs stiff, leg sore, brow throbbing beneath dried blood—but the pain no longer felt like a warning.
It felt like a reminder.
He rolled onto his side and stared at the dim outline of his wall.
'Fists aren't enough anymore.'
The thought came without doubt.
The ring had taught him that much. Strength and instinct could carry him through chaos, but there were limits. Reach. Control. The ability to end a fight before it turned desperate.
He sat up slowly and reached beneath the loose floorboard, fingers closing around the coin pouch. The weight was reassuring. Not excessive—but enough.
Today, he would buy a sword.
Not something ornate. Not something meant to impress. Just a proper blade. Something that would let him fight on his own terms instead of always being dragged into someone else's.
The money would be gone after that.
But he didn't hesitate.
He could earn it back.
The Adventurers' Guild still had work. Monsters didn't stop prowling just because he'd bled in a ring, and coin didn't care how it was earned—as long as it was earned.
Osric tied the pouch shut again and set it aside.
A weapon.
Then more work.
Then more growth.
The path ahead felt clearer than it ever had before.