Morning found Osric already on his feet.
The city wasn't awake yet—not fully—but Lowbrook never truly slept. Smoke still clung to the air, thin and sour, rising from chimneys that hadn't gone cold overnight. His body protested as he walked, ribs tight beneath his tunic, leg stiff until movement slowly coaxed it loose. Pain lingered, dull and persistent, but it no longer dictated his pace.
He moved anyway.
Lowbrook's smithy sat wedged between two leaning buildings, its sign crooked, its wooden frame darkened by years of soot and neglect. No crowds. No guards. Just the steady, metallic rhythm of hammer on iron echoing faintly into the street.
Osric stepped inside.
Heat washed over him first, then the smell—burnt coal, old metal, sweat soaked into stone. The space was small, cluttered with tools that had seen better decades. Behind the anvil stood an old man with arms like knotted rope and eyes dulled by repetition rather than age.
The blacksmith glanced up once. No greeting. No curiosity.
"I need a sword," Osric said. "Your cheapest iron one."
The old man grunted and disappeared behind a rack. Metal scraped against wood. A moment later, he returned and set the blade down across the anvil.
It was plain. No ornamentation. The edge wasn't pristine, and the grip showed signs of wear from other hands. Iron—not steel. Honest, but unimpressive.
Osric picked it up.
The weight surprised him.
Not because it was excessive, but because it was real. Solid. Cold even through the wrap of the handle. It pulled slightly at his wrist, demanding attention, balance, respect.
"Two silver," the blacksmith said flatly.
Osric didn't haggle.
He counted out the coins carefully and placed them on the anvil. The sound they made felt final. When he turned to leave, the blacksmith had already gone back to his work.
Outside, the morning had brightened just enough to cast long shadows through the narrow streets.
Osric adjusted the sword at his side, every step reminding him that this was new. Unfamiliar. He felt exposed carrying it openly, but also steadier—less vulnerable than he'd been with only his fists.
He didn't head for the guild.
Instead, he drifted toward the quieter edges of Lowbrook, where buildings thinned and alleyways widened into forgotten yards and half-cleared lots. Somewhere he could move without eyes on him.
At least, that was the idea.
The sword rested heavy against his hip, its presence both reassuring and awkward. Relief settled into his chest—not excitement, not confidence. Just the knowledge that he finally had something between himself and the world.
Still…
As he slowed near an empty stretch of stone and broken fencing, a faint pressure brushed the back of his awareness. The kind that made his steps adjust without thought. The kind that made him choose space instead of corners.
Osric didn't look back.
He drew the sword instead.
The blade slid free with a muted sound, iron catching the pale morning light. It felt wrong in his hands—too rigid, too demanding—but solid all the same. He tested a cautious swing, then another, feeling the pull of momentum, the way the weapon insisted on commitment.
Heavy.
Cold.
But his.
Somewhere behind him, the city watched.
And so did someone else.
Osric exhaled slowly and raised the sword again.
The iron blade was heavier than it looked—its weight pulling at his shoulder as he lifted it overhead. The grip was rough, unfamiliar, the balance slightly off. He brought it down in a clean, vertical arc, the edge cutting through empty air with a dull whoosh.
Again.
And again.
The motion was clumsy at first. His stance shifted without him fully realizing it, feet adjusting to keep balance as the blade tried to pull him forward. Each downward swing sent a faint jolt through his ribs, the bruised muscle protesting with a low, steady ache.
On the fifth swing, something flickered at the edge of his vision.
On the sixth, it solidified.
[New Challenge Available]
Osric froze mid-motion, the sword held above his head.
"…Now?"
[Challenge]
Perform 500 downward sword swings.
[Time Limit]
Until sundown.
[Failure Penalty]
None.
[Reward]
+1 Stamina
The panel remained, patient and unmoving.
Osric lowered the sword and stared at the words.
"…That's it?"
One stamina. No skill. No stat spread. Just a single point.
For a moment, disappointment surfaced—quiet but real. Five hundred swings wasn't nothing, especially not in his condition, and the reward felt… small.
Then he tightened his grip.
"…It's still a reward."
And more than that—it was permission. Proof that what he was doing mattered. That this wasn't wasted effort.
Osric dismissed the panel and lifted the sword again.
The next swings came slower, more deliberate. He focused on the motion rather than power—raising the blade, aligning his arms, bringing it straight down. Each repetition carved the movement deeper into muscle and habit.
Ten.
Twenty.
Fifty.
Sweat began to bead along his brow, stinging where the skin was split. His shoulders burned, a dull heat spreading with every lift. His leg stiffened, forcing him to widen his stance to keep from favoring it too obviously.
By the time he passed one hundred, his breathing had changed.
By two hundred, the sword felt heavier than when he'd bought it.
He rested then—just for a moment—leaning on the blade with both hands, chest rising and falling. His ribs throbbed in time with his pulse, and when he straightened again, the ache sharpened enough to draw a hiss through his teeth.
"…So this is what it means to train with injuries."
He resumed anyway.
The swings lost their neatness as exhaustion crept in. His grip slipped once, then again. His shoulders trembled on the lift. Each downward strike took a fraction more effort than the last.
He stopped counting around three hundred.
From then on, it was just repetition and will.
Break.
Swing.
Break.
Swing.
Time passed. The sun crept lower, shadows stretching across the secluded ground. Osric wiped sweat from his eyes with a shaking hand and forced himself upright again.
He didn't notice the figures at first.
Two shapes stood at the edge of the open space, half-hidden where broken stone met overgrown brush. They had been there for a while—long enough to see the early swings, the adjustment, the mistakes.
Long enough to see the fatigue set in.
Jeffrey shifted his weight uneasily. "He's… really doing it."
Carl snorted, arms crossed over his broad chest. "Ugly form. But he hasn't dropped it yet."
Their eyes followed Osric as he lifted the sword again, slower now, shoulders trembling, breath ragged.
Philip's suggestion echoed in Jeffrey's mind.
If they see an opportunity…
Carl cracked his neck and took a step forward. "Looks like we found one."
The crunch of gravel carried faintly through the air.
Osric brought the blade down once more—and felt something change behind him.
He turned.
Two figures were approaching.