Osric felt it before he fully understood it.
The shift in the air. The subtle pressure at his back. His Combat Instinct stirred—quiet, insistent—cutting through exhaustion like a blade through cloth. He tightened his grip on the sword and let the tip lower just enough to keep balance, breath still uneven from the last swing.
Two figures stepped fully into view.
Jeffrey looked uncomfortable, eyes flicking to the blade in Osric's hands, then to the sweat-soaked ground at his feet. Carl did not bother hiding his intent. He moved with heavy confidence, broad shoulders rolling as if this were already decided.
Osric straightened despite the tremor in his arms.
The sword felt heavier than ever.
And for the first time since buying it, he understood—this wouldn't be practice anymore.
Osric turned fully as the footsteps drew closer.
Jeffrey stopped first, a few paces back, shoulders tight and eyes darting. Carl came on without hesitation, broad frame filling the space as if the yard had been built for him. He looked at the sword, then at Osric's stance, and smiled faintly.
"So this is what all the fuss was about," Carl said. "Training already?"
Osric didn't answer. He kept the blade between them, tip angled low, arms heavy from hours of repetition. His breathing was uneven, sweat cooling on his skin.
Combat Instinct stirred—quiet, insistent.
Distance. Weight. The way Carl's feet planted like roots.
Jeffrey cleared his throat. "You really should've stayed down, Osric."
Osric's grip tightened.
Carl stepped in, fast enough that the space vanished. His hand shot out—not for Osric's chest, not for his throat—but for his wrist.
The impact was immediate.
Pain flared as Carl's fingers locked around Osric's sword hand, strength crushing down like iron bands. The blade wobbled, then stopped entirely, trapped.
"So slow," Carl said calmly. "You're tired."
Osric felt it then—the gap. Not in reach. In power.
'Pull back and he takes the blade,' his instinct warned.
So he didn't.
Osric let go.
The sword slipped from his fingers and dropped with a dull clang against the stone.
Carl blinked—just for a fraction of a second.
Osric stepped in and drove his knee up hard.
The impact landed clean.
Carl's breath left him in a sharp, involuntary sound, body folding as his grip broke. He staggered back a step, shock flashing across his face as pain caught up to him.
Jeffrey swore. "Carl—!"
Osric didn't press it. He couldn't. His leg screamed as it came down, balance wavering, ribs flaring hot. He backed off instinctively, hands up, ready for the retaliation that never came.
Because voices cut through the yard.
"Hey!"
Boots on stone. Torches flaring at the edge of the lot.
"Guards—move!"
Carl straightened slowly, face hardening as the moment passed. He glanced toward the sound, then back at Osric. Whatever he'd intended died there.
Jeffrey was already stepping away.
"Tch," Carl muttered. "Lucky."
They melted back toward the broken fencing just as two city guards rounded the corner, halberds raised, eyes sharp.
"What's going on here?" one barked.
Osric bent and snatched up his sword, heart hammering. "Training," he said hoarsely. "Alone."
The guards looked at him—sweat-soaked, injured, sword in hand—then at the empty space where two men had been.
"…Move along," the other guard said after a beat. "And keep it out of sight next time."
They left as quickly as they'd come.
Osric stood there for a long moment after, chest heaving, the yard suddenly too quiet.
His hands shook.
Not from fear.
From the release.
He exhaled slowly, picked a direction that wasn't back toward the city, and limped away.
—
He found another spot before sundown—farther out, where broken stone gave way to packed dirt and weeds. No eyes. No voices.
Just him and the blade.
The swings came slower now. Sloppier. His shoulders burned, stamina drained thin, but he kept going—forcing the motion clean, downward, controlled.
By the time he finished the last swing, his arms felt like lead and his vision swam.
The system didn't hurry him.
[Challenge Completed]
[Reward Granted]
+1 Stamina
Osric leaned on the sword, breathing hard.
"…Worth it," he murmured, even as his body trembled.
He sheathed the blade and started the long walk home as the sun dipped low—already thinking ahead.
Tomorrow, he'd go to the Adventurers' Guild.
Tomorrow, he'd earn coin the right way.
And for a while, at least, the city's uglier shadows would have to move on without him.