The true road of forging had begun.
Duracal reduced my workload—not out of kindness, but necessity. My hands were now expected to shape iron, not just endure it. Still, I was forbidden from selling anything I made.
"If someone dies because of a weapon," he said, "that death belongs to the blacksmith."
Training with the others resumed soon after.
Sword, spear, terrain, archery—woven into short breaks between forge work. No clear separation. No recovery. At night, I continued my private training—dark aura circulating through my abdomen, miasma condensed within my heart, the two flowing together in a controlled figure-eight pattern.
Yet something felt wrong.
I was improving.
But it felt… hollow.
One morning, during a short break, Siena noticed.
"You're distracted," she said.
I hesitated, then spoke honestly. "Everything feels repetitive. I'm training, learning, forging—but it doesn't feel real. Like none of it has weight."
She studied me for a long moment.
Then she smiled.
"If you think that," she said, "you're ready."
She spoke briefly with Duracal. He frowned, then waved a hand.
"Go."
Before I could ask questions, Siena dragged me toward the mountains.
As we left, Duracal handed me a spear. His gaze lingered on me longer than usual.
There was no reassurance in it.
Only warning.
She left me in an open clearing. Sparse trees. Uneven ground. Enough space to move—but nowhere to hide.
"Stay here," she said.
I assumed it was another terrain lesson.
Then the ground trembled.
From between the trees emerged a dual-horned rat.
Six meters long. Blood-red eyes. Thick forelimbs built for charging. Its horns curved forward, angled perfectly to catch and gore.
It stopped when it saw me.
Its gaze locked.
Aggression snapped into place.
"If you want to live," Siena called calmly, "kill it."
Panic hit instantly.
My grip tightened too much. My stance broke. Every technique I'd practiced scattered.
The beast charged.
I barely rolled aside, the wind of its movement tearing past me. I stabbed on instinct—missed. It twisted faster than something that large should have been able to.
A horn clipped my ribs as I tried to retreat.
Pain flared.
"Focus!" Siena shouted. "What controls the fight?"
Distance.
Space.
Terrain.
I forced my feet to stop moving blindly.
The ground sloped slightly to my left. The rat adjusted its charge to compensate.
I waited.
It lunged.
I stepped into the slope instead of away from it, pulled the spear back, aligned my shoulders—
—and thrust.
The spear pierced deep beneath its neck.
The beast screamed, staggered, and collapsed into the dirt.
Silence followed.
My arms shook. My lungs burned. I didn't feel victorious—only aware of how close I'd come to dying.
Siena approached slowly.
"What you lack isn't training," she said. "It's stability. Foundations. A mind that doesn't shatter when pressure arrives."
She turned away.
"If you ever forget that," she added, "I can remind you again."
That night, back at the forge, exhaustion dragged me into sleep.
Her words followed me down.
I had mistaken repetition for mastery.
And comfort for readiness.