The next morning, I woke early and went through light exercises to loosen my body. When Duracal began his forging work, I stayed nearby—outwardly idle, inwardly focused—quietly reading the book I had purchased.
The pages described miasma as something inherently harmful to humans. Unlike aura or mana, it disrupted internal flow, acting like a poison when mishandled. Demons, however, used it freely. Their bodies were structured differently, their channels adapted to withstand it.
Dangerous knowledge.
I was absorbed in the text when a voice called from outside.
"Hey!"
Siena.
Her eyes immediately went to the sword at my side.
"You forged the sword first? Not the spear?"
"I needed to experiment," I said calmly. "Once I understand the sword fully, forging a proper spear will be easier."
The answer satisfied her. She smiled and left without pressing further.
With my body restless after days in the forge and my mind crowded with theory, I decided to test my weapon in real conditions.
I headed toward the forest.
Before I left, Duracal stopped me.
"Don't go deep. Stay near the border."
"I will."
This was my first time entering the forest alone—without Rathen or Bharam nearby. I moved carefully, recalling Bharam's lessons. Listening. Observing. Reading the ground rather than rushing forward.
That was when I found them.
Two dual-horned rats.
I hid among the brush, watching, preparing to test my sword—
—and then something dropped from above.
A black-dot spider.
Webbing exploded outward, pinning the rats before they could react. Paralytic darts followed, striking from behind. Both beasts collapsed, twitching, helpless.
Black-dot spiders didn't kill immediately. They immobilized prey, cocooned them, and left them to starve—feeding only when necessary. They hunted with precision, not strength.
I chose not to interfere.
As I began to retreat, my movement was noticed.
The spider turned.
Webbing shot toward me.
I cut through it, but sticky residue clung to my clothes, slowing my escape. The spider moved through the trees with ease—swinging, repositioning, attacking from blind angles.
Running wouldn't work.
So I made a decision.
The next time it attacked, I let part of the web catch my left side, keeping my right arm free. Seeing me slowed, the spider fired a paralytic dart.
It struck my shoulder.
I fell.
Still.
The spider approached, preparing to cocoon me.
That was when I moved.
Dark aura surged into my sword as I drove the blade upward—piercing through its head and down its body in a single motion.
The spider convulsed once, then collapsed.
I cut myself free and forced my breathing to slow.
On my return, I carried the two dual-horned rats and the spider's corpse. Sticky residue stained my clothes.
Duracal saw me and sighed deeply.
"I told you not to go deep."
After hearing my explanation, he shook his head.
"First, bathe. You're not stepping inside like that."
Only then did he notice the wound on my shoulder.
The bleeding had already stopped—Bharam had taught me the basics—but Duracal still scolded me thoroughly. He cleaned the wound, applied ointment, and wrapped it properly.
That night, exhaustion dragged me into bed.
Sleep didn't come immediately.
I replayed the fight again and again.
The timing.
The dart.
The moment I should have been paralyzed.
I hadn't won because the spider was weak.
I had won because my body resisted the poison.
Poison immunity.
A trait I had taken for granted—one that had saved my life.
Without it, that fight would have ended differently.
With that realization heavy in my mind, sleep finally claimed me.