I woke the next morning with my body refusing to cooperate.
Every movement felt heavy. My limbs were sluggish, my shoulder throbbed dully, and even standing upright took effort. The fight from yesterday had settled into my bones.
Duracal noticed immediately.
"Rest," he said. "Today, you don't work."
I didn't argue.
Word must have spread, because my instructors came one after another.
Bharam arrived first. He checked my posture, my breathing, the wound on my shoulder, then nodded.
"When you recover," he said, "we'll increase your terrain and survival training. You were careless—but adaptable."
Rathen came next. He didn't ask about the injury.
"Remember the pain," he said instead. "Pain sharpens awareness. You did well for a beginner."
That was all.
Then Siena arrived.
She didn't sit.
She stood at the foot of my bed, arms crossed, eyes sharp.
"You let a poisonous monster get close enough to touch you?" she scoffed.
"That alone tells me your fundamentals failed."
Her gaze flicked briefly to my sword resting beside the bed.
"It doesn't matter what weapon you were holding," she continued. "Distance control is survival. Forget that once, and you die."
Then she turned.
"When you're fully recovered," she said over her shoulder, "my training intensifies."
The door shut behind her.
Despite the soreness, I smiled.
As I lay there, my sword resting beside me, a quiet warmth settled in my chest. I had killed a monster alone—without supervision, without rescue. And there were people here who cared whether I lived or died.
Unlike my blood father, who had only ever seen me as a burden.
To keep my mind occupied, I opened Duracal's metallurgy book again.
The mithril–orichalcum composite was perfect for a blade—but not for a spear shaft. It required a material that could endure impact, conduct aura reasonably well, and not react violently with the fused metal.
By evening, I had my answer.
Brown steel.
Average conductivity. High durability. Stable when paired with composite blades.
During lunch, Duracal prepared a light porridge—easy to digest. My strength returned slowly. I considered using a potion, but stopped myself. Relying on them too often dulled discipline.
At night, I returned to the miasma book, searching for deeper applications. Then I practiced Beast Breathing and Beast Skin Absorption—carefully, without strain.
Before I slept, Duracal called me outside.
We sat together, looking up at the night sky.
"People fear darkness," he said. "But the night is beautiful if you learn to see it."
He glanced at me.
"I don't know why you push yourself this hard. But pushing past your limits without care only makes you easier prey next time. Remember that."
I nodded.
The next morning, my body felt steadier.
I decided.
Brown steel would form the spear's handle.
Duracal secured the material for me. Forbidden from physical labor for the day, I instead spent hours slowly infusing the metal with my dark aura and miasma—layer by layer—while finalizing the spear's design in my mind.
Recovery did not mean stagnation.
It meant preparation.