Osric trained in the quiet hours before the city fully woke.
The sword moved through the air in simple, unadorned arcs—downward cuts, short lateral swings, controlled recoveries. There was no elegance to it. No practiced forms or inherited technique. His grip adjusted too often, his footwork lagged a fraction behind his intent. Anyone trained properly would have seen the flaws immediately.
But the blade still cut cleanly.
Each swing carried weight. Not wild strength, not desperation—just honest power guided by instinct. When something felt wrong, Osric corrected it without knowing why. When something felt right, his body settled into it naturally, the motion flowing with a steadiness that hadn't been there weeks ago.
He wasn't skilled.
But he wasn't clumsy either.
And for the first time since picking up the sword, Osric understood the difference.
Osric lowered the sword after the final swing and let it rest at his side.
His breathing was steady. His muscles felt strong. There was no lingering pain—no stiffness, no hidden protest waiting to flare. For the first time since everything had started, his body felt whole.
But the swing itself…
Osric frowned faintly.
It had power behind it. Speed, too. The blade cut cleanly through the air, but there was something missing. No matter how many times he repeated the motion, it never quite clicked.
He tried again.
Adjusted his grip slightly. Changed his footing. Let his shoulders rotate more.
The result barely changed.
'This isn't making me better.'
The realization settled without frustration. Just clarity.
Swinging a sword in empty air built familiarity—strength, stamina, confidence in the weight—but not skill. There was no resistance. No consequence. No punishment for mistakes.
In the ring, every error had cost him something.
In the forest, one mistake would have killed him.
Osric lowered the blade and wiped sweat from his brow.
'Real improvement only happens when something can hit back.'
He sheathed the sword and returned to his room, moving with an ease that still felt unfamiliar. Kneeling by the loose floorboard, he pulled up the coin pouch and loosened the string.
Copper spilled softly onto the floor.
He counted once.
Then again, slower.
Seventy-eight copper crowns.
Enough to eat properly for a while. Enough to take another mission. Not enough to waste time pretending progress would come on its own.
Osric gathered the coins and secured them again, tucking the pouch back into its place. He sat for a moment longer, listening to the quiet creak of the building, the distant sounds of Lowbrook outside.
He had rested.
He had healed.
He knew his limits better now.
There was no reason to delay.
Osric stood, adjusted the sword at his side, and headed for the door.
The Adventurers' Guild was waiting.
And this time, he would choose his next step carefully.
Osric entered the Adventurers' Guild with a steadier step than the last time.
The familiar sounds greeted him—voices overlapping, parchment shifting, the dull clink of gear being adjusted—but this time, they didn't press in on him. His posture was upright. His movements controlled. He felt… present.
Franklin looked up as Osric approached.
His eyes flicked briefly to the sword, then to Osric's stance, and finally to his face. Whatever he saw there made him pause.
"You look better," Franklin said.
"I rested," Osric replied simply.
Franklin nodded once. "Good. Then I won't feel guilty saying this."
He leaned back slightly and lowered his voice—not secretive, just measured.
"The hobgoblin situation escalated," he said. "A D-rank party was sent out. Three came back. Two didn't." He let that sit for a moment before continuing. "The target was injured, not killed. And it wasn't alone."
Osric stiffened despite himself.
"A D-rank party…" he said quietly.
Franklin watched his reaction closely. "They were competent. Experienced. Which is exactly why I'm telling you this."
Osric met his gaze.
"For the time being," Franklin continued, "any mission involving the forest carries higher risk than what the rank suggests. Soldiers aren't doing their job properly out there, and I won't pretend otherwise."
That confirmed something Osric had already suspected.
"You're warning me," Osric said.
"Yes," Franklin replied. "Not forbidding. Warning."
Osric looked down at the mission board again.
The forest was unavoidable.
Almost everything worth doing lay within it.
He thought of the D-rank party—fighters who could face threats he still couldn't—and felt a brief chill. If they'd struggled, then arrogance would get him killed.
But avoidance wouldn't make him better either.
He read the options carefully this time, slower than before.
When his eyes returned to the notice marked Thornback Boars, they lingered.
Franklin noticed.
"Those aren't easy," he said. "Thick hides. Bad tempers. Dangerous if mishandled—but predictable."
Predictable.
Osric turned that word over in his mind.
Boars charged. They didn't stalk. They didn't think. They punished poor positioning and rewarded control. Their bodies resisted shallow cuts. Their mass forced commitment.
And they fought back.
'That's what I need.'
Osric exhaled slowly.
"I'll take the Thornback Boar mission," he said.
Franklin studied him for a long moment.
Then he nodded.
"That one makes sense," he said. "For you." He reached for the parchment. "Eighty copper if completed. Forest edge, not deep territory. Still dangerous."
"I understand," Osric said.
Franklin slid the mission across the desk. "Don't rush it. And don't treat it like a duel."
Osric accepted the parchment, fingers tightening slightly around the edge.
"I won't."
As he turned away, the weight of the sword at his side felt different again—not heavier, not lighter.
Purposeful.
This wasn't recklessness.
This was a step chosen with open eyes.
And this time, Osric intended to make it count.