Trace woke stiff and sore, bruises talking louder than the birds outside. He moved the chair from under the door handle, shoved the dresser back into place, and shuffled down to The Hollow Log’s common room.

  One-Ear slid him a bowl of porridge without a word. Trace ate it in three bites, washed it down with water that tasted faintly of iron, and grumbled, “Fuel for the slaughterhouse.”

  He laced his boots and limped toward Bran’s school.

  Day 1: Laundry Drill

  The yard smelled of sweat baked into wood and yesterday’s rain. Bran waited in the center, short spear balanced across one hand, a mug dangling from the other. A willow switch rode on his shoulder.

  A scrap of parchment flapped against the gatepost, rain-blurred ink still legible enough to catch a word here and there. Payment past due. A noble’s seal pressed into half-melted wax. A courier hurried away from the yard. His eyes fixed on the ground as if afraid the debt might follow him. Bran’s scowl lingered long after the man was gone.

  “Fee,” Bran said flatly, palm out.

  Trace frowned. “…Fee?”

  “Training isn’t free. One silver buys you a beating and some wisdom. Don’t like it? Door’s that way.”

  Trace dug into his bracelet. “I paid yesterday.” Bran just held out his hand. Trace slapped a coin into it.

  Bran tucked it away with a grin, then tossed him the spear. “Precision. If you can’t wash socks, you can’t stab a throat.”

  “Please tell me that’s a metaphor,” Trace said, catching the weapon.

  Bran jabbed his thumb at two buckets, one full of gray suds, the other clear water, and a sagging clothesline. A heap of Bran’s filthy tunics and trousers slumped beside them.

  “Laundry drill. Spear, lift, swish, rinse, hang. No hands. No excuses. Do not tear my clothes. Do not pierce them.”

  Trace stared. “Champion level janitor training.”

  “Janitors live longer than champions. Get to it.”

  Hours passed. Trace sweated through his shirt, fumbling tunics onto the spear point, dripping suds, cursing. Every slip, snap, a stinging stripe from Bran's willow. Every snag earned a second. His shoulders burned. His hands blistered. By the time the last shirt drooped across the line, he trembled and dripped like the wash.

  "Better than useless," Bran declared.

  He whistled. A teen stepped into the ring, a different kid, wiry, sharp-eyed, practice staff in hand.

  Trace raised the spear.

  The boy feinted low, darted high. Trace caught the high strike—clack—then answered with a heavy jab. The kid rolled past, staff rapped Trace's ribs—thud—then swept his ankle. Trace hit dirt, rolled, came up swinging.

  The staff slid along the shaft, hooked, torqued. The spear ripped from Trace's hands. A flat smack across the shoulder put him back down.

  Bran barked laughter. “Day one done. You’ll hurt worse tomorrow.”

  Trace spat grit. “Can’t wait. Maybe tomorrow you’ll teach me folding.”

  Day 2: Balance and Reach

  Barrels lined the yard at dawn, each topped with a brimming mug.

  “Move ’em with the spear. Spill a drop, copper in the jar.” Bran tapped a clay pot beside his stool.

  “You’re extorting me,” Trace replied.

  “Training isn’t free.”

  Trace eased a mug onto the spear point, slid it toward the next barrel. Just as he steadied it, Bran thwacked the barrel with his staff. The mug wobbled, sloshed, and surrendered to gravity.

  Clink. One copper in the jar.

  It became a rhythm: carry, wobble, spill, clink. By midday, drenched and down twenty-five coppers. By sunset, the jar was half full.

  Bran sniffed one mug, smirking. “Water. Told you ale. Needed the coppers more.”

  Trace wanted to put the spear through his gut.

  “Sparring,” Bran called.

  This time, a lean boy with a short sword stepped in. The blade was dull, but it gleamed like trouble.

  Trace lifted his spear, legs trembling from the day. The boy snapped forward, blade flicking. Trace jabbed long. The kid slipped outside the line. Steel kissed wood. Trace rode the blow on the haft and shoved it aside. Hope flared. Then the boy twisted and smacked the flat across Trace's ribs. The spear went wide. Two brisk strikes later, his weapon spun away.

  Trace hit dirt, gasping.

  Bran smirked. “Better. You lasted a whole exchange before losing your stick. Almost looked like you knew what you were doing.”

  “Yeah,” Trace wheezed, rolling onto his back. “Champion level janitor progress.”

  Back at The Hollow Log, his body argued for unconsciousness. He gave it a book instead. Knowing Your Spear came out of the bracelet. The candle came down to a stub. He traced every diagram, ground through every paragraph on grips, guards, tip control and footwork. The words swam. He made them march. By dawn he'd chewed the whole thing, cover to cover.

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  Day 3: Agility and Reflex

  Bran eyed him as he limped into the yard. "Still alive. Miracles happen. Now what's the spear?"

  Trace straightened, voice flat and precise. "The manual says a spear is an extension of the body's will—"

  Bran barked a laugh. "Book says a lot. Pain says more."

  "Funny," Trace said. "The book didn't mention coppers in jars and laundry duty."

  "That's the extended edition." Bran pointed up.

  Ropes stretched across the yard between posts, head-high and swaying. Apples, turnips, and fist-sized rocks hung from them at different lengths, some already spinning lazily in the breeze.

  "Apples you pierce. Turnips you spare. Rocks... dodge." Bran picked up a stone from a bucket and set one of the hanging rocks swinging hard toward Trace's face.

  Trace opened his mouth to argue just in time for the rock to thump his cheekbone. "Goddamn it."

  "Consider that incentive," Bran said, looking pleased. He kept the rocks swinging with casual tosses.

  Trace jabbed, thrust, ducked, cursed. Rocks drummed his ribs and shoulders. Apples popped on the point. Turnips swung smug and untouched. Hours later, sweating but grinning despite himself, he threaded the spear clean through an apple while a rock hissed past his ear.

  "Again," Bran said.

  He did. And again. By midday, his timing finally lived in his hands.

  Sparring followed. The same sword kid came, joined by a staff bearer. They pressed him in a cross rhythm, steel and wood, left, right, left, left. Trace blocked a cut, slid a staff aside, stepped through on a jab that would have landed on someone slower. A sweep nicked his calf. He recovered, caught a staff on the quarter, but a shortcut slapped his haft away. They stripped his spear and dumped him flat.

  He lay staring at the sky, lungs dragging air like a winch. He’d lasted a full minute.

  Bran gave the smallest nod. “Almost worth keeping alive.”

  Day 4: Endurance Grind

  Bran laid a spear across Trace’s palms, arms locked out. Then he stacked bricks on top.

  Trace lasted three minutes before his shoulders buckled and the bricks splashed into mud.

  “Soft,” Bran said. “Spear doesn’t care about soft.”

  Trace staggered back up.

  The day turned into stances and shakes. High guard. Low guard. Boar’s tusk. Long leaf. Bricks balanced, legs set, breath counted while the world trembled at the edges. By nightfall, exhaustion had burned through his arms.

  Sparring was chaos, but angles finally clicked. He caught a staff at the quarter, rolled it, yanked and the boy’s weapon popped free. Both of them stared.

  Bran grinned. "Now you look less like a shovel with boots." He leaned close. "Tomorrow. An hour past sunrise. We hunt."

  Day 5: The Hunt

  The next morning, Trace found Bran’s school empty save for a scrawled note: Meet at the south gate. Bring me breakfast.

  Trace cursed, ran to The Hollow Log, and bullied One-Ear into a plate of eggs, bread, and a mug of ale. He jogged through the streets without spilling much and skidded to a halt at the gate where Bran waited with two horses.

  Bran snatched the plate and ale. Already chewing, he said, “Good. You can follow directions.” He drained half the mug and sighed. “Almost makes me think you might live today.”

  “Honored to be your errand boy,” Trace said.

  “Four coppers to rent the mounts,” Bran added, nodding at a guard. “Pay up.”

  Trace’s jaw worked, but the coins changed hands. They rode south as the walls shrank. Hills rolled. Pines thickened. The air tasted cold and clean. Somewhere ahead, the land answered with a long, thin howl.

  Bran reined in and pulled a belt from storage, raw steaks strung on leather, dripping blood.

  “Dismount and get out the short spear.”

  Trace slid off the saddle. Bran tossed him the belt, then took Trace’s reins.

  “Wear it. Wolves will find you. Meet me back at the city gates by sunset.”

  Before Trace could answer, Bran spurred his horse and rode off, leading Trace's mount. Trace stood alone in the clearing, meat belt swinging at his hip.

  Trace stared after him. “This is the dumbest cologne ad ever.”

  The first two wolves came like a shadow peeling off the trees. Trace thrust. The spear crunched through ribs. Another snapped from the flank. He twisted and shoved the point up through its jaw.

  [Enemies Defeated: Wolves ×2 +12 XP]

  "Two down," he panted. "How many in a pack again?"

  The answer unrolled across the woods in layered howls.

  He broke for the road and ran.

  They circled, three lean bodies sliding over the brush. Trace fought ugly with sloppy thrusts and ragged blocks, but the drills held. Precision. Reach. Reflex. Keep the point between your teeth. He dropped one, gutted another, and drove the third limping into the trees. More shadows came. More teeth.

  By the time the road opened and the city walls rose into sight, eight wolves lay behind him in the dirt. His arms trembled. His forearms buzzed like hornets. Five wolves still snapped at his heels.

  Trace stumbled toward the south gate. Through the haze of exhaustion, he saw guards stiffen, spears raised.

  Bran's voice carried over the distance. "No. He needs this, but call for a healer."

  The wolves sensed the walls and hesitated. Trace stopped in the dirt just short of the gates, turned, and planted his spear. The pack fanned out, yellow eyes gleaming.

  The first lunged head-on. Trace thrust clean through its chest and ripped the shaft free as it collapsed. The second leaped high, fangs bared. He slashed upward and carved from throat to belly. Hot guts spilled as the beast hit the ground with a wet thud. The third rushed in low. Trace stabbed. Bone caught the point with a sick crack. The shaft splintered in his hands.

  "Shit—"

  The fourth came fast. Trace rammed the jagged half straight into its eye socket and drove deep until it twitched once and went still.

  The fifth slammed into his ribs and knocked him flat. Claws raked. Teeth snapped for his throat. Trace wrenched the bloody stump free from the fourth wolf's skull and stabbed it into the beast's side. It howled and thrashed. With a roar, Trace rolled, forced himself on top, and hammered his fist again and again into its skull until the bone caved beneath his knuckles.

  Silence.

  The System burned bright in his vision:

  [Enemies Defeated: Wolves ×5 +30 XP]

  [Level Up! Level 2]

  [XP Progress: 28/100]

  [Stat Points Available: +3]

  [Ability slot unlocked +1]

  [Storage slot unlocked +1]

  Trace collapsed on the carcass, hands shaking, knuckles raw and bloody. “Level two,” he rasped. “Yay me.”

  One guard gawked. “By the gods… he actually survived.”

  Bran finally strolled over, smirk tugging at his mouth. “Don’t spend those points yet. Points are like coin. Idiots waste them fast. Survivors invest them smart.”

  Trace coughed, spitting blood into the dirt. “Three points in the pocket… and nearly three pounds of me in those wolves. A little warning might’ve been nice.”

  Bran’s grin widened. “And rob myself of the entertainment?”

  A healer in blue linen skidded beside Trace, hands already glowing. “Make sure you pay her,” Bran said.

  Warmth soaked his bones as pain unknotted by degrees. Trace dug out the coin with shaking fingers. The glow guttered, and the world steadied.

  “Tomorrow, noon,” Bran said, clapping his shoulder. “Morning is yours. Buy a real spear, whatever feels right. And a cheap one to replace mine you broke. Oh, and clothes. You look like a beggar.”

  Trace limped back to The Hollow Log, every step dragging. He pushed through the door and croaked, “Food.”

  One-Ear took one look at the mud, blood, and shredded rags clinging to him and raised a brow. “Now this looks more like Bran’s training style.” He slid a bowl of stew, a hunk of bread, and a mug of ale across the counter.

  Trace ate like a starving man, barely tasting it.

  "When the bowl was clean, One-Ear sniffed and waved a hand in front of his nose. "Bath house is out back. Barrel's full, stove's been burning all day. You smell like you lost a wrestling match to a pack of dogs."

  Trace wiped his mouth, deadpan. "I did. Thirteen of them. Won the match, lost the wardrobe."

  One-Ear eyed him, then barked a laugh. "Figures. Bran's training usually leaves fewer teeth marks, though."

  Trace glanced down at his shredded shirt. "You got spare clothes I can buy?"

  One-Ear snorted. "Not unless you want to buy the shirt off my back. And you'd still look like hell."

  The hot water scalded his bruises and open cuts, but the ache was almost bliss. He sank until his chin touched the surface, closing his eyes, letting Bran's voice and the memory of snapping teeth fade with the steam. When he finally dragged himself out, he had nothing but the same torn, bloody rags to pull back on."

  Cleaned but ragged, Trace drifted down to the Shady Pine’s basement. Dice clattered, coins piled. He rode the table steady seven, eleven, point, point until his purse felt satisfyingly heavy again. As he scooped the last of his winnings, he muttered under his breath, “That’s for the copper jar, Bran.”

  The man survived Bran, laundry drill, barrel balancing, falling rocks, two days of being used as a mop, and now a wolf pack with a steak belt. If that’s not character development, I don’t know what is.

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