For once, the morning felt almost normal.

  The clang of pots still dragged Max out of sleep, but when he trudged to the mess hall, the food waiting for him was nothing like the slop of days prior. Steam curled from bowls of oatmeal laced with brown sugar, the sweetness reaching his nose before he even sat down. Warm bread loaves were stacked in woven baskets, their crusts golden and soft.

  Max broke a piece free, dipping it into his oatmeal. For a moment, his shoulders eased. If he didn’t know any better, he could’ve sworn this was breakfast back home.

  Around him, conversation buzzed. Fighters leaned over their bowls, muttering about their last qualifying matches. Some sounded nervous, desperate for a single win to push them into the Grand Arena. Others bragged loudly, already imagining themselves standing before the Elders.

  Max chewed in silence, only half listening. He’d already secured his place. Today wasn’t about fighting. Today was about being ready for what came next.

  The streets were alive when he left the mess hall, vendors shouting, merchants haggling, enforcers patrolling with their crimson cloaks snapping in the breeze. Max wandered with no particular aim, his eyes scanning for opportunity.

  He didn’t have to look long.

  A shadowed alley drew his attention, where a wiry goblin leaned against a wall, arms crossed, a sly grin plastered across his face. “You there,” the goblin called, his voice low and slick. “Human. Looking for an edge? I teach skills, real skills. Cheap price, no questions.”

  Max’s gut twisted the moment their eyes met. The goblin’s smile was too sharp, his posture too rehearsed. It screamed trap.

  “No thanks,” Max said, not breaking stride.

  The goblin’s grin faltered for only a moment before he slunk back into the shadows.

  Max trusted his gut. Whatever that was, it wasn’t training.

  It took nearly an hour of wandering before he found what he was looking for. At the edge of a quieter street stood a small hut, smoke curling faintly from its chimney. Outside, a stout goblin with a wiry frame sat on a stool, sharpening a sword across a whetstone. Sparks flickered with each stroke, his movements steady and practiced.

  Max slowed, watching the blade catch light. There was nothing flashy about it — just clean discipline.

  The goblin’s eyes flicked up. “You staring for a reason, human?”

  Max stepped closer. “Maybe. I’m looking for training. Swordsmanship. You look like you know a thing or two.”

  The goblin snorted. “And why would I waste my time on you?”

  “Because I can offer something in return.” Max tapped his chest plate. “I’ve worked runes before. Fixed and improved my gear. I can do the same for your blade.”

  The goblin’s eyes narrowed, interest flickering despite himself. “Hmph. You put runes on armor?”

  You could be reading stolen content. Head to Royal Road for the genuine story.

  “I have, more than once.”

  Silence stretched as the goblin studied him. At last, he grunted, pushing the sword into its scabbard. “Name’s Rurik. You help me with the runes later, I’ll see what you’re worth with a blade.”

  “Deal.”

  Training began immediately.

  Rurik led Max to a small yard behind the hut, where worn practice dummies and split logs stood scattered across the dirt. He tossed Max a wooden sword. “Steel teaches hard lessons. We’ll start with this.”

  The morning blurred into sweat and repetition.

  “Your stance is too rigid. Loosen the knees, flow with the strike.”

  “Don’t overcommit — strike and recover. Again.”

  “Good. Now faster.”

  Rurik’s voice was rough but steady, every correction sharp as a hammer blow. Max swung until his arms trembled, adjusted footwork until his calves burned, practiced counters until his shoulder ached from impact.

  It was humbling. Against goblins he’d cut down with ease, Max had felt powerful. Against Rurik’s drills, he felt clumsy.

  But slowly, the movements started to make sense. His blade sang truer through the air, his feet struck ground with more balance. When they paused for a quick lunch — strips of smoked meat shared over a fire — Max felt progress as surely as the ache in his muscles.

  The afternoon continued in much the same way, sweat dripping into his eyes, his shirt sticking to his back. Rurik never smiled, but his grunts of approval came a little more often.

  When the sun dipped lower, the goblin finally lowered his blade. “Enough. You’re not hopeless. That’s more than I expected.”

  Max wiped sweat from his brow, grinning faintly. “I’ll take that as a compliment.”

  Rurik smirked. “Don’t. You still swing like a human. But you learn fast.”

  True to their deal, Rurik led Max into his workshop. The small room was cluttered but organized — runes etched into stone tablets, jars of powdered reagents, and chisels laid neatly across a workbench.

  “This blade,” Rurik said, laying his sword flat. “I want a sharpness rune, and a self-repair rune. You said you could manage that.”

  Max nodded, rolling up his sleeves.

  The work was delicate, the chisels biting into steel as he etched the first rune. The sharpness mark took time — one wrong stroke would ruin the blade — but Max’s hand was steady. Mana flowed into the lines as he traced them, the rune glowing faintly before settling.

  Next came the self-repair mark. Simpler, but still requiring care. Max worked in silence, every line humming with potential. When the last symbol locked into place, he exhaled and leaned back.

  The sword shimmered faintly.

  Rurik lifted it, gave it a testing swing, and grunted in satisfaction. “Sharper already. You didn’t botch it. That’s worth more than most.”

  He sheathed the blade, then fixed Max with a steady look. “You’ll need more than tricks to survive what’s coming.”

  “What do you mean?” Max asked.

  “The Elders.” Rurik spat the word like a curse. “They’re no ordinary goblins. The cities feed them. Treasure, weapons, artifacts — everything funnels into their hands. They don’t just fight with skill. They fight with the strength of entire clans behind them.”

  Max frowned, Solaris Edge heavy at his side. “So they’re stronger than anything I’ve seen here.”

  “Much stronger.” Rurik leaned on the workbench. “If you face them, you’d better be ready to fight more than just flesh and bone. You’ll be fighting the weight of everything this city worships.”

  The room fell quiet, the warning heavy in the air.

  Max nodded slowly. “Then I’ll be ready.”

  Rurik said nothing more after that, simply turning back to his workbench. Max took the silence as dismissal. He offered a nod of thanks and stepped out into the cooling evening air.

  The streets were quieter now, lanterns flickering to life in crooked iron sconces. Merchants were shuttering their stalls, enforcers prowled the corners, and the chatter of the city dimmed into a low murmur. Max’s legs felt like lead, every muscle sore from the day’s training, but it was the good kind of ache — the kind that came with progress.

  By the time he reached the barracks, the sky was painted in deep purples and fading orange. Fighters lounged outside, sharpening weapons or muttering about their odds, but Max ignored them. He slipped inside, found his cot, and lowered himself onto the straw mattress.

  He closed his eyes, exhaustion pulling him under almost immediately.

  Tomorrow will bring the Grand Arena, and Max intended to be ready.