The sky above the Iron Capital didn't really have a sunrise. It just transitioned from an oppressive, choking black to a bruised, smoky gray.

  Wanhan was awake before the light changed.

  He slipped out of the lumpy cot in the Rusty Anvil, gritting his teeth as his stitched side screamed in protest. The alchemical paste had done its job overnight—the bleeding had stopped, leaving a tight, pulling sensation across his ribs instead of a burning agony.

  [Status: Recovering. Physical stats restored to 40%.]

  Mata was gone from the windowsill. She never slept in the room, preferring to vanish onto the soot-stained rooftops of the city until dawn. Tiny was sprawled across two chairs pushed together, snoring loud enough to rattle the cheap ale mugs on the table.

  Wanhan grabbed Fenrir with his left hand, quietly unlatched the heavy wooden door, and slipped downstairs into the freezing morning air.

  Behind the tavern was a narrow, muddy courtyard walled in by crumbling brick. It smelled of rotting cabbage and stale beer, but more importantly, it was empty. In the center of the yard stood a thick, splintered hitching post that hadn't seen a horse in a decade.

  It was the perfect target.

  Wanhan dropped into the mud, his boots sinking an inch into the muck. He didn't draw the sword yet. He just stood there, closing his eyes, letting the freezing wind bite through his thin linen tunic.

  He thought about the arena. He thought about Kaelen the Boar slipping his ultimate Tree Cutter strike with a simple step backward, leaving Wanhan hopelessly exposed.

  Then, he thought about the Black Lung mine. He had survived by spamming Forward Thrust in a blind panic, letting the massive, lopsided weight of Fenrir punch through the Slag-Hounds. But beasts didn't parry. Beasts didn't feint. If he tried that clumsy, desperate thrust against a real swordsman, he would be parried, disarmed, and gutted in three seconds.

  He needed control. He needed a new foundation.

  Wanhan drew Fenrir. The heavy dark steel hissed against the leather scabbard.

  He squared his shoulders—or rather, he pulled his empty right shoulder back, anchoring his spine to compensate for the missing limb. He leveled the blade at the hitching post.

  Thrust.

  The tip of the sword bit into the rotting wood with a dull thwack.

  It was weak. Without a right hand to push the pommel, all the force had to come from his left bicep and shoulder. Because Fenrir was designed as a chopping weapon, the massive iron counter-weight on the hilt made the blade want to dip downward the moment he extended his arm.

  Wanhan pulled the blade free. He adjusted his grip, moving his hand half an inch higher up the leather wrapping, right beneath the asymmetrical guard.

  Thrust.

  Better, but still completely unbalanced. The recoil shuddered up his forearm, vibrating uncomfortably in his elbow. If he hit tempered steel like that, the sword would fly right out of his hand.

  "You're fighting the weapon, human."

  Wanhan flinched, spinning around.

  Mata was sitting casually on the edge of the brick wall above him, her mottled green cloak blending perfectly into the shadows of the alley. Her covered eyes were aimed down at him. She held a half-eaten apple in one hand.

  "I didn't hear you," Wanhan muttered, lowering the sword.

  "You make enough noise to wake the dead," the elf replied calmly, taking a bite of the apple. "You strike the wood like a desperate man trying to break a rock with a stick. Your blade is top-heavy. It is meant to fall, not to pierce."

  "I know," Wanhan grunted, turning back to the post. "But I can't chop in a hallway. And if I miss a chop in an open field, my momentum throws me off balance. I have to learn how to thrust."

  "Then stop using your arm," Mata said. She dropped lightly from the wall, landing in the mud without making a single sound. She walked over to him, her delicate hands resting gently on her bone-white bow. "You have one arm. It will tire. It will break under the strain of a heavy guard. A true strike does not come from the shoulder. It comes from the earth."

  She tapped his left boot with the tip of her bow.

  "You have a skill," she murmured. "The one that makes you glide like a phantom. Use it."

  Wanhan frowned. He looked at the blue screen hovering at the edge of his vision.

  [Diner Dash - Level 24]

  Description: A footwork technique developed from years of navigating crowded taverns. Drastically increases short-burst evasion and linear movement speed.

  He had only ever used it to dodge. Or to close a gap before swinging. He had never tried to fuse the momentum of the dash into the strike itself.

  Wanhan took three steps back from the hitching post.

  He dropped his center of gravity. He locked his left elbow tightly against his ribs, refusing to extend his arm. He pointed the tip of Fenrir directly at the center of the wood. The heavy iron pommel rested firmly against his hip bone.

  He wasn't going to thrust with his arm. He was going to turn his entire body into a battering ram.

  [Skill Activated: Diner Dash]

  Wanhan exploded forward. His boots skimmed over the mud without sinking. The linear speed was instantaneous.

  Because his arm was locked against his side, the massive weight of Fenrir didn't wobble. It didn't dip. All of Wanhan's body weight, multiplied by the sudden burst of speed, channeled directly through his hip, up his locked arm, and into the tip of the dark steel blade.

  [Skill Activated: Forward Thrust]

  CRACK.

  The sound echoed like a gunshot in the cramped courtyard.

  Wanhan didn't just pierce the rotting hitching post. The lopsided blade of Fenrir blew completely through the thick wood, bursting out the other side in an explosion of splinters. The sheer kinetic force of the impact ripped the post entirely out of its mud foundation, sending the top half toppling into the dirt.

  Wanhan stood frozen, his chest heaving, his left arm vibrating with residual power. His side flared with pain, but it held.

  A cascade of blue text flooded his vision.

  [Skill Synergy Discovered!]

  [Diner Dash (Lvl 24) + Forward Thrust (Lvl 22) = Piercing Step]

  [New Skill Created: Piercing Step - Level 1]

  Description: By locking the arm and channeling total bodily momentum into a linear dash, the user delivers a devastating, armor-piercing thrust. Highly effective, but leaves the user committed to the trajectory.

  This content has been unlawfully taken from Royal Road; report any instances of this story if found elsewhere.

  Wanhan stared at the ruined post, a slow, dangerous grin spreading across his face.

  "Well, well, well," a grating voice echoed from the back door of the tavern.

  Tiny was leaning against the doorframe, a massive, steaming mug of black tea in one hand and a freshly stamped piece of parchment in the other. He looked at the shattered wood, then at Wanhan's grinning face.

  "Looks like you finally figured out how to use gravity, kid," the dwarf smirked, tossing the parchment into the mud at Wanhan's feet. "Good. Because I just found us a job that pays five gold. And you're going to need a lot more than a pointy stick to survive it."

  Wanhan wiped the cold sweat from his forehead with the back of his left hand and bent down to pick up the muddy parchment. He stared at the cramped, elegant Capital script, which might as well have been a foreign language to a village waiter.

  He tossed the parchment back to Tiny. "I still can't read that, Tiny. Who is paying five gold, and who do we have to kill to get it?"

  "Not who," Tiny corrected, catching the parchment and smoothing it out over his thick forearm. "Well, technically who, but it's more about what he's wearing. The Merchant's Guild put out an emergency bounty. A rogue Forge-Knight named Barek has been hijacking iron shipments on the Rust Barrens highway."

  Mata dropped lightly from the brick wall, her boots silent in the mud. "A human in a tin can. Five gold seems excessive for a single bandit."

  "He’s not just a bandit, you pointy-eared menace," Tiny snapped, tapping the parchment. "He’s a Forge-Knight. That means he's wearing full, localized siege-plate. We’re talking overlapping, tempered steel heavy enough to stop a ballista bolt. The local guards tried to take him down yesterday. Barek broke three of their pikes, laughed, and walked away with a wagon full of refined steel."

  Wanhan looked down at Fenrir.

  His ultimate skill, Tree Cutter, was devastating against flesh, wood, and bone. But if he swung a flat iron blade against rounded siege-plate, the sheer recoil would shatter his only arm. He didn't have the leverage to force the blade through.

  "Siege-plate," Wanhan muttered. He looked at the shattered remnants of the hitching post scattered across the courtyard. "Cuirasses are designed to deflect sheer force. You have to slip the edge under the armpit, or pierce the visor."

  Tiny raised an eyebrow, his soot-stained goggles catching the dull morning light. "You remember my advice from the arena holding pens. Good. Because unless you plan on politely asking him to take his helmet off, you're going to have to punch a hole straight through his joints."

  "I can do it," Wanhan said. His voice was quiet, but there was a cold, absolute certainty in it.

  He felt the familiar ache in his left shoulder, the phantom itch of his missing right arm. But the blue screen lingering at the edge of his vision gave him a strange sense of comfort.

  [New Skill Created: Piercing Step - Level 1]

  "You are broken, human," Mata observed softly. She wasn't insulting him; it was a simple statement of fact. She stepped closer, her covered eyes tracking the fresh blood seeping through his linen bandages from the exertion of his training. "Your stitches are strained. If you miss this metal man, his counterattack will split you in half. You do not have the speed for a prolonged duel."

  "Then I won't prolong it," Wanhan replied, sheathing Fenrir with a sharp clack. The heavy iron pommel settled familiarly against his hip. "I just need one clear shot."

  Tiny rubbed his calloused hands together, a greedy gleam returning to his eyes. "That's the spirit, kid! Five gold pieces. That covers exactly half of your debt, minus my entirely reasonable finder's fee, of course."

  "Just buy us some horses, Tiny," Wanhan sighed, walking past the dwarf and back into the tavern. "I'm not walking to the Rust Barrens with a hole in my side."

  "Horses?" Tiny balked, following him inside. "Do you know what the upkeep on a horse is? We are taking the public merchant wagon! We are on a budget!"

  An hour later, the trio was standing at the muddy gates of the Iron Capital. The sky had finally lightened to a pale, sickly gray. A long line of heavily guarded merchant wagons was preparing to make the treacherous trek across the Rust Barrens.

  Wanhan pulled his coarse wool cloak tighter around his shoulders, hiding his pinned-up right sleeve. He checked the leather straps holding Fenrir to his hip, ensuring the massive blade was loose enough to draw in a fraction of a second.

  He was a Level 100 woodchopper. He was a Level 24 waiter.

  And today, he was going to find out if his brand-new Level 1 skill could kill a Knight in impenetrable armor.

  The Rust Barrens earned their name. The landscape outside the merchant wagon was a jagged expanse of oxidized red rock and twisted, metallic scrub-brush that scraped against the wooden wheels like rusted knives.

  Wanhan sat near the back of the bumpy cart, his coarse wool cloak pulled tight. Every jolt sent a dull throb through his stitched ribs. Across from him, Tiny was polishing a heavy, armor-piercing bolt for his scatter-crossbow, while Mata sat perfectly still, her face turned toward the freezing wind cutting through the canvas cover.

  Suddenly, the wagon lurched to a violent halt.

  Up front, the horses let out a chorus of panicked whinnies. The two hired caravan guards shouted in alarm, the sound of steel being drawn ringing out over the wind.

  "He is here," Mata whispered. She didn't reach for her bow yet. She just tilted her head, her sharp ears twitching. "Heavy footsteps. Oil. And the smell of fresh blood."

  Wanhan threw off his cloak. He checked the pin on his empty right sleeve, ensuring it was secure, and dropped down from the back of the wagon, his boots hitting the red dirt. Tiny hopped down right behind him, loading the heavy iron bolt with a grim mechanical clack.

  Fifty yards down the road, blocking the entire pass, stood Barek.

  The Forge-Knight didn't look human. He looked like a walking fortress. His siege-plate was a monstrous, overlapping carapace of dark, tempered steel. He didn't carry a shield—he didn't need one. In his massive, gauntleted hands, he held a massive poleaxe, the blade resting lazily in the dirt.

  At his feet lay the bodies of two outriders from the vanguard, their armor crushed like tin cans.

  "Halt!" one of the caravan guards yelled, his voice cracking as he pointed a trembling spear at the juggernaut. "In the name of the Merchant's Guild—"

  Barek didn't even speak. He just took a step forward. The sheer weight of his armor made the ground shudder. The two caravan guards looked at the crushed bodies, looked at the Forge-Knight, and immediately dropped their weapons, sprinting away into the rocky scrubland.

  "Cowards," Tiny spat, raising his scatter-crossbow. "Alright, kid. The joints. Armpit, back of the knee, or the visor slit. Those are your only windows. Do not swing at his chest, or Fenrir will snap in half."

  Wanhan drew his sword. The heavy, dark steel caught the dull gray light.

  [Target Identified: Rogue Forge-Knight Barek]

  [Threat Level: Severe]

  Barek stopped. The slit of his heavy helm turned toward the scrawny, one-armed boy standing in the road. A deep, metallic chuckle echoed from inside the helmet.

  "They send a cripple to collect my bounty?" Barek's voice was a booming, distorted rumble. He casually lifted his massive poleaxe with one hand. "Go home, boy. You're not worth dulling my blade."

  Wanhan didn't answer. He took a deep breath, letting the icy wind fill his lungs. He ignored the stinging in his ribs. He ignored the terrifying mass of steel in front of him.

  He dropped his center of gravity, perfectly shifting his weight to the ball of his left foot. He locked his left elbow rigidly against his side. The heavy iron pommel of Fenrir dug into his hip bone, aligning the lopsided blade perfectly horizontal.

  He wasn't going to swing. He was going to become a bullet.

  Barek let out a bored sigh and charged. The Forge-Knight was surprisingly fast for his size, closing the distance like a runaway iron carriage. He raised the poleaxe high, exposing the chainmail-covered gap in his right armpit.

  It was a window that would only be open for a fraction of a second before the axe came down to cleave Wanhan in two.

  "Now!" Mata’s voice cut through the wind.

  Wanhan didn't blink. He pushed off the earth.

  [Skill Activated: Piercing Step - Level 1]

  The sudden burst of linear speed from his Diner Dash was violently multiplied. Because his arm was locked to his core, every ounce of his bodily momentum, the sheer mass of his sprint, and the heavy counter-weight of Fenrir channeled directly into the tip of the blade.

  He didn't thrust his arm. He thrust his entire body.

  Barek saw the blur of movement, but the heavy siege-plate restricted his reaction time. The Forge-Knight tried to bring his arm down to protect his flank, but the massive weight of the armor was suddenly his worst enemy. He was too slow.

  CRACK.

  The impact sounded like a hammer striking an anvil.

  Wanhan didn't just pierce the chainmail. The kinetic force of the Piercing Step drove the dark steel of Fenrir perfectly through the rings, punching deep into the gap beneath Barek's shoulder piece and sinking straight into the Knight's chest cavity.

  The sheer momentum carried Wanhan forward. His boots dug into the red dirt, dragging Barek backward for a full three feet before they ground to a halt.

  Barek’s massive poleaxe slipped from his fingers, hitting the ground with a heavy thud.

  The Forge-Knight looked down at the one-armed boy pressed against his side, the dark blade buried up to the hilt in his armpit. A wet, rattling gasp echoed from the helmet.

  "H-how..." Barek choked out, blood bubbling from the visor slit.

  Wanhan gritted his teeth, his left arm screaming in agony from the brutal recoil of the impact. He planted his boot against the heavy steel breastplate and viciously wrenched Fenrir free.

  Barek collapsed like a puppet with its strings cut. Two tons of dead steel hit the dirt, kicking up a massive cloud of red dust.

  Wanhan stumbled backward, dropping to one knee as the adrenaline faded and his torn ribs flared with fresh, agonizing heat. He planted his sword in the dirt to keep from falling completely over, his chest heaving.

  A glowing blue screen erupted in his vision.

  [Target Defeated: Rogue Forge-Knight Barek]

  [Experience Gained. Massive Bonus for Armor-Piercing Kill!]

  [Skill: Piercing Step has reached Level 5.]

  [Level Up!]

  Tiny jogged up, his jaw practically hitting the dirt as he looked at the dead juggernaut. The dwarf slowly lowered his unfired crossbow.

  "By the bearded gods," Tiny breathed, staring at the perfectly executed puncture wound. He looked down at Wanhan, who was sweating and panting in the dirt. "You actually did it. You cracked the tin can."

  Mata walked up silently behind them. She didn't look at the body. She just tapped her bow against the red dirt.

  "Five gold," the blind elf stated coldly. "Get his signet ring, dirt-grubber. Before the boy bleeds to death on the highway."

  Wanhan managed a weak, exhausted grin, looking up at the gray sky. He had a long way to go, but his new skill worked. He wasn't just a woodchopper anymore.

  list.