Level One, Muscle Soreness

Morning came way too soon. My body felt like it had been trampled by a pack of wolves.

I waved goodbye to Glorb before I trudged through the misty streets to Ardan’s Forge, every step a personal betrayal by my legs. When I pushed the heavy door open, the heat once again smacked me in the face like an angry sauna spirit.

Ardan didn’t even look up from the anvil. He was already pounding steel with enough force to make me fear for the concept of metal.

“You’re late,” he said.

“It’s barely sunrise,” I muttered.

“Exactly.” He jabbed a thumb toward another pile of crates that looked bigger than yesterday’s. I swear those things reproduce overnight.

“Cool, I love moving mountains before breakfast,” I said, trying to inject some sarcasm into my voice. It evaporated instantly in the forge’s heat.

I got to work. By “work,” I mean the kind of manual labor that makes you question your life choices, past, present, and hypothetical future. Ore dust coated my arms, sweat dripped into my eyes, and at one point, I’m pretty sure I pulled a muscle in my soul.

After hours of this medieval gym session, Ardan gave me the world’s stingiest nod of approval. “Go. Come back tomorrow.”

“Thanks, boss,” I croaked, stumbling out of the forge like a zombie that had clocked out of hell.

But no breaks for me. Oh no. I had to march straight to the training hall because apparently my day wasn’t painful enough yet.

***

The hall was tucked behind the lower courtyard, just like Elara said. Inside, it was… loud. The clatter of wooden swords, the grunts of trainees, and the occasional thunk of someone hitting the floor echoed through the cavernous space.

I froze in the doorway, every social anxiety alarm in my brain going off at once. There were at least thirty people in here. Thirty sweaty, competent-looking people. And me.

The head instructor, a broad-shouldered man with a scar across his jaw, spotted me instantly. His gaze was like a thrown spear—sharp and unavoidable.

“You,” he barked. “You are the summoned Hero, yes? The one the masked attackers wished to take with them at the royal feast?”

I flinched. “Uh… yes?”

“Name?”

“Itsuki.”

“Itsuki, good. Elara said you would come. You’re late.”

“Seems to be a theme today,” I muttered under my breath.

The instructor strode over, boots thudding against the polished wood. “I am Commander Thorne. You will address me as ‘Instructor.’ Understood?”

“Yes, Instructor,” I said, because arguing with someone built like a siege tower seemed like a bad idea.

“Good. Get a practice blade.” He pointed to a rack lined with wooden swords that looked like they could still kill me if they tried hard enough.

I grabbed one, trying to look like I knew what I was doing.

Thorne clapped his hands, and the room fell silent. Every single trainee turned to look at me. Some smirked. One guy with arms the size of tree trunks actually cracked his knuckles like this was a prelude to a bar fight.

“In honor of our guest,” Thorne said, “we’ll begin with a demonstration. Hero, show us what you’ve got.”

Show us what you’ve got. Great. No pressure. Just thirty strangers waiting to judge my entire existence.

“Uh… okay,” I said weakly, shuffling toward the center where a battered training dummy waited for execution. Or in this case, survival.

I squared up like I remembered from yesterday, raised the wooden sword, and swung with all the strength my noodle arms could muster.

Thunk.

Not even a wobble. Another swing. Same result as yesterday. The sound was like someone lightly knocking on a door. A very polite murder attempt.

I could hear the whispers behind me.

“Is he serious?”

“Maybe he’s injured?”

“Maybe he’s just bad.”

My face was on fire. I tried one more time, putting every ounce of effort into it, and almost fell over from the momentum.

Thorne’s expression didn’t change. It was a masterclass in disappointment.

“…Enough,” he said finally. “Step aside before you hurt yourself.”

I staggered back, clutching my pride like a bleeding wound.

“Observe,” Thorne barked. “Darian!”

The murmurs around me rose as a man stepped forward from the far end of the hall. He looked… well, like someone who ate danger for breakfast and asked for seconds. Broad-shouldered, blonde hair tied back, a longsword strapped across his back that practically hummed with menace.

Who is this guy?

He gave me a glance—just a flick of the eyes—but it was enough to say: Kid, you’re doomed.

Thorne gestured to the dummy. “Show them.”

Darian unsheathed his sword in a single, fluid motion. The steel gleamed, and for a second, I thought I saw light ripple along the blade—not just a reflection, but something alive.

He held it loosely, almost casually, and then—

FWOOM.

The air around the blade shimmered like heat on stone. A faint blue glow flared along the edge, tracing runes I didn’t recognize.

“Channeling,” Thorne said, for our benefit. “The art of binding your magic to your weapon. A warrior’s lifeline against the unnatural.”

Darian stepped forward. His movements weren’t flashy. They were precise, like every strike had already been calculated hours ago.

One slash—fast as lightning—cleaved halfway through the dummy. The glow along his blade flared brighter, and then he pivoted, thrusting forward. A ripple of force burst from the point of impact, and the dummy exploded into splinters.

The room erupted in cheers. I just stared, slack-jawed, trying to process what I’d just seen.

Darian slid the sword back into its sheath like he’d just swatted a fly. No big deal.

“This,” Thorne said, turning back to us, “is what separates a warrior from dead weight. You will all learn to channel. Without it, you’re meat for the beasts.” His eyes landed on me for that last part. Subtle.

“Pair up,” Thorne barked. “Drills. Now.”

The trainees scattered into pairs. I stood there like a lost child until someone tapped my shoulder.

“Uh… hey,” a voice said.

I turned. The guy in front of me was about my height, maybe a little taller, with unruly blonde hair and a grin that looked like it had been stolen from a fox. He held up his wooden sword.

“You’re the Hero, right? I’m Ren,” he said. “Don’t worry. I suck too.”

“…You do?” I asked, blinking.

“Oh yeah,” he said cheerfully. “Worst in my class. Failed last month’s assessment so hard they wrote a song about it. Want to team up?”

“Sure,” I said, trying not to sound too relieved.

Ren grinned wider. “Cool. Let’s make mediocrity look good.”

And so began the most awkward training session of my life.

We swung at each other in slow motion, missed half the time, and probably looked like we were rehearsing a very bad play. At one point, Ren dropped his sword, and when he bent to pick it up, I accidentally smacked him in the back. We both went down in a heap.

Some of the other trainees were definitely laughing. I decided to ignore that for my mental health.

By the time Thorne blew the whistle to end drills, I was drenched in sweat and questioning every decision that had led me here.

Ren, somehow, looked energized. “That was fun! Want to meet up later?”

Social interaction? Voluntarily? My brain short-circuited.

“I, uh… maybe,” I said, which was Hero-speak for I will probably hide in my room and rethink my existence.

As we left the hall, I risked one last glance at Darian. He was leaning against the wall, arms crossed, eyes half-lidded like nothing in this room could possibly impress him. When he noticed me looking, he smirked—just a tiny curve of his mouth, but enough to make me feel like the punchline to a joke I didn’t get.

Great. Another thing to stress about tonight.

Tomorrow, I go back to the forge. Then more training. Then maybe learning how to “channel” before something eats me alive.

You know. Normal stuff.