The weapons market sat near the outer ring of the city, far from noble quarters and guarded temples. It wasn't a place of shining steel or master craftsmanship—just rows of stalls beneath patched awnings, the air thick with rust, oil, and sweat.
Alex walked slowly, hands tucked into his cloak, eyes cataloging everything.
Cheap knives. Bent swords. Spears with uneven shafts. Tools more than weapons.
Perfect.
He stopped at a stall run by an old man with one eye and no visible mana signature at all.
"What're you looking for, boy?" the man asked.
"Something that won't break," Alex replied. "And something I won't miss if it does."
The man barked a laugh and reached under the counter.
He laid out three items:
A short knife with a chipped spine.
A battered practice sword—wooden core reinforced with dull metal strips.
And a pair of weighted gloves, the leather cracked and stiff.
"Five copper," the man said. "For all."
Alex didn't haggle.
He paid, took the bundle, and left.
That night, he walked beyond the city's edge, past the last farms and watch posts, until he reached a stretch of scrubland broken by old stone markers. No one came here after dark.
The moon was thin.
The ground was uneven.
Good terrain to make mistakes on.
Alex set the practice sword aside first and drew the knife.
It felt wrong in his hand.
Too light. Balance off by a finger's width.
He adjusted his grip until the flaws worked with him instead of against him.
"System," he said quietly, "track efficiency."
{Define efficiency parameters.}
"Energy spent versus outcome achieved," Alex replied. "No rank scaling. No mana amplification."
A pause.
{Metric accepted.}
The knife moved.
Not fast.
Correct.
Basic cuts. Thrusts. Slashes aimed at imaginary joints, throats, kidneys. He practiced transitions—reverse grip, forward grip, switching hands mid-motion.
Each movement deliberate.
Each correction small.
His breathing stayed steady.
Sweat gathered at his temples.
{Efficiency rating: 12%.}
Alex didn't stop.
Again.
Again.
He adjusted angles. Shortened motions. Eliminated unnecessary steps.
{Efficiency rating: 15%.}
"Good," he murmured.
He moved on to the sword.
Footwork first.
No swings.
Just steps.
Forward. Back. Diagonal. Pivot. Retreat.
He marked patterns in the dirt with his heel, repeating them until his feet moved without conscious thought.
This wasn't about strength.
It was about position.
(A weak body survives by standing where death isn't,) Chaos said.
Alex nodded slightly.
He added the blade.
Slow arcs at first. Then faster. Practicing guard transitions—high to low, left to right, blade always between him and an imagined opponent.
His arms burned.
His wrists ached.
The sword was unbalanced. Intentionally so.
"Real fights won't be perfect," Alex muttered.
{Efficiency rating: 19%.}
No mana.
None.
He refused the instinct to reinforce his muscles.
This was pure muscle memory.
Pure physics.
When his arms finally trembled too much to continue, he dropped the sword and put on the gloves.
Unarmed combat was different.
Messier.
He practiced strikes first—palms, elbows, knees. Targeting soft points. Practicing weight transfer.
Then grappling.
He threw himself to the ground repeatedly, learning how to fall without breaking bones. Rolled. Stood. Fell again.
Dirt caked his clothes.
His breath came in sharp bursts now.
{Efficiency rating: 22%.}
Alex laughed quietly.
"That's terrible."
{Correction: It is improving.}
"And my rank?" he asked.
A brief pause.
{Unchanged.}
He smiled.
"Good."
He sat heavily on a rock, staring up at the sky.
No glowing notifications.
No ascension.
No recognition.
Just soreness and scraped knuckles.
This felt right.
(System's strange,) Chaos observed. (It values outcome, not display.)
"That's why I like this," Alex replied. "It doesn't reward illusions."
(Do not grow attached.)
"I'm not," Alex said. "I'm exploiting it."
Chaos chuckled.
He trained like this every night.
Work by day.
Weapons by night.
His body changed—not in rank, but in density. Movements became smoother. Reactions sharper. He learned how little motion was actually needed to end a fight.
The system tracked everything.
{Efficiency rating: 31%.}
{Wasted motion reduced.}
{Injury risk lowered.}
It never once mentioned power.
Never suggested mana enhancement.
Never pushed rank growth.
Alex appreciated that.
After a week, he tested something.
He sparred against three dock workers he'd befriended—friendly matches behind a warehouse, no mana allowed. Just skill.
He lost the first.
Barely won the second.
Dominated the third.
The difference wasn't strength.
It was timing.
Later that night, Alex cleaned his blade and sat on his bed, muscles aching pleasantly.
"No rank," he said softly. "Just results."
{Agreement logged.}
He leaned back, staring at the ceiling.
"This is how I'll survive," he said. "Quietly. Efficiently. Without ever announcing what I am."
(And when the world forces you to?) Chaos asked.
Alex's eyes sharpened.
"Then it won't be because I needed to."
Outside, the city slept.
Inside, something far more dangerous was being built—without ever climbing a single rank.
And Alex intended to keep it that way.