Ethan discovered the next morning that there were muscles in his body he had apparently never used before.
He rolled onto his side, immediately regretted it, and lay still for several seconds, staring at the wall of his quarters as his body caught up with the decision. His shoulder ached. His lower back complained. Even his hands felt stiff, as though they'd spent the night gripping something far heavier than they were meant to.
"So this is the price," he muttered.
Outside, the village was already awake. Footsteps passed by his window, voices overlapping in casual conversation, the sound of someone laughing too loudly for the hour. Life had moved on without ceremony, indifferent to the fact that yesterday had been his first real fight.
Ethan sat up more carefully this time and swung his legs off the cot. His spear rested against the wall where he'd leaned it the night before, cleaned but not polished, practical rather than ceremonial. He regarded it for a moment, then looked away.
He wasn't proud of the fight, and he wasn't ashamed either. It had simply happened. He'd reacted, made decisions, and lived with the results. That felt… right.
After washing up, he stepped outside, stretching as he walked. The Craftsmen's Circle was already humming, apprentices moving materials, the scent of metal and treated wood thick in the air. Brann stood near the entrance, speaking with the master, while Mira sat on a crate nearby, her injured arm bound but clearly functional.
She noticed him first. "You walk like someone twice your age," she said.
"Give it a few years," Ethan replied. "I'm practicing."
Brann chuckled. "That stiffness fades. Eventually."
Torin emerged from behind him, eyes bright despite the faint bruise on his cheek. "Did you feel it?" he asked eagerly. "The way everything felt… sharper?"
Ethan hesitated. "I felt tired," he said honestly.
Torin blinked, then laughed. "Yeah. That too."
They headed toward the guild board together, a broad wooden structure near the village square where parchment notices fluttered gently in the breeze. It was busier than usual—hunters scanning postings, villagers tacking up requests, a pair of merchants arguing over delivery times.
Ethan stayed slightly back, observing. This was information gathering, not participation. He watched how people clustered around certain notices, how others were ignored, how conversations sparked and died based on what was written and who was reading.
Brann tapped one posting with a thick finger. "Simple follow-up hunt. Same region. Fewer hares. Meant for small groups."
Mira leaned over. "You up for another one today, engineer?"
Ethan considered it. His body protested at the idea, but his mind was already working through variables—terrain familiarity, known enemy behavior, recovery time.
"Yes," he said finally. "But not recklessly."
"Good answer," Brann said. "We'll head out after midday. Gives everyone time to recover and prep."
The hours before the hunt passed quietly. Ethan spent them at the Circle, not crafting anything major, just making small adjustments. He reinforced the grip of his spear, subtly redistributed its weight, and added a simple hook near the base—nothing fancy, just enough to catch or redirect if needed.
The master watched for a while, then nodded once. "You don't build like a fighter," he said.
"I don't fight like one either," Ethan replied.
"That's not a flaw," the master said. "Just means you'll survive differently."
By the time they left the village again, the sun was high and the forest looked less threatening than it had at dawn. Familiar, even. That, Ethan realized, was more dangerous than fear.
The second hunt went smoother.
They encountered fewer hares, and those they did were more cautious than aggressive. Ethan found himself anticipating movements, not because he'd mastered combat, but because patterns repeated. Animals favored certain paths. They reacted predictably to sound. Force followed logic.
When one hare bolted, Ethan didn't chase. He watched where it went.
"Left ridge," he said. "It'll circle back."
Mira raised an eyebrow. "Confident."
"Observant," Ethan corrected.
He was right.
The fight that followed was brief and messy and far less dramatic than stories would later make it sound. No clean victories, no elegant motions. Just coordinated effort, shouted warnings, and the dull thud of something heavy hitting the ground.
When it was over, Ethan felt it again—that quiet acknowledgment from the system.
Experience gained.
Minor proficiency increase detected.
He didn't smile. He didn't need to.
Back in the village, the group parted ways, each pulled back into their own routines. Ethan returned to his quarters, sat on the edge of his cot, and finally let himself feel tired.
This time, when he lay down, it didn't feel like collapse.
It felt earned.
And as sleep took him, his thoughts drifted—not to monsters or levels, but to the small improvements he'd already begun planning. Better tools. Smarter designs. A way to prepare without relying on strength he didn't yet have.
Tomorrow, he'd hunt again.
Not because he needed to prove anything.
But because growth, here, demanded participation.