9. Fire and flash

The night was thick with silence, the kind that pressed against the skin and made the air feel heavier. Harsh lay on the thin cot in his small hut, staring at the wooden beams above him, sleep refusing to come.

The noblewoman's words still echoed in his head.

"Questions can be weapons."

She was right. He had seen the proof in the lifeless body of the merchant that morning. A single misplaced word had been enough to end his life.

He turned onto his side, exhaling slowly. He had to be careful.

Yet, deep down, he knew caution alone would not be enough.

He was not strong here. Not in status, not in influence, not in skill. He had no army, no wealth, no backing. If he wanted to survive—if he wanted to do anything—he needed more than just knowledge.

He needed power.

A World That Did Not Forgive Weakness

The next morning, Harsh left the village early, heading toward the outskirts where the fields stretched toward the horizon. He had spent enough time watching, thinking—he needed to do something.

The world he had fallen into was not built for men like him. It was built for warriors, rulers, merchants who knew how to play the game.

He was none of those things.

But he could learn.

He arrived at a clearing where a group of young men trained under the watchful eyes of an older fighter—one of the local lords' retainers.

They practiced with wooden staffs and dull blades, their muscles rippling with each strike. The air was thick with the sound of impact, the scent of sweat and dust.

Harsh hesitated. He was no stranger to physical effort—years of studying had at least taught him discipline—but he had never trained like this.

He took a breath and stepped forward.

One of the trainees, a broad-shouldered man with a cruel smile, noticed him first.

"You lost, stranger?" he sneered, glancing at Harsh's simple clothes. "This isn't a place for scribes."

Harsh met his gaze. "I want to train."

The man laughed, loud and sharp. Some of the others joined in.

The instructor, a grizzled man with a scarred face, watched with mild amusement. "You ever held a weapon before, boy?"

"No," Harsh admitted.

The man snorted. "Then you're going to regret coming here."

He tossed Harsh a wooden staff. "Show me what you've got."

Harsh barely had time to react before the broad-shouldered man lunged at him.

The staff smacked into his ribs with brutal force, knocking the air from his lungs.

He staggered, pain exploding through his side. The others laughed again, but the instructor only watched, unimpressed.

Harsh gritted his teeth and straightened.

"Again," he said.

The man obliged, swinging hard. Harsh managed to block this time, though the impact still sent a tremor up his arms. He was too slow, too weak.

The next strike caught him in the shoulder. The next, his thigh.

By the time the sparring ended, he was on the ground, bruised, panting, humiliated.

The instructor crouched beside him.

"Go home, boy," he said. "You're not built for this."

Harsh tasted blood in his mouth.

He pushed himself up. His limbs screamed in protest, but he ignored them.

"No," he said hoarsely. "Again."

The instructor's gaze flickered with something unreadable.

Then, slowly, he nodded.

By the time Harsh stumbled back to his hut, the sun had dipped below the horizon. His body was a mass of pain.

He collapsed onto the cot, every breath a struggle.

He had been foolish to think he could walk into a warrior's world and immediately match them. Strength wasn't something given. It was built.

He closed his eyes. His limbs throbbed, his muscles felt torn apart—but beneath the exhaustion, there was something else.

A strange warmth.

His breath slowed. The pain did not fade, but it became… sharper. More defined.

And then something shifted.

For a moment, it felt as if his entire body was realigning, recalibrating.

His muscles tensed involuntarily, a deep ache settling into his bones. His fingers curled against the cot, and a slow pulse of heat ran through his veins.

And then—just as quickly as it came—it was gone.

Harsh gasped, bolting upright. His head spun.

What the hell had just happened?

He flexed his fingers. They felt lighter.

He moved his arm. The pain was still there, but… it was different. Less limiting.

His heart pounded.

This was not normal.

Something had changed.