18. Edge of a blade
Harsh walked the dimly lit corridors of the noble estate, the scent of aged wood and burning oil lamps heavy in the air. The meeting had ended hours ago, but its weight still clung to his thoughts.
The nobles had accepted him—for now.
But they hadn't accepted him as one of them.
They had accepted him as a tool.
A tool could be discarded when it was no longer useful.
That thought sat uneasily in his mind as he entered his chambers.
The noblewoman had maneuvered him skillfully, guiding him toward this moment with a hand so delicate, so subtle, that he hadn't even realized he was being played until it was already done.
She was dangerous in a way he had never encountered before.
Not because of her beauty or her status—but because she understood power.
And she understood him.
Harsh exhaled, running a hand through his hair.
If he wanted to survive in this world, he had to stop thinking like an outsider.
He had to play the game.
---
The next morning, Harsh was woken by a servant.
"The soldiers are waiting, my lord."
Harsh frowned. "What soldiers?"
The servant bowed. "The noble lord has ordered a demonstration of your strength."
Harsh clenched his jaw.
A test.
They had seen his mind at work in war.
Now they wanted to see if he was worth anything as a warrior.
He dressed quickly, his movements precise. His body had changed since coming here—he could feel it.
The Goldfinger had settled into him, a strange, quiet force humming beneath his skin. He was stronger, faster, more resilient.
But he had yet to push it to its limits.
Today, it seemed, he would have no choice.
---
The Arena
The courtyard was filled with watching eyes. Nobles, warriors, servants—all gathered to see if this man of science and strange ideas was anything more than an anomaly.
Harsh stepped into the center, his gaze scanning the assembled soldiers.
A man stepped forward. Tall. Built like a mountain. A seasoned warrior, his arms lined with scars.
"You fight me," the man said simply.
Harsh exhaled slowly.
The noblewoman stood on a balcony above, watching, her expression unreadable.
Harsh didn't need to be told—this was her doing.
A final test.
The warrior lunged.
Harsh moved without thinking.
His body reacted faster than it should have, his muscles responding with a precision that wasn't natural. He sidestepped, his instincts sharper than before.
The warrior swung again, and this time, Harsh caught the blade with his bare hand.
A gasp rippled through the crowd.
The metal cut into his skin, but only slightly. His grip was too strong.
For the first time, Harsh truly understood—
He wasn't just stronger.
He was twice as strong as any man here.
The warrior's eyes widened in shock. He tried to pull back, but Harsh twisted, ripping the sword from his grasp.
And then, without hesitation, he struck.
His fist connected with the man's ribs, and the warrior flew backward.
Not stumbled. Flew.
He crashed into the dirt, coughing, gasping for breath.
Silence fell.
Harsh turned his gaze upward, toward the balcony.
The noblewoman met his eyes.
And for the first time, she looked genuinely surprised.
Then, slowly, she smiled.
It was not the smile of someone who had won.
It was the smile of someone who had just discovered a new piece on the board.
A piece more valuable than she had expected.
Harsh dropped the sword to the ground.
The nobles would not discard him now.
They had just realized—
He was no tool.
He was a weapon.