Proof of Survival

There was warmth first.

Not the kind that burns, but the kind that swells slow and steady beneath the skin—like sunlight through a blanket or a hearth fire flickering low against stone. Koda floated in it for a long while, half-aware, half-asleep, drifting in a sea of vague impressions. The world existed behind a veil, and he had no strength—or desire—to push it back.

Then came the pain.

A dull ache at first, then sharper, more insistent. It moved like broken glass beneath his skin: jagged and wet, alive. His body protested his return before his mind could catch up.

And finally—clarity.

His eyes opened slowly. Light seeped in from the shuttered window above, spilling over the wooden beams of the orphanage infirmary. The ceiling was low, the planks above stained by age and smoke, and he could smell rosemary steeped in something metallic. Blood. His blood.

Bandages wrapped his arm and shoulder tight. His ribs were bound too, judging by the pressure. Every breath was an effort, tugging against the ache blooming just beneath the surface.

Still alive, he thought.

It didn't feel like a victory. Not yet.

His lips were cracked, dry. When he turned his head—carefully—he saw a shallow basin of cooled tea and a half-sliced fruit on a tray beside the cot. The matron's touch, no doubt. There was a blanket folded at the edge of the bed, and the window shutters had been tied open just enough to let the light in without the chill. Someone had stayed with him. Watched over him.

Again.

The memory came back in shards.

The goblins first. Their snarls in the mist. The press of waterlogged grass as he stumbled, the flash of teeth, the weight of that final goblin straddling his chest—its hands crushing his throat. The summon. The blade. How it felt to drive the point through that pulpy skull. That moment of savage, final silence.

Then the emaciated beast.

Not even a full-grown wolf—starved, staggering—but still strong enough to bite. Its teeth still in his flesh when he killed it. Desperate and mindless.

Just like him, in the end.

Koda stared at his wrapped arm, flexing his fingers slowly until the pain flared bright. He welcomed it. Let it anchor him.

This wasn't just pain. It was proof. Of survival. Of progress.

He pushed himself up slightly, ignoring the sharp pull at his side.

Then he whispered, rough with thirst:

"Status."

The familiar chime echoed—faint and crystalline—and the window bloomed to life before him in soft silver text:

⸻

Koda of the Eternal Guide

Level: 3

HP: 70 / 70

Mana: 70 / 70

Stamina: 70 / 70

Stats

Strength: 7

Vitality: 7

Agility: 7

Intelligence: 7

Wisdom: 7

Endurance: 7

Traits

Balance (Divine) – All stat increases apply equally to all attributes. Harmony is growth.

Skills

[Blade of Conviction] – Active

Summon a weapon forged of pure will. The more clarity and purpose you hold, the stronger the blade. Willpower and Wisdom affect damage.

⸻

A month ago, he'd been a boy with a dream, wrapped in borrowed clothes and soft hope.

Now he was something else.

Wounded, yes. Scarred, certainly. But waking up a little closer to the man he had to become.

And the path forward?

It would only get harder.

He let his head fall back against the pillow and stared at the ceiling, the sound of birds in the rafters just audible over the hum of morning voices in the halls below.

He needed to get stronger.

He needed to be smarter.

And next time… he wouldn't almost die.

Not again.

The door creaked softly.

Koda turned his head, wincing at the motion, just as the matron stepped inside. She moved with quiet purpose, her soft-soled shoes making no sound against the worn wooden floor. In her arms, a fresh bundle of bandages and a small clay jar, capped and sealed.

"You're awake," she said, her voice gentle but lined with exhaustion. "About time."

Her hair was pinned back, streaked now with more gray than brown, though she still carried herself with that quiet strength she always had. She didn't look at him right away—set the bundle down first, adjusted the candle on the nightstand, and poured him a cup of the cooled tea.

Only then did she meet his eyes.

They held no accusation. Only deep lines of worry etched from years of raising children too brave for their own good.

"You nearly died," she said flatly, handing him the cup.

"I didn't," Koda murmured, voice rasping as he took it.

"Don't sound so proud of that."

He gave a weak smile. She didn't return it, but her hands softened as she sat on the stool beside him.

"You were burning with fever by the time you reached the gate. I thought…" she trailed off, setting her fingers against the rim of the bowl where she'd been preparing the poultice. Her eyes flicked to the edge of the bandage on his arm, where blood had darkened the linen. "I've seen wounds like this. From beasts."

Koda didn't answer. He sipped the tea slowly—bitter and earthy, but not unpleasant. It scraped the dryness from his throat.

"I know you've been sneaking out," she said eventually.

That made him pause.

"I didn't stop you," she continued. "You've always been quiet when you needed to be. Always watching. Always waiting."

His breath caught slightly, but the matron didn't elaborate. Her gaze flicked down as she unwrapped his arm with practiced care.

The bite marks were angry and deep, but clean now. The swelling had gone down. The bruising around his ribs, though… that would take time.

"I know why you're doing it," she said after a long moment, eyes still on her hands as she worked. "You think the only way to catch up is to go where no one else dares. And maybe you're right. But I raised you better than to throw your life away just because the world made you feel behind."

The air thickened.

Koda looked at her, guilt blooming quietly beneath his skin. "I didn't mean to—"

"I know," she said, interrupting gently. "You meant to survive. And you did."

She applied the poultice. It stung like fire, and he gritted his teeth, refusing to flinch.

"Maia sent a letter," the matron said, more quietly. "It's in your drawer when you're strong enough to read it."

Koda blinked. He hadn't realized how much he wanted that—needed it.

"Do me a favor, Koda," she said, tying the fresh bandage with firm, practiced fingers. "Next time you decide to be brave… be smarter about it."

He nodded slowly.

"Good," she said, rising. "Now finish that tea. Then sleep."

She turned to go, pausing only once before opening the door.

"You're not alone. Don't forget that."

And then she was gone.

⸻

The quiet returned, but it wasn't empty.

Koda sat with it, holding the warmth of her words in one hand and the bitterness of the tea in the other. The pain hadn't left him—but something else had settled beneath it.

Not relief.

Not peace.

Resolve.

The world wasn't going to wait. So neither would he.

But for now…

He let himself rest.