The grass below the east wall wore a skin of frost, each blade catching the first light like a row of tiny knives. Taro pressed his forearms to the wall's cold stone and let his breath settle into the groove Brother Sen had carved into his mind.
"In," Sen said. "Not greedy. Out—own it."
Taro exhaled and felt the ribs obey, not as a cage but as a bellows he could shape. He shifted a hair closer, keeping his shoulders quiet while his chest closed the last inch. The stone didn't move, but his frame did—clean, stacked, steady.
Sen touched his shoulder with two fingers. The tap tried to spill him off balance. His ribs carried the touch and gave it to the wall. No wobble.
Sen nodded. "The ground will loan you its bones if you stop arguing with it."
Taro smiled despite the cold. "In my world, they sold power like a sprint. You're teaching it like a turn."
"Turns are what make sprints mean something." Sen stepped back, drew a chalk line on the ground, and gestured. "Weave walk. Slip-slip, make it travel. Breathe first, feet second."
Taro set his stance to the line—chin tucked, hands floating—and began to move. Head left on an exhale, then right. Each slip invited the next step, not with legs but with breath. The chalk line slid under him as though it had consented. At the end of the lane, he let the breath compress—ribs closing like a book—and sent it down his arm in a short, reshaped Centerline Surge against a padded post Sen had jammed into the frost.
A neat thud. Not loud. Honest. Full of purpose and quiet power.
"Again," Sen said. "Add the foot that arrives because your breath already did."
He showed it: no telegraph, just a half-length glide into space, the Snap Step arriving like the end of a thought. Taro copied, felt foolish for one rep, foolish for two, and then caught the hinge—breath, settle, foot, now. Surge. The pad talked back. The post shook from the quiet but powerful hit.
Sen's hand-fighting came without warning—soft, sticky palms, push-pull around Taro's wrists and guard, a teasing off-beat flick at the sleeve. Taro lost the rhythm once, twice, then stored it the way he did anything that hurt. The third time Sen's fingers lifted, Taro beat him to the half-beat with a tap to cloth.
The monk grinned as if someone had told him a joke he'd liked since childhood. "Good. Now do it to someone trying to kill you."
The morning bell rang low and far. Frost steamed where breath fell.
A thin pane of light slid into existence, crisp as always:
> Meaningful Training Registered.
Martial God's Champion — Blessed Growth: +2 to all stats.
New Technique: Snap Step (Novice) — Breath-led micro-lunge; brief AGI→Power conversion (minor Ki; short cooldown).
Warmth threaded through Taro's frame and settled. Numbers mattered less than the sense that his house's timbers had been tightened. Well... If he had a house still.
"Keep the drills light the rest of the day," Sen said, rolling the pad under one arm. "If you break yourself learning to breathe, I shall tell the saints you were too eager to live."
"That seems fair," Taro said. "What next?"
"Next, you learn your city." Sen tipped his head toward the town waking behind the wall. "A stance is not only legs and hands. It is how you place yourself in a world."
Taro couldn't help but nod as he also thought, I can use this as a nice coolddown and a way to figure out where to live. The inn I was recommended is nice, but... When I share walls with a couple who are waaay too busy at night 'exercising' ai kind of want a peaceful night's sleep.
He followed his mentor down to the city and began to learn.
---
Beldam yawned open as they walked the lanes. Sen's voice was the guided patience of someone who'd given the same tour to a dozen fools and hoped one would understand.
"This is South Watch," he said, nodding to a blocky post with a rack of whistles and a spear-stand. "Day rotation runs to the market. Market Watch answers first bell, knits into Militia when horns sound. Whistle codes: two-long for fire, three-short for gates, one-long two-short for beasts inside the stakes."
Taro listened, filing the sounds next to punches and traps. He liked systems. Systems spared you when talent ran dry.
"The guild keeps the headcount on a chalk board Kelda hides on a shelf because she hates optimism," Sen added with a private smile. "On a normal week? Thirty to forty active in town. A dozen, maybe fifteen, out on contracts. Eight to ten C-rank or better. Beldam runs lean." He glanced toward the north. "Leaner when Irontooth gnaws."
They crossed into the bonded market with nothing dramatic to mark it—just a cleaner street, flags with the magistrate's sigil, and a row of awnings where traders sipped tea and pretended not to watch each other. Collars of polished leather and iron hung behind glass. Scribes in neat coats checked ledgers at a booth stamped with the town mark.
"Bonds," Sen said, not softening the word. "Penal for the spared, debt for the desperate, sponsor-oath for the stubborn, war-captives for the bitter. All under the magistrate's eye. Collars track identity and terms; abuse recalls the collar and fines the fool; manumission comes by buyout or service completed. Nothing perfect. Something orderly."
Taro looked, and didn't look away. In his old world it would have been a crime to look. Here, it was etiquette to understand before judging. A woman with the magistrate's sigil examined a collar, held it up to a clear slate that flashed letters, and nodded once. Another scribe recorded a term renewal with the same bored care you'd give a cart tax.
"Tools change people," Sen said, eyes on Taro. "Coin. Collars. Contracts. Make sure they do not change you faster than your breath can hold."
"I hear you," Taro said. He thought of an old rival who had said I'll come back for you and then vanished into brighter lights and better checks. A tool had changed that man's heart. Or perhaps it had only made what was there more visible.
The street bent, and with it, the scent. Spices. Soap. Fat frying. A plucked harp's lazy run. Lanterns stayed lit here even by day, muted behind colored glass. Silken tassels and velvet drapes framed doorways without showing anything they shouldn't.
"The Pleasure district," Sen said, with the same tone he'd use for a shrine or a smith. "The healers keep its hearth from burning the town."
A signboard posted prices in neat script: rooms, time blocks, companion rates, bathhouse fees. Underneath, in a more formal hand, rules:
— consent required and can be withdrawn
— no arms past the guardline
— workers' right of refusal
— house bans are final
— adults only (verified by seal)
A woman in a white sash—the healer's mark—stepped from a curtained doorway, laughed with two workers in soft robes, and led a pair of armor-scratched guards toward a side house with a brass kettle on its sign.
"Healer cell is on retainer," Sen said. "Routine screenings. Post-shift treatments. Quick-cure magic for what crops up. Keeps the workforce and the patrons healthy. Some come here for company, some for quiet. Some for the bath and the feeling of not dying alone."
The district's variety showed itself by its facades: a house with polished wood and pale banners where elves in finely cut garments that showed thighs and ribs, but covered tastefully, spoke with clean voices; a stout place with carved lintels where dwarves laughed like drums while wearing coverings that showed their tough muscular bodies with tight fittings or open shirts; a corner shop whose sign bore stylized tails and pricked ears serving anthros and demi-humans with quick-smiled attendants; a mixed-race house hung with beads and feathers where a goblin bouncer with a gold ear ring nodded to the healer and tilted her chin at Sen like they'd traded favors before. A smaller doorway had a painted bell and declared itself a conversation house—tea, music, hands held, nothing more.
Taro took it in as a fighter would a ring: exits, safeties, rhythms. Nothing explicit spilled into the street, only teasing promises on what you could get, as long as you behave yourself and follow the rules. Laughter, music, the soft rise and fall of private voices. A worker in a robe met his eyes, gauged him with a professional warmth that said welcome as a policy, not a promise, then let him pass without pressure.
"In my world," Taro said, "this would be illegal."
"And so men would meet their needs with knives and lies instead," Sen said. "Here, we try honesty with supervision. It is not a saint's solution. But saints do not patrol at midnight."
Taro nodded. He felt no disgust, only the urge to learn how it was built. If he was to live here, he wanted to know where the city had put its weaknesses and its salves.
"House first," he murmured, more to himself than to Sen. "Then gear. Then… maybe a bond, if the person wants the exchange and the terms are clean. And when I understand myself—I'll decide about the district."
Sen's mouth tugged into that not-smile that hid more than it revealed. "Good order. Keep breath before coin. Breath before collar. Breath before pleasure."
"Breath before everything," Taro said.
"Now you sound like a monk. Horrifying." Sen clapped him lightly on the arm and took him past the last lantern. "Go shop, then go earn. I'll see you at first light tomorrow. We will make your feet carry your breath without scuffing like a mule."
---
Shopping turned out to be learning by price. The leatherer measured Taro's chest and quoted a sum for a padded guard Curiass that would protect his chest to his belly button, and most of his back. Some forearm bracers and well made leather boots added protection. The armor was well maintained leather that made even his new guild purse feel thin. The smith showed him weighted wraps and sap gloves with some form fitting pauldrons for shoulder protection to his joints he absolutely did not need yet and said so with professional honesty Taro appreciated. The apothecary sold him salve for hands and a small pot for bruises that smelled like pine and old secrets.
He bought nothing heavier than the salve and a bundle of better socks. Boots, bracers, and chest guard would come after the next job. He wanted a house where the floor wouldn't splinter under a training bag before he put metal on his knuckles and feet.
Kelda was a right kind of busy when he found her at the guild—occupied with three problems and already choosing which two would get solved by end of day. She set her seal on a courier pouch without looking and then did look, because Taro had become the sort of problem she didn't mind.
"Report," she said.
"North copse traps flagged; foreman subdued and delivered yesterday," Taro said.
"We sent an investigator team at dawn," Kelda said. "They'll cut resets and bleed the clan's tempo until we can muster a proper subjugation. Call it two or three days to beat the farmers into a line that looks like soldiers. Street rumor says Irontooth's testing markets and sewers. So keep your eyes where your feet aren't."
"I want in on the subjugation," Taro said. "I'll be ready."
"Then go get paid and sharpen your skills." Kelda jerked her chin toward the board. "You can play lottery with a dungeon floor or pluck flowers for an apothecary and feel virtuous. Your choice."
Taro let the papers talk. Wolves and goblins on floor one meant practice that paid twice—pelt coin and muscle memory. He pulled the Wolf Pelt (Dungeon F1) notice and showed it.
"Fine," Kelda said. "Don't chase a pack into blind stone and don't die on guild property."
"I hear that one a lot," Taro said.
"Then it might be for you," Kelda said dryly, and waved him on.
---
The dungeon's mouth was a cool breath from the earth. The first corridor took torchlight and gave back a patient gleam. Taro's ankles remembered the tape of a ring, even with stone underfoot. He set his breath to a slow cadence; the flame on the torch wavered to it like it wanted to be helpful.
He marked the first corner with nothing but memory—half-beat feint lives here—and kept his guard relaxed. The air smelled of old water and animal musk.
When the wolves came, they came like a tide's edge. A shadow peeled from a pillar and let its paws speak. The lead feinted to the right and intended to cross on the half and take knee-meat on the left.
Taro's old world lit up behind his eyes with highlights and arrows, all the film he'd watched and the sweat he'd paid. He didn't spook for the feint. He owned his out-breath and slid the Snap Step into the space the wolf thought belonged to it. The foot arrived because the breath already had. Centerline Surge rode the exhale into the skull base.
The sound was small and final. The wolf twitched—alive because Taro wanted it that way—and crumpled into sleep with a whine.
The second wolf committed to a high bite, honest and doomed. Taro pivoted to steal the angle and put a body-hook in the ribs that said you should be a better leader. Air left the animal like a gift it hadn't meant to give. It fell, scrambled, and limped. The third saw honesty turn into trouble and fled into the dark hallway.
Taro let it go. He freed the first wolf's breath with a short prayer to the saints he didn't owe yet, then skinned with the clean motions Sen had insisted someone teach him—practice being gentle when you can. Each pelt rolled tight felt like a coin and something else: proof he could translate breath into food and gear.
A banner flickered below his eyes as he wiped the blade:
> Technique Refinement: Centerline Surge timing improved with Snap Step — slight power bonus when executed on exhale cycle.
"Don't get greedy," he told his ribs when a warm ache threaded them. The new edge asked to be used; he asked it to wait.
At a choke where the stone pinched, two goblins waited with the patience of men who had been told they were clever. One flicked his spear with a half-beat that might have fooled a boy. Taro slid inside, forearm to haft, not hard enough to break—he wasn't here to practice cruelty—and slipped a Surge to the sternum, short enough to take breath and not life. The goblin folded on its own haft like a man reconsidering his day. The second backpedaled. Taro's Weave Engine woke and let him close without giving away a clean line, head movements braiding with steps. A quick one two jab combo snapped the goblins neck with his boosted stats helping him.
He scanned for others as he finished off the first goblin and took their left ears as proof of subjugation. After confirming he was alone he scanned the tunnels and found a mark he had seen in the forest.
He found triangles scratched low on a mortar seam, the charcoal finger that said Irontooth had learned to write its name everywhere. He memorized the placement—low, where a crawling goblin could touch—and moved on.
When his ankle kissed a caltrop hidden under dust, the sting dragged a curse from his mouth and a lesson from his kit. Salve, wipe, pressure. He added boots to the top of his mental list with a thick underline. Trainer sneakers would do him no good here after a while.
He left the floor three hours later with 8 pelts, a bagful of fangs, over 12 goblin ears, and the quiet fatigue that comes from doing work the right way the first time. The dungeon's mouth coughed him back into daylight. Beldam's air tasted of bread and iron. He walked to the guild with his torch guttering and his breath quiet.
Kelda counted pelts with a banker's indifference and then allowed herself a nod. "Clean cuts," she said. "If everyone trimmed this tidy, I'd use fewer curses by lunch." She squinted at the fangs. "Hn. Add them to your purse. And you saw Irontooth scratch in stone?"
"Low on the mortar," Taro said. "Where you'd drag a hand coming through."
"They're probing everywhere," Kelda muttered. "Sewers, dungeon, roads. We'll burn them out of at least one of those soon."
The panel rippled again, less dramatic now, like a ledger updated to reflect reality:
> Combat Adaptation Registered.
Martial God's Champion — Blessed Growth: +2 to all stats.
Technique Upgrade: Counter-Tempo I → II — Expanded interrupt window; slight accuracy & guard-stagger bonus on disrupted rhythms.
The settling warmth returned. Taro breathed and felt the house of himself take the weight.
He bought a bowl of stew and ate it on the move, the same way he had as a boy leaving the gym late because there had been no coach to call his name. He paused at a street where shutters had new paint and looked up at a for-rent sign on a narrow townhouse with good bones and gutters that tried their best. The door had a sturdy bar. The windows had iron grating he could hang a bag from.
The bell in the tower called the hour. Lanterns lit one by one, throwing gold on wet cobbles. The district's music drifted faint as a sigh from two streets over. He would look into a lease tomorrow. He would price boots and a chest guard and, if the numbers behaved, ask about bonded help at a licensed house where collars tracked contracts and not whims.
He turned to go and felt eyes.
A balcony above, over a tea shop with a clever sign, held a man in a coat too fine for most Beldam streets and a signet ring that made promises to people who cared. He watched Taro the way you watch a horse you mean to buy—interested, calculating, sure of his coin. A thin chain at his throat carried a charm with the magistrate's sigil shaped wrong by a better jeweler. Collar broker, or close enough.
Two rooftops over, Brother Sen stood like a shadow that had chosen a shape. He watched the broker watching Taro. His face was calm. The kind of calm that wanted to see what a man would do without a whispered warning.
Taro pretended not to see either. He walked to the square, stepped into a patch of dark where the wind nosed his cloak, and wrapped his hands for a short drill because he could not sleep without the rhythm's blessing. The cloth bit the knuckles just enough to remind him he was here.
He breathed in. Breathed out. The town seemed to breathe with him.
---
Status — Taro
Class: Junior Fistfighter
Title: Martial God's Champion (SSS)
HP: 220 base (10× END 22) → 720 effective (during combat/training; END 72)
Ki: 21
Base Stats (end of Chapter 2 → post-training → post-dungeon)
STR: 20 → 22 → 24
END: 18 → 20 → 22
AGI: 16 → 18 → 20
SPIRIT: 17 → 19 → 21
MIND: 14 → 16 → 18
LUCK: 13 → 15 → 17
Effective Physicals (in combat/training; SSS bonus +50)
STR: 74 | END: 72 | AGI: 70
Skills & Techniques
Martial God's Champion (SSS):
Dramatically accelerates combat growth and technique evolution through application.
Blessed Growth: On meaningful training or combat adaptation, +2 to all stats.
Physical attributes (STR/END/AGI) amplified by +50 during recognized combat/training.
Ki Breathing (Novice): Controlled exhale stabilizes structure; minor resistance to compression/strangle effects; slow Ki regen out of combat.
Centerline Surge (Novice): Short-range exhale-driven transfer; improved timing synergy with Snap Step. (Minor rib ache if overused.)
Weave Engine I: After two consecutive successful slips/rolls, brief AGI surge and increased counterpower.
Snap Step (Novice): Breath-led micro-lunge; brief AGI→Power conversion. (Minor Ki cost; short cooldown.)
Counter-Tempo II: Larger interrupt window; slight accuracy & guard-stagger bonus when disrupting enemy rhythm.
Gear
Leather Knuckle Wraps (minor hand protection).
Hooded Cloak (mundane; helps blend).
Hand Salve (restorative; minor).