Frost clung to the grass again, and the wall was the same unyielding teacher. Taro pressed his forearms to the cold stone and made the world smaller than a breath.
"In," Brother Sen said, voice low as a shrine bell. "Not greedy. Out—own it."
Taro exhaled and felt the ribs carry the shape. Shoulders quiet. Pelvis stacked. The stone didn't move; his frame agreed to move correctly against it. Sen's two fingers landed on Taro's shoulder and tried to spill him. The force ran through ribs and into stone with the soft inevitability of water finding a channel.
"Good," Sen murmured. "Again."
They built the morning like a ladder: four-count inhale, six-count exhale; then five and seven. Sen strung a rope ankle-high and made Taro Weave Walk over it, slip-slip traveling down a chalk line the width of a hand. A sand-filled satchel went across Taro's shoulders; breath had to hold posture tall without flexing into a gorilla.
"Guard Melt," Sen said at last, raising pad and palm. "Same seam, one breath. Don't bludgeon—soften."
Taro tapped the same gap in the pad twice during a single exhale—flick, settle, flick—and felt the leather want to open the third time. The point was not power. The point was obedience: his body to his breath, the target to his rhythm.
Sen shoved him—harder than yesterday. Taro's ribs settled into stance and gave the shove to the ground. His feet squeaked a line of frost but held.
"Root," Sen said, pleased. "It is very difficult to uproot a man whose breath is a pillar."
They finished with Snap Step into Centerline Surge, the micro-lunge arriving like the end of a thought. The pad thudded, tidy and sure.
The morning bell rolled through the air. The world brightened by a shade. A pane wrote itself in clean lines:
> Meaningful Training Registered.
Martial God's Champion — Blessed Growth: +2 to all stats.
New Passive: Rooted Frame (Novice) — brief knockback resistance while exhaling into stance.
Technique Refinement: Guard Melt (Concept) — improved guard-opening when repeating strikes within one breath cycle.
Warmth threaded his bones and settled like a better foundation poured under a house. He rolled his shoulders; the satchel's weight felt lighter because he was standing under it correctly.
"Keep your work light until lunch," Sen said, lifting the rope off the stakes with his feet. "Do not spend new strength to prove it exists. Spend it to make it belong."
Taro grinned. "Dungeon loop, then guild, then shop."
"Then eat a thing that bleeds," Sen said dryly. "Salt and fat are what keep men alive, not poetry."
---
The dungeon's breath was familiar now—cool and metallic, the light behaving as if it had seen too much to care. Taro let his torch ride at shoulder height where it wouldn't blind him and stepped into the first corridor with his stance softened by breath.
He tuned for efficiency. The morning was for clean repetitions. Two wolves ghosted from pillars and learned that a man can occupy a space before his foot does. Snap Step → Centerline Surge kissed the first to the skull base; a pivot-and-hook folded the second at the ribs. He didn't chase the third. He mapped his route with the discipline of roadwork: left turn at the broken arch, skip the long hall, cut the elbow around the dry well.
At a narrow throat of stone, a goblin sapper scuttled with a clay gourd hugged to its chest, the grin of someone about to be clever. Taro let the grin have the first half-beat; he gave himself the second. The sapper whipped the gourd low. Taro stepped off-line with breath already set and flicked a jab to the wrist—not to hurt, to aim the throw. The clay burst against the wall in a spit of caltrops. On the exhale turn, he slipped inside and set a short cross to the jaw hinge. The sapper dreamed of smarter days.
He took ears swiftly, made himself be gentle with hands, and burned the caltrops in his memory as the exact reason boots were not optional.
He kept Surge honest. A warm ache threaded his ribs after the third clean transfer. He told the ache to wait and made his hooks do more of the talking. When a wolf tried a high finish at his shoulder, he let Weave Engine carry him under it and countered with a body-head ladder that made the sound of good choices.
He left at mid-morning with seven pelts, eight ears, four fangs, and a sapper gourd that hadn't broken. The sun hit his face like approval.
---
Kelda was a machine at the counter, stamping, counting, making the day obey. She weighed pelts with the look of a woman hoping not to be disappointed and then wasn't.
"Fewer resets reported," she said, writing totals. "Investigator team is doing its job. Don't get cocky on the afternoon pass—Irontooth learns."
"How's the pay look today?" Taro asked.
She flicked numbers with the end of her quill. "Pelt, 3s. Ear, 1s. Fang, 50c. That gourd,"—she prodded it—"2s to an apothecary. Morning purse… 26s and a few coppers."
Taro counted the jingle into his palm. Yesterday's take and odd jobs had left his purse at 1 gold and 14 silver by his last count; Beldam's standard set one gold at 100 silver, one silver at 100 copper. With the morning money, he could finally stop pretending his trainers were enough.
"Armor first," he said.
"Then spend it like you mean to live," Kelda said without looking up.
---
The leatherer's shop smelled like oil, glue, and the patience of men who meant for things to last. The proprietor measured Taro's chest and back with a strip and prodded notches where scars usually lived; finding none, he grunted a little approval.
"Padded leather cuirass," the man said, laying a short, close-fitting piece on the counter. "Covers chest to the navel, most of the back. Squares your shoulders. Eighty-five silver. It'll keep claws off your lungs, not axes. Don't test it against axes."
"Noted," Taro said.
"Forearm bracers," the man continued. "Stout stitching, metal slats sandwiched inside. Fifteen silver. They'll keep you from bleeding out from a cheap knife."
"Definitely noted," Taro said.
"Boots," the man said, dropping a pair on the counter with authority. Thick soles, stitched shanks, toe caps. "Twelve silver. You don't get to be nimble if you can't feel your toes."
He wriggled into the cuirass and felt the immediate tug at his breath; it asked him to be deeper, more honest. The bracers hugged his forearms, making them feel like they might actually enjoy taking a hit. The boots made the ground sound different—less whisper, more statement.
He counted coin. The pile sagged with the weight of his choices: 112 silver, which is more than a number when your goals are tall. He left with a lighter purse and the heavy satisfaction of not being stupid.
He took three steps in the new kit and stumbled, not because it was bad, but because his timing had belonged to absence, and now it had to belong to load.
"Go learn your weight," the leatherer said from the door, the closest thing to a benediction the man probably offered.
---
The dungeon did not care that he was heavier; the wolves did. The first tested him at a trot and found him half a beat late on the angle. A bite grazed the cuirass and scritched like shame down leather. Taro breathed and let Rooted Frame set his feet. He did not immediately chase himself for the mistake; he reset.
"Breath arrives before foot," he reminded the part of him that was still twenty and trying too hard. He let the breath lead, then Snap Step slid under the weight, not against it. Centerline Surge followed, smaller by an inch, cleaner by truth. The wolf's teeth made a despairing sound on the toe cap and then found the floor.
A howl rolled down the stone and came around a bend strapped to a dire wolf—bigger through the shoulders, eyes that understood cause and effect. It fainted high to get him to drop his guard, then tried to bull through the middle.
Taro owned the exhale, tilted his hips like a hinge, and let Weave Engine braid left-right-left into a step that belonged to his lungs even more than to his legs. Body-hook to steal the dog out of it; head-hook to tell the nervous system the bad news; short right to write his name on the moment. The dire wolf tried to stand up against a floor that had become very flat. It chose to lie down instead.
He let the big one go to sleep without cruelty, then skinned with care. The pelt was heavy and would put good numbers on the counter.
Goblins tried a shield wall at a stairwell and discovered that walls need confidence to act like walls. Taro melted a seam with two taps in one breath—left hand flick-flick on the same knuckle guard—then slid a right through the soft place. They cracked; they fled; one tossed a whistle down the stair, and he did not follow into the hornet's mouth.
He stepped out at dusk with five more pelts, the dire pelt, eleven ears, and a coiled fatigue that felt exactly like what he had wanted to earn.
A clean card wrote itself in the low light:
> Combat Adaptation Registered.
Martial God's Champion — Blessed Growth: +2 to all stats.
New Technique: Load-Bearing Breath (Novice) — reduces AGI penalty from medium armor while exhaling into movement; improves power transfer through cuirass.
The warmth this time arrived with satisfaction. He had not been given anything he hadn't paid for.
---
Kelda's counting voice did not change when she said "dire." It changed when she hit the subtotal.
"Dire pelt is 12 silver when it's not chewed," she said. "Which this is not. Total for the afternoon: 31 silver and copper on the tail. Makes your day's take 57 silver and copper before the morning spend."
"Which I already spoke to," Taro said, tapping his new bracers. "How's Irontooth?"
"More marks in more places," she said. "We post muster notice tomorrow." She slid a small scrap across the counter. "You also received this."
The scrap was thick paper and smelled like tea oils. The script was elegant in the smug way of a man who had paid to learn how to write this elegantly:
> Tea at the Third Bell, Balcony Room, Copper Kettle.
A short conversation about opportunities—collars, terms, and smart investments.
— Ashem Vell, Licensed Bond-Broker (Magistrate Seal on File)
Taro felt his mouth make a line. He looked up. Kelda's face was professionally neutral, which for Kelda meant she wanted to know what he would do before she decided whether to warn him.
"I want to know the shapes of things," Taro said. "Terms. Prices. What work I could responsibly ask for. What manumission looks like from the ledger side." He flipped the card and read the tiny line at the bottom. All contracts audited; all parties adults; abuse fines triple. "If I decide to take bonds, I will do it by the book and with the person's assent to the terms. I want a housekeeper who can cook and keep order and act as a dungeon hand when things get messy. And a second who can maintain gear—leatherwork or light metal—and fight."
Kelda nodded once. "That is a lot of 'ands'. You'll pay for all those ands."
"Then I'll earn for them," he said.
"Start by not dying before the third bell," she said, and the corner of her mouth threatened to become a smile and then thought better of it.
---
The Copper Kettle sat on a corner like a merchant slicked with his own oils. The balcony room had an afternoon cross-breeze and a view of street life edited by distance. A plate of sugared almonds waited with the indifference of things meant to impress.
Ashem Vell rose from a low table with a smile that did not overuse teeth. His coat was the precise gold of men who love to be seen but not accused. A signet ring winked with a city sigil. The collar-charm at his throat carried the magistrate's stamp within an extra filigree—tasteful swagger.
"Master Taro," he said. "Congratulations on not dying and on learning to dress as if you plan to continue the trend." His gaze dipped to the cuirass and came back professionally satisfied. "Tea?"
"Please," Taro said. He sat where he could see both the door and the street; habits are also a kind of breath.
"Let us not insult each other," Ashem said, pouring. "You are here to talk coin, contracts, and conscience. I am here to sell you two of those and keep my license by respecting the third."
"Terms, price ranges, and how the work shakes out," Taro said. "I'm looking at a domestic bond who can keep house, cook, and act as a dungeon hand—pack, carry, simple triage. And an artisan-combat bond—leather or light metal maintenance, buckles, straps, edge care; who can back me when steel is in the room."
Ashem nodded, unsurprised. "You and every sensible sellsword who wishes to live long enough to be called something else." He set three small slates on the table and wrote as he spoke.
"Domestic bonds, trained—adults with verifiable work ledgers, literate, basic triage. Two and a half to four gold purchase, depending on term left and references. Monthly upkeep—room and board, plus 1–2 silver in the city levy. Many masters choose a manumission schedule—put aside 5–8 silver a month into a sealed box; when the box says the number and the Magistrate signs, the collar opens. You may also write in profit shares when the house reaches surplus—motivates initiative."
He tapped the second slate.
"Artisan-combat bonds—trained leatherers, apprentice armorers, or fletchers who can hold a line. These are rarer. Five to eight gold. They cost more because they earn you coin and save you coin. You will also budget materials—oil, thread, plates. Upkeep the same levy; you will likely add a risk stipend after field days—some masters call it a danger share."
Taro's mouth stayed neutral. The numbers were not small. They didn't have to be. He had asked for and on purpose.
"Contract shapes," Ashem continued. "You may choose term-completion manumission—service for 3–6 years, depending on sentence/debt; or buyout path—fixed sum, paid whenever you have it; or a sponsor-oath—rare, requires clergy." He lifted his eyes. "I advise the hybrid: term plus buyout. It protects you if coin dries and frees them if coin flows."
"Interview rights?" Taro asked.
"Mandatory," Ashem said. "You interview and they interview you. Collar only closes after a cooling day. The city insists. So do I. Men who buy in haste sell their reputation later."
"What about fight-capable choices?" Taro added. "I won't press a domestic bond beyond her training. But in a dungeon, there are moments when everyone must be useful."
"You would want a domestic with porter training," Ashem said. "Pack discipline, line-following, basic breathwork so they do not panic in a narrow place. For the artisan, choose one with strap-and-splint triage and guard sense. I have two on slate who fit: a demi-human woman with fox ears who trained as a camp quartermaster—very tidy, very firm; and a dwarf apprentice leatherer with soldiering weeks who stubborns like stone. Both are adults. Both have their papers in order. Neither has ever had a complaint stand in court."
Taro nodded slowly. "Prices?"
"Quartermaster demi—three gold, eighty silver, four-year term with buyout path available at two gold," Ashem said, tapping the first slate. "Apprentice leatherer—six gold, forty silver, five-year term, buyout at three gold. He is worth it. He can keep you alive by saving your kit."
Taro weighed the numbers next to a townhouse deposit that lived in his head like a scale. "House first," he said. "But knowing these is how I make the house work."
"You have a sensible order," Ashem said, pleased. "Would you like to meet them tomorrow? No pressure. Tea, talk. You walk away if the breath in the room is wrong."
"I'll consider it," Taro said.
"Consider quickly," Ashem said, and the smile tightened by exactly a millimeter. "Men with coin and ethics are very fashionable. My competitors have begun to pretend they have both."
Taro set his cup down and stood. "I'll send a note by noon."
Ashem bowed the bow of men who enjoy being thought generous. "I look forward to your breath filling my room again."
On the balcony's far edge, a shadow lay lengthwise in the gutter—Brother Sen, or the suggestion of him, stray light picking out the ragged cut of his hair. He did not wave. He looked down at the street as three guards laughed under a lantern and two children shared a pastry and the bell began to ask the hour a question it already knew.
Taro went down the stairs and into the evening. He weighed his purse. Gold: 0. Silver: 59 after purchases and pay. He weighed his next steps: boots and breath had bought him margin; bracers and cuirass had demanded humility. The house he wanted had a shutter that squeaked and gutters that tried their best. He would make both obey.
For the slaves, both sounded promising, but he would need to see more products from the buyer. These were his most recommended ones, but there are always other options to consider and Taro didn't mind training them up in the dungeon or in the field himself to help them become better in general. He nodded to himself as he stopped at a food stand with that plan in mind for the slaves to consider.
He ate on his feet—stew and a heel of bread at a cart that had learned exactly how salty a day should end. He wrapped his hands under a street lamp and tossed soft jabs into the nothing between lamp and dark, the bracers catching each touch like a friend who wanted his bones to keep their promises.
The town breathed. He breathed back.
Tomorrow, he would wake before the frost and learn the weight again. Then he would go below for coin, and back up for contracts, and down again for certainty.
A life is a ring if you put the ropes in the right places.
---
Status — Taro
Class: Junior Fistfighter
Title: Martial God's Champion (SSS)
HP: 260 base (10× END 26) → 760 effective (during combat/training; END 76)
Ki: 23
Base Stats (end of Ch.3 → post-morning training → post-afternoon hunt)
STR: 24 → 26 → 28
END: 22 → 24 → 26
AGI: 20 → 22 → 24
SPIRIT: 21 → 23 → 25
MIND: 18 → 20 → 22
LUCK: 17 → 19 → 21
Effective Physicals (in combat/training; SSS +50)
STR: 78 | END: 76 | AGI: 74
Skills & Techniques
Martial God's Champion (SSS):
Accelerated combat growth & technique evolution through application.
Blessed Growth: On meaningful training or combat adaptation, +2 to all stats.
Physical attributes (STR/END/AGI) +50 during recognized combat/training.
Ki Breathing (Novice): Controlled exhale stabilizes structure; minor resistance to compression/strangle; slow Ki regen out of combat.
Rooted Frame (Novice): Brief knockback resistance while exhaling into stance.
Guard Melt (Concept): Improved guard-opening when repeating strikes within one breath cycle.
Centerline Surge (Novice): Short-range exhale transfer; timing synergy with Snap Step; minor rib ache if overused.
Weave Engine I: AGI surge + counterpower after consecutive slips/rolls.
Snap Step (Novice): Breath-led micro-lunge; brief AGI→Power conversion (minor Ki; short cooldown).
Counter-Tempo II: Larger interrupt window; slight accuracy & guard-stagger bonus on disrupted rhythms.
Load-Bearing Breath (Novice): Reduces AGI penalty from medium armor while exhaling into movement; improves power transfer through cuirass.
Gear
Padded Leather Cuirass (short) — chest/back protection; minor mobility cost mitigated by Load-Bearing Breath.
Forearm Bracers — slat-backed; reduces forearm cut risk; improves parry confidence.
Sturdy Leather Boots — thick soles, toe caps; caltrop resistance; better ground feel.
Leather Knuckle Wraps; Hooded Cloak; Hand Salve.
Ledger
Morning haul: 26s
Afternoon haul: 31s
Day total: 57s
Purchases: Cuirass 85s; Bracers 15s; Boots 12s → 112s
Purse at dusk: 59s (after drawing down prior coin)
Goals: Townhouse deposit (~5g), then evaluate domestic porter bond (3g 80s, 4-year term, 2g buyout path) and artisan-combat bond (6g 40s, 5-year term, 3g buyout path). Interviews required; cooling day; contracts audited.