Dawn drew the wall in the same pale lines as yesterday. Taro set his forearms to the cold stone and shrank his world to breath and posture.
"In," he told himself. "Not greedy. Out—own it."
Ribs closed like a book; hips stacked; shoulders quiet. Without Sen there was no correcting finger at his shoulder, no soft insult to knock him off balance. Just the discipline of doing it right because no one was watching.
He laid out his drills like a simple meal. Breath Ladder up to six-in/eight-out. Rope Line: hip-travel over a slack cord without letting his shoulders narrate. Armor Steps on the narrow inn staircase: step—exhale—settle, step—exhale—settle. He finished with Guard Melt I on the old alley post: two taps on the same seam in one breath, the leather wanting to open for the third.
Enough. Below, the dungeon was a purse he meant to fill.
---
The mouth breathed cold; the torch made its small protest. Niya waited at the lintel in her green cloak, braid tied high, bow slung. She dipped her chin toward the stone steps curling downward in a steady spiral.
"Floor Two if we can do it without being heroic," she said.
"Let's avoid heroics and focus on survival," Taro said.
They moved like they'd practiced all their lives: Niya reading air, Taro reading angles. F1 gave up wolves to Snap Step → Surge and body hooks; they folded without needing to be chased. At the iron-stained knee of the spiral, the air changed—a wet, animal musk underlaid with something sharp and chemical.
"Alchemist," Niya breathed.
"Wargs," Taro answered.
They stepped onto F2.
The corridor widened into a low-roofed den, pillars like roots holding up the world. Chalk triangles scratched near the floor told Taro Irontooth's little hands had been here first. A string of vials glinted on a work slab: fire phials, stoppered tight; a mortar crusted red-brown; a rack of cheap wire snares. In the shadow of a pillar, a Goblin Alchemist watched still as a held breath, one hand hovering over a cord that disappeared into a mess of brush.
"Tripline," Niya mouthed.
Taro let his eyes unfocus and caught the cord by absence: a thin cut in dust where it shouldn't. He placed his front foot on a micro-angle, breath already arriving, and slid the sole under and past without tension touching cord.
> Technique Unlocked — Rope-Cut Step (Concept):
Micro-angle steps that pass live lines safely; minor bonus to trap lane traversal when exhaling into the move.
The Alchemist twitched at the wrong beat—half a second early, eyes stuck on the tripline instead of the human refusing to trip. Taro took the second beat. Counter-Tempo put him inside a heart's width. He clipped the wrist light to jostle the phial, then Surged short and mean into the jaw hinge. Sleep took science by the scruff.
"Den mother," Niya whispered, eyes cut toward a hollow beneath the far ledge.
The Warg Matron slid into view, ruinously big through the shoulders, a scar draped over one eye like a bad memory. She didn't rush. She side-stepped, trying to own the center, forcing Taro toward a pillar.
"Honest," Taro murmured, grateful. He let his breath set the measure, not her pacing. Left slip on the inhale, Weave right on the exhale; harvest the angle with a shallow hip hinge; Guard Melt left hand flick-flick on the same point along her jaw, a tiny insistence that her guard belonged to him; Snap Step arrived because the breath already had, then Surge travelled out of ribs soft-closing into knuckles.
Not loud. Honest.
She reared, insulted. He took the half-beat back with a body hook and a head hook—one to ask the lungs to sit down, one to ask the mind to follow. The Matron lay down like something in her had remembered how to be tired.
Niya's arrow kissed the densest shadow when a sapper tried to be a rumor. Quiet again.
They worked like workers. Ears. Pelts, fast and clean. Niya wrapped the Matron's hide like a banner and smirked—she knew the market. Taro swept the Alchemist's bench with disciplined hands: phials, stoppered tight; a recipe scrap with notations even he could follow; a token stamped with a crooked retort—the kind of thing a guild clerk liked to thump on a desk.
"Enough," Niya said. "Before success makes us stupid."
They took the spiral up. When the F1 wolves howled, Taro surprised himself by grinning. He left them something to tell their less clever cousins and walked into daylight with a burden he meant to turn into future.
---
Kelda and her quill made coin appear in tidy rows.
"Matron pelt," she said, thumping the bundle with professional affection. "One gold, forty silver. First-confirm on this den—seventy silver." She held up the crooked retort token. "Alchemist token—forty silver. Phials and bench salvage to apothecary—one gold, ten silver. Recipe scrap with stamps to the scriptorium—fifty silver. Common haul—call it forty-five silver. Documentation stipend for Niya's hazards map—fifteen silver."
Her quill paused. "Totals… four gold, seventy silver."
She slid the purse across. It had weight like a decision.
"Thank you," Taro said. He looked at Niya. "For seeing and not saying too much."
"Good work speaks loudly enough," she said, already erasing him from her posture. "Be back before you get complicated."
---
The bond house's air was clean in the expensive way. Ashem Vell had already learned to smile exactly as much as Taro could stand. He didn't push. He didn't have to.
"Trixie," Taro said, before the tea had thought about being poured.
They brought her to the lattice. Linen simple. Hair neat. Floppy lab ears alert without begging. Tail a small metronome that made itself stop when propriety remembered it was in the room.
"Are you here to buy me?" she asked, and did not flinch when she asked it.
"Yes," Taro said. "With two amendments."
He counted coin in ordered stacks that made the clerk nod along.
"Price," Ashem recited, almost ceremonially, "three gold, eighty silver."
Taro laid the stacks down. "Manumission deposit—one gold— held by the magistrate's office. Buyout path set at three gold. File both with the contract."
Ashem's smile warmed by a degree he probably practiced in a mirror. "Filed, stamped, and sung if it keeps you happy, Master Taro."
The clerk read back the consent clauses Taro had already memorized: housekeeping, porter duties, camp triage; companion etiquette sitting in its own neat box—adults only, consent-first, healer access ensured; right to call the house mother or city if any clause was bent. Trixie's ears tipped up one notch when the clerk reached the line that put the choice in her mouth each night.
Taro signed where the law told him to sign. Ashem signed where the law made him. Trixie pressed her thumb to the collar slate; it flashed, verifying adult status and terms. The old plate clicked open and a clean one closed with a sound like a door that belonged on its hinges.
"Master," she said, trying the word. It sounded like a tool in her mouth—useful, not ornamental.
"I'm Taro," he said. "Rule one: we do everything by the book. Rule two: you look me in the eye when something is wrong. Rule three: in the dungeon you follow the line and my breath."
Her smile lived mostly in her eyes. "Rule four," she said, bold enough to see if the water was warm. "You eat when I put a bowl in your hands."
"I'll try to be brave," he said with a smile on his face. Her face smiled gently back enjoying the interplay.
They paid the filing fee—five silver because the city liked to pay for its ledgers—then left together into a day that finally felt like a plan he could own.
---
The townhouse watched him from its corner like a stray dog deciding whether to be adopted. The landlord was a woman with thin hands who liked rent on time and roofs that didn't leak.
"Deposit to hold?" she asked, in the tone that assumed no.
"One gold," Taro said, laying the coin down so it didn't insult her desk. "Ten days. I'll bring the balance when I'm back from Irontooth."
She pinched the coin, let it spin, caught it on her palm, and made a ledger entry with a name that now existed in town ink. "Key when you bring the rest," she said. "The shutter sticks. The gutter sulks. The floor is honest."
"Honest is good," he said.
Trixie's tail did the small metronome again. She caught it with discipline and tucked it into stillness.
Taro gave her a small knowing smile making her blush a bit for being caught. But she also gave him a small smile in return.
---
Gear was a meal you ate in courses if you meant to live long. Taro kept it sensible.
"Reinforced mitts," the smith said, holding up a pair with hidden stitch, heavy wrist wrap, and leather dense enough to make mistakes hurt less. "Twenty silver."
Taro flexed them. They felt like honesty and mercy around the wrists.
"And for her," Taro said, tipping his head at Trixie. "Porter kit—pads for shoulders and hips, hook points, quick-release buckles."
"Eighteen silver," the leatherer said. He fitted the harness like a priest fitting ceremonial robes. Trixie wore it like she intended to make it proud.
They left thirty-eight silver lighter and substantially better prepared.
"Tomorrow," Trixie said, checking strap tensions with professional fingers, "I will bring a list. Oil, thread, new socks, dried meat, loaner pot for the hearth."
"You like lists," Taro observed.
"They turn days into stairs," she said, not embarrassed.
---
They proved themselves before sunset because you didn't bring someone underground for the first time when daylight had already decided to leave. F1 was enough; F1 would tell the truth.
"Rear shoulder," Taro said. "Hands free. If I say line foul, you stop where you are."
"Understood," Trixie said, breath even. "I will call cadence if you want it."
"Call."
"In—two—three—four; out—two—three—four—five—six."
His steps obeyed without noticing they'd been told to. Wolves became work: Snap Step → Surge when the breath invited; hooks for when it didn't. Trixie's call slid into the part of his head that used to hold crowd noise; it became rhythm and then infrastructure. At a narrow bend a caltrop hiding in dust bit his boot and found toe cap instead of blood. A pleased huff escaped him before he remembered to be dignified.
They turned a corner and found a wolf he'd left angry that morning. It made an honest mistake and he punished it with honest economy. Trixie did not make a sound except one soft count, like a clerk keeping a ledger in a language only she wrote in.
At the exit he sat and checked his laces. She knelt and said, "Clear." He didn't have to look; the way she said it told him she'd looked twice.
> Combat Adaptation Registered.
Martial God's Champion — Blessed Growth: +2 to all stats.
Technique Upgrade: Rope-Cut Step (Concept → Novice) — improved micro-angle choices through live lines; reduced caltrop risk when exhaling into the step.
Team Passive: Call-and-Breath I — minor Ki steadiness when a trained porter calls cadence.
The warmth settled quiet, the way a house settles when the last board finds its place.
They turned in a modest haul—twenty-six silver for pelts and ears—and bought dinner that tasted like choosing the right problems to have.
When they reached the inn, Trixie paused, tail sweeping once.
"My contract says I may keep you company when invited," she said, recital turned human. "I am comfortable to share a bath and a bed, or to pour tea and read you a list until you sleep. If you need… more… I am trained, and I prefer gentle. I also reserve the right to be too tired to do a thing well, and to say so. That is all written. I wanted to say it myself."
"Thank you for saying it," Taro said. He was suddenly aware of how heavy the day had been and how good the bed might be. "Tonight, tea and lists. Tomorrow I will be grateful for the rest."
She smiled in relief that wasn't relief at all but agreement. "Then I will brew and not scald it."
He laughed, surprised at himself again. The town bell counted an hour that meant he had one day to be steady before the muster.
He lay down and watched the ceiling accept the weight of a life being built a piece at a time. Trixie wrote a list of things they still needed. Including a sword and buckler for herself to use in case of emergency with her beast warrior class. Taro grinned at her eagerness as her tail swayed quietly to its own beat as she wrote their needs and showed her skills.
He let sleep claim him as she slipped into bed as well, their single bed being just big enough to share as he slept in his jeans minus a shirt and she slept in her linen shirt and shorts. Her hand claimed his bare chest, feeling his breath and power beneath the muscle as he enjoyed her warmth by his side.
He had forgotten what it felt like to fall asleep next to a woman. Too many paid escorts in his previous life had dulled the memories of a good relationship he had at one point. But now? He could enjoy it again with a fresh body, fresh life, and a fresh person who can decide if she wants to stay or go once she is free of her debt.
---
Status — Taro
Class: Junior Fistfighter
Title: Martial God's Champion (SSS)
HP: 300 base (10× END 30) → 800 effective (during combat/training; END 80)
Ki: 25
Base Stats (end of Ch.5 → post-day adaptation)
STR: 30 → 32
END: 28 → 30
AGI: 26 → 28
SPIRIT: 27 → 29
MIND: 24 → 26
LUCK: 23 → 25
Effective Physicals (in combat/training; SSS +50)
STR: 82 | END: 80 | AGI: 78
Skills & Techniques
Martial God's Champion (SSS): accelerated growth; Blessed Growth (+2 all on meaningful training/adaptation); +50 to STR/END/AGI in combat/training.
Ki Breathing (Novice): controlled exhale; compression resistance; slow out-of-combat Ki regen.
Rooted Frame (Novice): brief knockback resistance while exhaling into stance.
Guard Melt I: stronger guard-opening when repeating seam strikes within one breath.
Centerline Surge (Novice): short-range exhale transfer; 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.
Counter-Tempo II: larger interrupt window; slight accuracy & guard-stagger bonus on disrupted rhythms.
Load-Bearing Breath I: better AGI retention and power transfer in cuirass on exhale.
Rope-Cut Step (Novice): pass trap lines on micro-angles; reduced caltrop risk when exhaling into the move.
Team Passive — Call-and-Breath I (with Trixie): minor Ki steadiness while partner calls cadence.
Gear
Padded Leather Cuirass (short)
Forearm Bracers
Sturdy Leather Boots
Reinforced Mitts (wrist support; hidden stitch)
Porter Harness (Trixie) — pads, quick-release, hook points
Leather Knuckle Wraps; Hooded Cloak; Hand Salve
Ledger
Starting purse (dawn): 2g 5s
Morning F2 haul (guild/apothecary/scriptorium): 4g 70s
Purchase — Trixie: 3g 80s
Manumission deposit (magistrate): 1g (buyout path: 3g)
House hold deposit (10 days): 1g
Gear: Mitts 20s, Porter kit 18s; Filing fee 5s
Evening turn-in (F1): 26s
Purse at dusk: ~52s