The rain came honest and steady, tapping the straightened gutter like a drummer keeping time. The main room was clear—bag under the new ceiling hook, crates pushed back, hearth quiet. They made the house into a gym because the town had decided to be a cloud.
"Breath first," Taro said.
"Then coin," Trixie answered, the words a grin between them.
Morning: Training Date (clarity drills)
They warmed up where the stair met the wall.
Armor Steps: step up on the exhale—out, own it—then stand the bones tall so the weight settles down through heel and hip. Ten clean reps, no wobble, no pride.
On the bag, Taro worked a tidy ladder:
Snap Step I (a small, quick slide step—think half a shoe-length—so he's there before his foot even feels like it arrived),
then a jab (fast straight), cross (heavy straight), hook (short, arcing punch from the side), keeping the combo going and steady to work all joints and muscles in each movement.
The next practice was Guard Melt: tap-tap the exact same spot during one breath—not hard, just persuasive—until a guard opens a finger-width, finish with Surge (his short-range, breath-powered "one-inch" shot that rides rib compression into the fist).
He capped Surges at three; the ribs remembered lessons. Making the bag swing, shudder, and remember the punishment it endures as he practices, but its tougher beast hide allowed for more punishment than usual, giving Taro a bigger width of damage to adjust and deal out. His body appreciated it, and his fists adapted to it.
Trixie mirrored across the room:
Buckler parry ladder: high → middle → low; catch, turn the force, set her edge for the answer.
Riposte (her new favorite): the instant a parry lands true, a quick, straight stab that goes where the opening is—no windup, no drama.
Shield Shoulder: a little shoulder bump behind the buckler, shifting an opponent one brick to the side—just enough to steal their balance.
Between sets, they walked a tape square: footwork boxes—front, front-right, right, back-right—so "slip" meant tilt your head off the line and "weave" meant dip the knees and pass under the swing, Taro broke down the movements, and helped Trixie remember them. To Trixie the jargon began to make more sense with each movement explained to her.
He tightened her gorget by a thumb—no rub when she turned. She smoothed his face-wrap over cheek and temple with careful fingers, the touch resting a heartbeat longer than adjustments require.
Recognized Training (home).
Martial God's Champion — Blessed Growth: +2 to all stats.
Progress: Guard Melt I → 94%, Snap Step I (timing +), Call-and-Breath I → 92%.
Breakfast & Recovery
Trixie cooked for inside weather: skillet hash of onions and root veg, a handful of dried meat crisped first so the fat had something to say. Taro set mugs, oiled mitt seams, checked the buckler strap for fray.
"Boring victories are my favorite kind," he said, stealing a taste from over her shoulder as the food was being served, she giggled and playfully slapped his chest.
"Only if they end with good tea," she said, bumping his hip with her own in mock offense.
They ate under the window while the storm shouldered the walls kindly.
"Hands?" she asked.
"Feet," he countered, smiling.
They traded care.
He warmed a cloth, wiped away road dust and the last of yesterday, then pressed his thumbs along her arches—slow lines heel to ball—finding the tight cords that carry camp, town, dungeon, everything. He rolled the balls of her feet with careful circles, traced each tendon to where it tucked into the toes, then eased the pads one by one. Breath slowed.
"I feel seen," she said quietly, tail betraying her twice before discipline caught it. "We walk everywhere. It matters when someone understands that."
"I do," he said, and he meant it. He kissed each toe—light, grateful—then the tops and soles. Not showy. Just yes.
Her cheeks warmed; she set her chin on her wrist and watched his hands with a gaze that belonged to something in the future.
Trixie took his knuckles like precious tools. Thumbs traced the ropey flexors inside the forearm, then the stringier extensors on top. She pressed little circles into the "valleys" on his palm, rolled each finger, drew slow lines through the wrist where tape and wraps like to argue. When she found a knot, she asked for his breath and pressed on the exhale. It gave way like a door that discovered it wanted to be polite.
"Saving your knuckles for later," she murmured. While admiring the toned muscles on his arms and the rough but protective layers of skin over his knuckles.
"They like being saved," he said, half-laughing as a tendon sighed back into place.
The room felt homey, safe, and owned by them: warm food, warm hands, soft weather. The kind of ordinary a life is built on.
By midday the storm had lessened and they were going over the ledger.
They ran the circuit with numbers in mind.
Harrow & Son Leather (quotes):
Taro — reinforced leather (cuir bouilli) torso set: rib & spine channels, short fauld, thigh guards, and shin guards; integrates with current pauldrons/face guard — 2g 40s.Add-ons: steel-backed elbow caps 24s, strap kit 12s, summer liner 14s → ~2g 90s.
Trixie — reinforced leather (porter-cut): lighter chest with hip skirt, thigh tabs, gorget pad — 1g 30s.
Merrit Forge (quotes):
Trixie — buckler (steel dish, rolled rim, leather grip): 38s.
Trixie — arming sword (tempered, better balance/fuller; scabbard refit): 1g 10s + 6s.
Totals:Trixie package ≈ 2g 84s; Taro package ≈ 2g 90s → ~5g 74s.
"Your shield and leather first if the door gets ugly," Taro said.
"And your ribs after, especially to keep our fighting potential high" she countered. He didn't argue.
In the afternoon the weather had softened and allowed them out to the dungeon to continue earning their planned funds.
The dungeon smelled like iron and old water. Wet stone made speed expensive; they paid with patience.
They took arch → well elbow → den flank, the route that fits their boots like a habit.
First encounter: wolves. One launched high for Taro's shoulder; he tilted his head off the line (a slip), took a small Snap Step inside, and short right hand to the jaw hinge—no windup—put it down. Another tried the legs; he dipped his knees under the bite path (a weave) and answered with a hook to the ribs (short arc, bodyweight), then a calm finish.
The next floor greeted them with a few big foes, a trio of dire wolves. They bullied the middle like big dogs do. Taro didn't back up; he cut an angle with a half-step and ran a simple ladder—body shot, head shot, short right—until the first targets legs and belly chose the floor. Trixie had his flank; a high bite met buckler and her quick riposte turned that bite into regret. Making the second wolf chip fangs as her sword came up and in with her sword through the bottom of the jaw and up into the head. The third wolf tried to retreat but Taro had swiveled with his improved footwork to get behind it and take it out with a hook to the jaw followed by a corkscrew upper cut that smashed into its ribs and stopped its heart.
Deep inside the alchemist nest. Two bench-rats, one spotter. Counter-Tempo III (hit between their rhythm) stole the initial beat to the start of the combat; short cross put the pitcher to sleep; the spotter caught Trixies argument in the form of a buckler smash to the jaw and temple. Trixie knotted eight phials to her harness—no rattle when she walked. Good knots are a kind of music.
Combat Adaptation Registered.
Martial God's Champion — Blessed Growth: +2 to all stats.
Riposte → I (timing cleaner), Call-and-Breath I → 96%.
They left light-footed, soggy-booted, and satisfied.
Turn-in: Dire ×3 → 36s; Wolves ×14 → 42s; Ears/Fangs → 16s; Good quality Phials ×8 → 32s; Alchemist tokens ×3 → 120s. Kelda slid a tidy purse. "One gold, forty-six silver. Try not to spend it until you've thought about it."
"Thinking is our brand," Trixie said, and Kelda almost smiled, which is how Kelda says well done.
Evening came around with a quiet whisper to their ears as the city began to settle down.
Oil on straps. Wax on buckler edge. Wrap liners drying by warm stone. They reviewed Niya's hand-signs until fingers remembered without eyes. He tested her new parry angle with soft taps; she adjusted his wrap with exact thumbs.
They didn't need speeches. The rain did all the talking worth hearing.
At the crate-table, they chalked tidy math.
Ledger
Start (Ch.13): 8g 33s
Afternoon haul: +1g 46s → ~9g 79s
Spends: none today (just time and tea)
Targets
House balance:4g (1g already deposited; 4g remaining)
Upgrades/party kitty:6g (quotes total ~5g 74s)
"Two more steady days and we choose the better leather," Taro said.
"Boring victories, and solid foundations." Trixie agreed, tail tap betraying her, then settling.
In the night they finally settled fully, no further duties, just a ritual they have made by now to calm down and enjoy themselves.
The storm softened to a hush. He sat; she set her foot in his palms. The oil smelled faintly of pine and the kind of sweetness that stays on cloth.
He worked slow: arches first—long strokes from heel to ball—then the thick skin at the ball and heel where a life leaves proof. He bent each toe with careful little circles, eased the tendons along the top, and pressed a thumb into the tender line where arch meets heel. Her breath answered without words. He kissed each toe again—gentle, grateful—then the tops and soles.
"It matters to me that it matters to you," he said. "All the way down to here."
Her eyes turned bright the way a hearth turns evening into home. "And your hands," she said, taking them. Thumbs along his forearms, small circles in the palm valleys, slow lines through the wrist where wraps bite—she coaxed the day out of him. When a tendon clicked back home, they both smiled like conspirators in a good crime. She went up to his shoulders, easing them and kneading them as one does to stiff dough, causing them to melt into proper looseness needed for the nights rest.
"Tomorrow?" she asked, cheek on his forearm.
"Together," he said.
They banked the lamp. The training bag swung once and decided to be still. Outside, the gutter kept its promise. Inside the bed, Trixie was cuddled as a little spoon, a quick kiss to each others lips, a promise they made and keep renewing passed. Her feet against his shins in sleep, her toes gripped and enjoying his body. His hand wrapped around her waist, holding her close, to show his care, and wanting to keep her warmth to himself through the night.
Status — Taro
Class: Monk I
Title: Martial God's Champion (SSS)
HP: 780 base (10× END 78) → 1280 effective (END 128 during combat/training)
Ki: 71
Base Stats (Ch.13 → after Ch.14)
STR: 76 → 80
END: 74 → 78
AGI: 72 → 76
SPIRIT: 53 → 57
MIND: 50 → 54
LUCK: 49 → 53
Ki: 67 → 71
Effective Physicals (SSS +50 active)STR 130 | END 128 | AGI 126
New/Updated
Blessed Growth: +2 all (home drills) +2 all (wet-stone loop)
Guard Melt I: refinement ↑ (94%) — two taps on one breath to open a guard
Snap Step I: timing ↑ — small slide-step to arrive early
Call-and-Breath I: progress → 96%
Riposte (Trixie):Novice → I — cleaner thrust right after a true parry
TeamCall-and-Breath I, Cover Call I, Heartbeat Sync I (with Trixie)
Recon Quotes (no spend today)
Taro (reinforced torso set + add-ons): ~2g 90s
Trixie (reinforced porter-cut + steel buckler + tempered arming sword): ~2g 84s
Total target:~5g 74s (within 5–6g plan)
Ledger
Purse end: ~9g 79s
Goals: House 4g remaining; Upgrades/party 6g pool
At the guild board, fresh chalk bled in the damp: F3 New threat found, calling brae warriors to the hunt. Trixie touched the buckler rim to his pauldron. "Breath before doors."He smiled under the wrap. "And boring victories." They go to the counter to get details and find a new hobgoblin is sighted and in need of culling on the floor. The Pugilist Hobgoblin.