Osric woke to stillness.
Not the fragile calm that followed exhaustion, but something deeper—heavy, quiet, unhurried. The kind that made movement feel optional rather than demanded. Pale light filtered through the cracks in his wooden walls, settling across the floor in thin lines that hadn't yet reached his blanket.
His body reminded him of itself the moment he breathed in.
Ribs stiff, but not sharp.
Leg sore, but stable.
Scratches tight beneath drying ointment.
Pain was still there—but it no longer dominated.
Osric lay still for a long moment, staring at the cracked ceiling, listening to the faint sounds of Lowbrook waking beyond the walls. For once, there was no pressure to move. No sense that staying still would cost him something.
That alone felt strange.
'I'm not ready yet,' he thought.
And for the first time, he didn't argue with himself.
He rolled onto his side carefully, testing the motion. His body answered honestly—no sudden spikes, no warnings disguised as endurance. Just fatigue and healing doing their slow work.
Five days.
That was what it would take. He knew it now, with the same certainty he'd once felt when stepping into a fight he shouldn't have taken. Five days of real rest. No training. No missions. No forcing progress out of a body that had already given more than it should have.
Osric pushed himself upright and sat there, breathing evenly.
This wasn't weakness.
This was discipline.
He would eat properly. Clean his wounds. Sleep when his body asked for it. Let pain fade instead of layering itself deeper. If he wanted to know what his strength truly felt like—what his stats actually meant—then this was the cost.
And he was willing to pay it.
-
Across the city, behind the Adventurers' Guild desk, Franklin did not rest.
The report sat open before him, parchment weighed down at the corners. He read it once more—not because he needed to, but because he wanted to be certain nothing had been missed. The watchtower. The fresh kill. The armed hobgoblin. Its behavior.
D-rank.
Active.
Close enough to matter.
Franklin exhaled slowly and set the parchment aside.
This was no longer something the guild could handle quietly.
By midday, a sealed copy was on its way to Greydell Castle.
The Baron would be informed.
And once that happened, the forest would not stay quiet for long.
—
Day Two
Osric woke with less pain.
It wasn't gone—not yet—but it no longer greeted him like an enemy. The stiffness in his ribs had softened into a dull soreness, and his leg no longer felt like it might betray him the moment he put weight on it. He moved carefully through the morning, stretching only as far as his body allowed, letting warmth replace tension rather than forcing it.
He ate properly.
Bread. Stew. Fruit when he could afford it.
The difference was immediate—not dramatic, but steady. His stamina recovered faster between small movements. His breathing evened out more quickly. Pain Resistance didn't erase discomfort, but it dulled the edge enough that pain stopped dictating his decisions.
He rested the rest of the day.
Not out of weakness—but discipline.
-
Franklin received the reply just before evening.
The letter bore the Baron's seal and exactly the tone he'd expected.
We trust in the capabilities of the Adventurers' Guild and see no reason for Greydell soldiers to intervene at this time.
Franklin read it once.
Then again.
He folded the letter carefully and set it aside, jaw tightening.
"Of course you don't," he muttered.
The soldiers would stay out of it. The risk—and the cost—would belong to the guild.
—
Day Three
Osric's sleep deepened.
For the first time in weeks, he woke without tension locked into his shoulders. His muscles still ached, but the ache felt… productive. Like something knitting itself back together instead of tearing further apart.
He tested his grip strength with a simple exercise—slow, controlled movements. The sword felt lighter than it had before. Not because it weighed less, but because his body accepted it more naturally now.
Combat Instinct whispered less urgently.
Not because danger was near—but because there wasn't any.
Meanwhile, Franklin made a decision he didn't like.
He called in one of the two D-rank parties stationed in Ashbrook—five veterans who had worked together long enough to survive on instinct alone. He laid out the report, the location, the expected threat.
"Hobgoblin," he said plainly. "Possibly armed. Possibly intelligent. And no soldier support."
They didn't hesitate.
They never did.
By midday, they were gone.
—
Day Four
Osric noticed it while walking.
The way his balance corrected itself without thought. The way his breathing stayed even even when he climbed stairs. Heightened Senses didn't scream for attention—but the world felt sharper at the edges. Sounds separated more cleanly. Movement stood out faster.
He didn't train.
He let the recovery settle.
-
That evening, the D-rank party returned.
Three of them.
Two were missing.
Their report was precise. Professional. Grim.
The hobgoblin had been stronger than expected. Smarter. It had not been alone.
Eight goblins had ambushed them mid-fight.
They had killed every goblin. They had severed the hobgoblin's arm. They had driven it off—but not before losing two of their own in the chaos.
Franklin listened without interruption.
He already knew something was wrong.
Osric's report had mentioned one or two subordinates at most. Goblins, yes—but not a group. Not organized. Not in that part of the forest.
That territory belonged to the soldiers.
Franklin dismissed the survivors with compensation and silence.
Then he shut his office door and stayed there long after the guild emptied.
—
Day Five
Osric woke without pain.
Not dulled pain.
Not manageable pain.
None.
He sat up slowly, testing himself—and smiled faintly when nothing protested. His leg felt solid. His ribs moved freely with breath. Even the lingering soreness had faded into nothing more than memory.
He dressed, ate, and stepped outside.
Then he trained.
Carefully at first. Then fully.
His sword cut the air cleanly, his movements controlled and balanced. He could feel his stamina at its peak now—not just higher, but stable. Every motion flowed into the next without hesitation. For the first time, he felt what his current stats truly meant when his body wasn't holding him back.
This was his baseline now.
And it was stronger than he'd expected.
-
At the same time, Franklin sat in his office at the back of the guild, fists clenched against his desk.
Two dead adventurers.
No soldier involvement.
And goblins where they shouldn't have been.
He sent trusted men out quietly—not to hunt monsters, but to observe the forest sectors assigned to Greydell's soldiers. To see what patrols were missing. What routes were neglected. What threats were being ignored.
Franklin's anger was cold.
Measured.
Someone had failed their duty.
And the guild had paid the price.