He stepped inside the house. The old wood beneath his boots creaked softly — a sound he'd grown too used to. He let out a slow sigh, his muscles still sore from the day, from the alley, from everything.
Across the room, Myra lay on her side, already asleep. Her red hair spilled over the pillow like scattered flame. Peaceful. Untouched by the weight he carried.
Arthur smiled. A small, tired smile — but real.
"This will change everything," he thought.
For the first time in a long while, he felt a spark of control. Something more than survival. A way forward. A system that listened. A power he could grow.
He lay back on the stiff mattress, hands behind his head, eyes fixed on the ceiling.
'How far can I push this? What else can it do? Can I level again? Soon?'
But his thoughts blurred. The exhaustion finally caught up.
Sleep came quickly.
....
Morning broke like it always did — grey light seeping through the cracked shutters, the distant noise of Fallowmere already stirring.
Arthur rose, washed with cold water from the barrel, and tied on his boots. He grabbed his worn tools and turned to Myra, still preparing breakfast in the corner.
"I'll be back early," he said.
She nodded without looking. "Don't let the bricks win today."
He gave a soft grunt and stepped out.
His job was the same as always — haul bricks, stack them, fit wood into crooked walls, shape it to match barely held-together plans.
The life of a labourer.
But today was different.
The bricks felt lighter in his hands. His grip steadier. His balance surer.
When he swung the hatchet against the wood, it was a bit cleaner. When he carved the beams, they shaped faster.
No one noticed. No one praised it.
But he did.
By noon, his work was done. Tasks that should have dragged till dusk were finished before the sun reached its peak.
His supervisor grunted in approval, waved him off early.
Arthur didn't argue. He slung his tools over his shoulder and walked away — not in a hurry, but not tired either.
Something had changed.
And this was only the beginning.
He was thinking that he could meet with Myra and walk home together. The thought of her smile after another long day, maybe sharing a loaf of bread on the way back.
The streets leading to the Mayor's mansion were still wet from last night's rain, but crowded as always. A merchant's cart rolled past, creaking under the weight of half-rotted vegetables.
Beggars huddled near a broken fountain, and two guards leaned against a wall nearby — bored, not watching anything in particular.
Ahead, near the baker's stand, a small group of people had gathered. Not panicked — just close. Talking low. Eyes darting like nervous birds.
Arthur slowed as he passed them, pretending to look at a stall of bruised apples.
"They say the northern lords are pushing down again," an old man whispered. "Didn't they just sign another truce?"
"Truce doesn't mean nothing when the King can't even keep his own court in line," said a heavyset woman with a flour-stained apron.
"New Haldris is rotting," muttered a third — a younger man with a half-bandaged arm.
"We've got bandits on our own roads, taxes double what they were last year, and the royal guard's too busy licking the council's boots."
"The King's not the problem," someone else chimed in. "It's his brothers. And the damn merchant guilds."
Arthur kept walking, but his ears stayed open.
New Haldris, he thought. A kingdom with too many heads and no spine.
It had once been strong — or so his father used to say. Trade routes stretching to the capital, military might that made the Westerners think twice. But now? The king ruled from a chair surrounded by thieves in silk.
And Fallowmere, way out here on the eastern fringe, had become the dump for all that rot.
Up ahead, the Mayor's mansion loomed — bloated, well-lit, and surrounded by fences that didn't look ornamental anymore.
Arthur straightened his shoulders.
If Myra wasn't waiting outside, she'd still be inside tending the garden.
Either way, she was the only good thing left in a town that felt like it was holding its breath before a scream.
Arthur spotted Myra just outside the mayor's garden wall, wiping her hands on her skirt, her hair tied back in a loose braid. She smiled when she saw him.
"You're early," she said, falling into step beside him.
"Finished quick today," he muttered. "Guess the wood behaved."
She snorted. "Must've been scared of you."
He didn't laugh. But he liked the sound of her voice. Together, they cut through the narrow alley near the old tannery — the shortcut they always took.
That's when he felt it.
Off. Quiet. Watched.
Then came the voice.
"There he is. Told you the rat would crawl through here again."
Six of them stepped out from the shadows.
Rekk, Vos, Maren — and three others. Bigger. Sharper. Worse.
Arthur stepped in front of Myra before she could speak.
Vos flashed a grin. "Didn't learn last time, did you?"
"We're not carrying anything," Arthur said quickly. "Just let us pass."
"Oh, but you are," said the tall one with the snake tattoo on his jaw. "That girl's worth more than a coin."
Arthur tensed. Myra stiffened behind him.
"Give us what you've got," Maren hissed. "Or we take what we want."
Arthur reached for his pocket — nothing. He didn't have anything left.
He looked at Myra.
Then came the blade.
A sudden move. A flash of steel.
Arthur pushed her aside and felt a sharp burn tear across his side.
He grunted, stumbled, and fell to one knee.
Myra screamed.
[Hostile Enemy Detected]
[Activating Emergency Protocol]
Suddenly, the pain dulled. His heart thudded, but steadier. His hands stopped shaking.
His body felt heavier — not slower, but solid.
His mind cleared.
And then, he moved.
The thug reaching for Myra didn't see Arthur's hand until it crushed his wrist.
The snap was loud. The scream louder.
Arthur rose — blood still dripping from his side — and swung his fist into another man's face. Bone cracked. The man dropped.
He grabbed a broken board from the ground and slammed it into Vos's leg. The thug crumpled.
"He's—he's not normal!" one of the others yelled.
The rest backed off.
Arthur stood, chest rising and falling, the wound leaking but forgotten. His vision blurred slightly, but he didn't fall.
They ran.
Myra rushed to him, hands trembling as she held him up. "Arthur—you're bleeding—"
"I'm fine," he muttered, even though he wasn't.
She tried to press a cloth to the wound, but he was smiling. Just faintly.
"They didn't take anything," he whispered. "Not this time."
They didn't say much on the way back.
Myra stayed close, her hand gently wrapped around Arthur's wrist like she was afraid he might fall over. He limped slightly, one hand pressed against the cut on his side, though the bleeding had slowed.
The streets were dim. Fog hung low. No one looked at them. No one ever did.
When they reached the tavern-turned-home, Arthur pulled the door shut behind them with a shaky breath. The wooden latch thudded into place.
Inside, the warmth of the fire made everything feel smaller. Quieter.
Myra poured water into a bowl and knelt beside him on the bench, tearing cloth to clean the blood.
"You didn't need to do that," she said softly.
"I wasn't going to let them take anything else," Arthur muttered. His voice wasn't angry — just firm.
She didn't speak right away. She dabbed the cloth, silent, focused.
"That wasn't normal," she finally said. "The way you moved. The way they ran."
Arthur didn't answer. He stared at the wall. He didn't know how to explain what had happened — or even if he should.
After a long pause, Myra sighed. "Just… don't go picking more fights, alright? I don't care if you're stronger. I just want you alive."
He gave her a faint smile. "Same."
Same….