The days blurred into weeks, and before I knew it, a month had passed. Each day began before dawn, Rorik's heavy knock on the door echoing through the house—or more often, me already up and ready, bracing for the grind.
Work on the farm had become second nature. I fed the animals, repaired fences, hauled sacks of grain, and plowed fields from sunup to sundown. My hands, once soft and unfamiliar with labor, had grown calloused. My body, initially wracked with soreness from the relentless schedule, was now stronger, more durable.
At night, the barn became my proving ground. Rorik drilled me endlessly, pushing me past my limits. My strikes were too slow? Do them again. My stance was too loose? Start over. Every correction, every harsh word, was an opportunity to grow stronger.
"You're improving," Rorik admitted one night after a particularly grueling session. "But don't think for a second that you're anywhere close to ready."
I nodded, wiping the sweat from my face. "I'm not stopping."
He smirked. "Good. Because I'm not letting you."
---
Every seven days, market day broke the routine. The cart rattled along the road to Akerholt, laden with goods: sacks of grain, jars of honey, and bundles of dried herbs. The village was alive with activity, its streets filled with merchants hawking their wares, villagers bartering for supplies, and children weaving between the crowds.
It was on these days that I fought.
The town hall became my battlefield, the ring a place where I tested myself against the local boys. Most of them lacked proper training, their movements wild and undisciplined. For someone with my experience—even in this smaller, younger body—it was often a matter of dissecting their weaknesses.
---
One fight was against a lanky boy with a long reach. He opened aggressively, peppering me with jabs that forced me to circle out of range.
I waited, studying his rhythm, and when he overextended, I stepped inside and countered with a body shot to his ribs. The blow landed clean, and he stumbled back, his guard dropping slightly.
I feinted high, drawing his attention, then drove a teep kick into his stomach. The impact sent him sprawling into the dirt. Before he could recover, I mounted him, pinning him beneath me.
He thrashed and bucked, trying to throw me off, but I kept my balance, my knees digging into his sides. When he extended his arms in desperation, I transitioned smoothly into an armbar, locking in the submission.
"Stop!" he yelled, slapping the ground.
I released him immediately, rolling to my feet as the crowd erupted in cheers.
---
Not every fight was easy.
One market day, I faced a stocky boy with the build of a wrestler. His stance was low, his movements deliberate, and he exuded a quiet confidence that put me on edge.
He feinted a jab before driving into me, his shoulder slamming into my midsection with the force of a battering ram. The world spun as I hit the dirt, his weight pinning me down.
I reacted instinctively, snapping my legs around his waist and closing my guard. My arms shot up, securing overhooks on his biceps to prevent him from striking.
The crowd roared, their voices a chaotic mix of cheers and jeers.
He tried to muscle his way out of my grip, but I didn't let go. Instead, I shifted my legs, slipping my feet into butterfly hooks beneath his thighs. With a powerful lift, I elevated his hips and flipped him over, reversing our positions.
The crowd gasped as I scrambled into side control, locking him down.
He squirmed, trying to free himself, but I slid my arm under his neck, trapping one of his arms against his head. Tightening my grip, I locked in a head-and-arm choke.
He thrashed, his face turning red as I applied pressure.
"Tap!" someone from the crowd yelled, but I didn't let up until I felt his hand slap the ground.
I released him immediately, rolling away as he sucked in desperate breaths.
The crowd erupted again, some cheering, others groaning as coins exchanged hands.
---
By the end of the month, my reputation in Akerholt had grown. Villagers whispered as I passed, their eyes lingering on the boy who never lost.
That night, after a particularly grueling market day, I sat outside the barn, staring up at the twin moons that hung in the dark sky.
The quiet allowed my thoughts to drift.
This world—Aeloria—was unlike anything I'd ever imagined. A month ago, I was just another college kid, worrying about grades and weekend plans. Now, I was a fighter, a survivor.
I thought back to my first kill in the Grimwood Forest, to the goblins and the blood on my hands. The memory still haunted me, but it didn't paralyze me anymore. If anything, it had hardened my resolve.
And then there was Emery.
I glanced back at the house, where her laughter drifted faintly through the open window. She was safe, and that was all that mattered. But safety wasn't enough—not here.
I clenched my fists, the rough skin of my knuckles scraping against each other. If I wanted to keep her safe, I had to be more. Stronger. Smarter. I had to learn everything I could about this world and its dangers.
This place wouldn't break me.
---
With that thought, I stood and walked back to the barn, ready for another night of training.