Thirty minutes later, breakfast was ready.
Garrick, true to his nature, didn't bother with fancy presentation—just thick, juicy slabs of perfectly cooked venison placed on a wooden tray, still sizzling from the pan. Lennox wasted no time in grabbing his usual seat at the kitchen table.
They ate in companionable silence, the only sounds being the soft clatter of utensils and the occasional sip of Emberbrew Ale—which, as usual, Lennox had retrieved for them both.
As he chewed, he could feel the ale's warmth spreading through him, invigorating his body in a way that was becoming familiar. Even now, after consuming it daily for a month, the drink's effects remained potent—a steady enhancement of his physique, sharpening of his focus, and a subtle yet undeniable strengthening of his core.
They finished their meal quickly, and Lennox pushed his plate aside with a satisfied sigh. However, instead of heading back upstairs to his room to continue his morning reading routine, he lingered, watching as Garrick began gathering the dishes.
"Here, let me help," Lennox said, rising from his seat.
Garrick gave him a brief glance but said nothing as Lennox collected the used plates and mugs. They worked together in silence, placing the dishes into the enchanted sink, where the tavern's magical dishwashing feature would take care of the rest. It was a small task, but Lennox found himself feeling oddly satisfied by the simple act of assisting with the cleanup.
As Garrick wiped his hands on a cloth and turned toward the back door, Lennox hesitated for only a moment before following.
Over the past month, he had noticed something peculiar—Garrick had a habit of training every morning after breakfast.
At first, Lennox hadn't thought much of it. But after catching glimpses of the warrior's movements—such as the raw precision of his footwork, the controlled devastation in his punches, the sheer explosive force behind every strike—he had begun to realize that this wasn't just some simple exercise.
This was a battle-honed routine. A discipline that had been forged through years of relentless practice.
And it wasn't just about strength. There was a fluidity to Garrick's movements, an underlying rhythm that suggested something deeper—something tied to the very foundation of a warrior's power.
Probably a way to sharpen his chi.
And if there was one thing Lennox had learned in the past month, it was that strength meant everything in this world.
Eager to observe—and perhaps even learn something—he stepped through the door and followed Garrick into the backyard.
-----
The backyard of the Mystic Tavern was surprisingly spacious, bordered by a tall wooden fence that separated it from the rest of Greywater. The ground was mostly hard-packed dirt, with patches of sparse grass near the edges. A few training dummies stood off to one side, their surfaces scarred with countless strikes, while a lone wooden bench rested under the shade of a leafless tree.
As soon as they stepped outside, a brisk morning wind swept through the yard, carrying with it the crisp scent of spring. The chill bit at Lennox's skin, but he ignored it, his focus entirely on Garrick.
Unbothered by the cold, the warrior rolled his shoulders, then moved into a stance with the ease of someone who had done this a thousand times before. His body shifted seamlessly, his muscles coiling like a predator preparing to strike.
Then he moved.
At first, his strikes were slow and deliberate—a precise punch, a measured kick, a controlled step. But as seconds passed, his pace quickened, his routine unfolding like a perfectly choreographed dance of destruction.
His fists tore through the air with enough force to generate short bursts of wind. His kicks landed with the echo of distant thunder, each one carrying a power that could easily shatter bone. And yet, there was no wasted motion—everything was refined, efficient, lethal.
Lennox stood frozen, utterly captivated. This wasn't just a warm-up—it was the embodiment of controlled power, a method honed over years of battle.
He watched as Garrick transitioned seamlessly between striking, dodging, and countering invisible opponents.
Sometimes, Garrick's movements became almost animalistic—his steps mimicking the grace of a prowling beast, his hands shifting into open-palm strikes meant to redirect force rather than absorb it. Other times, his technique was purely brutal—his fists driving downward with the force of a hammer, his elbows cutting through the air like blades.
This… This was why Garrick was a Peak Rank One Warrior.
In the entire parish of Blackthorne, such warriors were an extreme rarity. Most people never even saw one in their lifetime. And yet, here he was—right in front of Lennox, performing techniques that could turn a fully grown man into a bloody paste with a single well-placed strike.
The routine lasted fifteen minutes, though to Lennox, it felt much shorter. When Garrick finally stopped, the only sign of exertion was the faintest sheen of sweat on his skin. He exhaled once, rolling his shoulders as if the entire session had been nothing more than a simple stretch.
Lennox swallowed before stepping forward. "Can you teach me that?"
Garrick turned his head slightly, giving him a long, sidelong glance. He seemed to be assessing or weighing.
For a few moments, there was only silence. Then, finally, the warrior spoke.
"Warrior arts aren't suitable for you." His tone was blunt but not unkind.
Lennox felt a flicker of disappointment but forced himself to remain patient. "And why's that?"
Garrick's sharp gaze swept over him once more. "Your build, your temperament… you don't have the natural foundation of a warrior. That's not a weakness—just a difference. Some men are suited to wielding swords, others to casting spells, and others to the bow. You don't have the aura of a close-combat fighter."
Lennox wanted to argue, but he held back. He wasn't stupid—he knew Garrick wasn't saying this to insult him. If anything, it was a pragmatic assessment.
"But," Garrick continued, crossing his arms, "I can teach you the fundamentals. Not to make you a warrior, but to strengthen your body."
Lennox's brows lifted slightly. "What do you mean?"
Garrick turned his gaze toward the ground for a moment, as if considering his next words carefully. "The drinks you consume from the Mystic Tavern—they enhance your body. But without a solid foundation, you're wasting some of their benefits. A stronger physique means greater efficiency in absorbing power."
His eyes flicked back to Lennox. "I'll teach you the routine. It won't turn you into a Rank One Warrior, but it'll help you maximize what the drinks can do for you."
Lennox felt a slow grin form on his lips. "I'll take it."
Garrick gave a simple nod. "Then from now on, you'll train in the mornings after breakfast."
Lennox exhaled, bracing himself. He had a feeling this was going to hurt.
"What's the routine called?" he asked, folding his arms.
For the first time in a while, Garrick actually hesitated. It was brief—so quick Lennox almost missed it.
Then, the warrior spoke.
"The Titanbone Method."
Lennox blinked. Now that sounded badass.