Chapter 6 – The Weight of Dawn
The sky was still a deep indigo when Ryden slipped out of the house, the chill of early morning biting at his cheeks. Stars clung stubbornly to the heavens, their light diluted by the faint blush of sunrise creeping over the horizon. He tightened the cloth belt of his training garb—a simple tunic and loose trousers his mother had laid out for him—and quickened his pace toward the eastern field.
Flint was already there.
The man stood like a gnarled oak in the center of the field, arms crossed, a waterskin dangling from one hand. His breath fogged in the cold air, and his eyes glinted with a mix of amusement and scrutiny as Ryden approached.
"Late," Flint barked, though the corner of his mouth twitched upward.
"The sun isn't up yet," Ryden countered, slowing to a stop.
"Exactly. You're supposed to beat the sun here, brat. But I'll let it slide—this time." Flint tossed the waterskin at him. Ryden fumbled but caught it. "Drink. You'll need it."
The water was cold, sharp, jolting him fully awake. Flint waited until he'd swallowed before clapping his hands together.
"Right. Let's see what you're made of. Drop and give me twenty push-ups."
Ryden blinked. "Push-ups?"
"You heard me. Chest to the ground, back straight. Now."
The grass was damp with dew, seeping into Ryden's sleeves as he lowered himself. The first few push-ups were manageable, but by the tenth, his arms trembled like saplings in a storm. His breaths came in ragged gasps, each lift a battle against gravity.
Flint circled him like a hawk. "Elbows in! Your form's sloppier than a drunk's handwriting!"
Ryden gritted his teeth, adjusting. The fifteenth rep felt like lifting an anvil. By eighteen, his vision blurred.
"Nineteen… twenty…" He collapsed onto his stomach, chest heaving.
Flint grunted. "Pathetic. But expected. Up. Next, squats."
The next hour blurred into a cycle of pain. Squats, lunges, planks—each exercise simple in theory, brutal in practice. Flint's voice was a constant drumbeat of criticism and encouragement, a strange blend that kept Ryden moving long after his muscles screamed to stop.
"You're not training to be a pastry chef, boy! Lower!"
Ryden sank deeper into his lunge, thighs burning. Sweat dripped from his chin, darkening the soil beneath him.
"Good. Hold it." Flint crouched in front of him, his scarred face unreadable. "Pain's just your body waking up. Remember that."
As the sun finally breached the horizon, painting the field in gold, Flint called a halt. Ryden staggered to his feet, legs wobbling. His tunic clung to his back, soaked through.
"Not bad," Flint said, grudgingly. "For a twig."
Ryden managed a weak glare, which only made Flint chuckle.
"Rest. Five minutes. Then we work on grip."
"Grip?"
Flint jerked his chin toward a nearby tree. A thick rope hung from one of its branches, tied to a sack of stones. "A blacksmith's hands are his lifeline. Can't hold a hammer, can't forge a nail."
The sack, when Ryden lifted it, felt like it was filled with lead. The rope was coarse, fraying in spots, and bit into his palms as he practiced lifting and lowering the weight. Flint made him switch hands every minute, his own massive arms folded as he watched.
"Faster. Your enemy won't wait for you to fumble a sword."
By the tenth repetition, Ryden's fingers were raw. A notification flickered at the edge of his vision, but he ignored it, focusing on the burn in his tendons.
When Flint finally dismissed him, the sun hung high, and the village buzzed with midday activity. Ryden limped back toward the forge, every muscle aflame.
[Ding! Objective Complete: 1 Hour of Physical Training.]
[Rewards: +500 System Points, +1% Crafting Progress.]
He paused, leaning against a fencepost to steady himself. The points were a meager sum, but the progress bar mattered—3% now. Closer to unlocking the next tier of skills.
"Don't get cocky," he muttered, though a small smile tugged at his lips.
The forge was empty when he arrived, save for Dante, who was sharpening a newly cooled blade. The rhythmic scrape of whetstone on steel paused as Ryden entered.
"Flint didn't kill you, I see."
"Not yet." Ryden sagged onto a stool, gulping from the water bucket.
Dante eyed him, then set down the blade. "Show me your hands."
Ryden hesitated before extending his palms—blistered, red, but intact. Dante grunted, tossing him a jar of salve.
"Rub that in tonight. Let Flint work you hard, but don't let him break you."
It was the closest thing to praise Ryden would get. He nodded, tucking the jar into his pocket.
Dinner that night was a quiet affair. Elena said nothing about his trembling hands or the way he winced when lifting his spoon. Only as he rose to clear the plates did she speak.
"The forge isn't going anywhere, Ryden. Rest when you need to."
He met her gaze, saw the worry she hid behind practicality. "I will. Promise."
Her smile was faint but warm. "Good. Now go. Sleep."
---
In the darkness of his room, Ryden lay awake, the salve soothing his hands. The system's interface glowed softly in his mind's eye, the Point Mall tantalizingly close to offering its first real rewards.
He closed his eyes, imagining the clang of hammers, the hiss of hot steel.
Tomorrow would hurt.
But pain, he decided, was a small price for power.