The next morning, Char awoke with an ache in his limbs, the kind of deep-set soreness that came from pushing his body beyond its limits. But for the first time, he didn't resent it.
Instead, as he sat up and stretched his arms over his head, he felt something new—satisfaction.
Training had never been something he excelled at. He had always been more of a thinker than a fighter, someone who let his mind do the work rather than his body. But here, in this world, where his life depended on his ability to hold a blade, he couldn't afford to be weak.
And now, after another full day of practice and discipline, he could feel the difference. His stance had become more natural, his swings more controlled, his footwork less clumsy. He was still far from proficient, but he was no longer just some desperate fool flailing a pair of knives around.
With that thought, Char grabbed his gear and made his way back toward the training hall
*
He had only just left the practice room when he nearly collided with Flint, the administrator of the townhouse.
The man was as broad-shouldered as Benjamin, though far more polished in both his demeanor and attire. His long brown coat was neatly buttoned, his graying hair slicked back, and his boots free of mud, despite the village still recovering from the flood.
Flint studied Char with a raised brow. "Training again?"
Char nodded, wiping sweat from his brow. "Figured I should. We're stuck here anyway," Flint hummed, crossing his arms. "And what exactly are you training for?"
The question caught Char off guard. "What do you mean?"
Flint leaned against the wooden railing, watching him carefull. "You carry yourself like someone with a purpose. People don't train as hard as you do unless they're chasing something."
Char hesitated. He couldn't exactly say he was training to survive a plot he himself had written.
Instead, he shrugged, trying to sound casual. "I just want to be prepared. It's a dangerous world."
Flint was silent for a moment before nodding. "That it is." Then, to Char's surprise, his expression softened slightly. "You're young, but you learn fast. That kind of determination… it'll take you far. Just make sure you don't lose sight of why you started."
Char frowned, mulling over those words. Before he could think of a response, Flint pushed himself off the railing.
"I imagine Benjamin's already dragged you into helping the others," he said.
Char blinked. "Helping with what?"
Flint smirked. "You'll see."
*
Benjamin, of course, had already volunteered them both to help the villagers salvage whatever they could from the wreckage of the flood.
The lower parts of the village were still partially submerged, the water murky and filled with washed-away goods, broken wooden crates, and damaged supplies.
Char stood by the edge of the flooded district, eyeing the waist-deep water with apprehension.
Benjamin clapped a hand on his shoulder. "No use staring at it, boy. Get in."
Before Char could protest, the old man waded in without hesitation, the water sloshing up to his chest as he began hauling floating barrels back to dry land.
Char exhaled. Well, no getting out of this.
With a resigned sigh, he stepped into the water.
*
For hours, Char worked alongside the villagers, retrieving food stores, tools, and anything else salvageable from the floodwaters.
It was gruelling work—hauling crates, dragging waterlogged sacks of grain, and climbing onto precarious wooden structures to help recover supplies. But despite the exhaustion, there was something oddly satisfying about it.
For once, he wasn't just fighting to survive.
He was helping.
By the time the sun began to dip behind the mountains, Char was soaked to the bone, covered in mud, sweat, and river grime.
Benjamin, ever the grizzled veteran, barely looked fazed, though Char could see the slight stiffness in his movements as they finally finished for the day.
"You did good," the old man grunted as they trudged back toward the townhouse.
Char rolled his shoulders, wincing. "Feels like I got trampled by a horse."
Benjamin let out a rare chuckle. "Means you actually did something."
Char snorted but said nothing. The ache in his muscles told him he'd earned his rest.
By the time Char reached his room, he was utterly drenched—clothes clinging to his skin, boots squishing with every step.
With a tired groan, he pushed the door open, intending to strip off and change into dry clothes before heading back down for dinner.
But in his exhaustion, he didn't fully close the door behind him.
Char peeled off his soaked tunic, tossing it onto the nearby chair. He was reaching for a dry shirt when—
"Oh—!"
A startled yelp from the doorway froze him in place.
He whipped around just in time to see Mira standing there, eyes wide, her face rapidly turning the color of a ripe apple.
For a solid three seconds, neither of them moved.
Then, Mira squeaked, threw a towel straight at his face, and bolted.
The door slammed shut behind her.
Char stood there, completely dumbfounded, the towel now draped over his head.
Then, his brain caught up.
Oh.
Oh.
His entire face burned.
He groaned, dragging the towel down. "Kill me now."
Char took a full minute to recover from the sheer mortification of what had just happened before finally finishing changing.
When he finally stepped out of his room, he was half-expecting Mira to be waiting outside with some kind of snarky remark.
But the hallway was empty.
Part of him was relieved. The other part… not so much.
With a sigh, he headed down toward the dining hall, wondering if he'd ever be able to look Mira in the eyes again.