Today, Cassian woke up… excited.
That alone felt strange.
His limbs still ached from yesterday's training. His back cracked like shattered glass when he stretched. And yet, a flicker of anticipation danced in his chest.
Because today…
He was finally going to learn how to wield a sword.
After a week of torture that could break lesser men—after collapsing more times than he could count, after healing until his mana ran dry and his vision blurred—he had finally gained Rock's approval.
"You've stopped tripping on your own feet," Rock had said yesterday with a rare, almost impressed grunt. "Time to teach you how not to stab yourself."
That counted as high praise coming from an orc.
The guild had officially offered him a place to stay. Not just because they liked him—though by now, most adventurers greeted him like an old friend—but because they needed him.
A healer who didn't charge a fortune was rarer than a phoenix feather.
And Cassian was… reliable.
So they showered him with food, support, and even guilt.
"You're not thinking of leaving, right?"
"If you vanish, who'll heal us after dungeon dives?"
"There's a greedy priest trying to poach our injured outside. Don't let him win!"
Even Rock, with his usual rough tone, told him, "Sleep here if you want. Everyone already thinks of you as one of us. No point pretending otherwise."
So Cassian stayed.
That morning, under the blue sky and early sun, Rock stood before him like a mountain made of muscle and intimidation.
Cassian stood at attention, swordless and already sweating.
"Before you learn the blade," Rock growled, arms crossed, "you run."
"…How many laps?"
"Fifty."
Cassian blinked. "…Of course."
He barely finished them, panting like a dying animal, sweat soaking through his clothes. The world spun, but Rock wasn't done.
"Now that you're warm," the orc said, completely ignoring Cassian's trembling legs, "we start with basics."
And so began his initiation.
How to hold a sword.
How to balance his weight.
Where to place his feet.
How to slash—not wildly, but cleanly. With intent.
How to thrust—straight, quick, with full body movement.
"Again."
"Wrong angle. Again."
"Where's your spine? Stand up!"
"Are you trying to scratch them or kill them? Again."
Rock barked at him, scolded him, even mocked him when he flailed. And worse, he occasionally teased.
"You swing like a bard trying to fight air."
"Even a goblin would dodge that."
"Maybe I should get you a butter knife instead."
Cassian was humiliated… over and over.
But he didn't stop.
For three hours, he drilled the basic techniques until his hands blistered, his muscles screamed, and his body begged for mercy.
After training, he moved to the infirmary. The day's rhythm never changed.
Sword in the morning. Healing in the afternoon.
The injured awaited him—adventurers from the guild, nearby towns, even a few curious mercenaries who had heard about the "cheap miracle worker."
Cassian worked tirelessly, healing burns, cuts, broken bones, mana poison, and exhaustion. He smiled, offered comfort, and never complained.
Afterward, he sometimes helped someone on the road—a kid with a scraped knee, a woman who lost her purse, an old man struggling with crates. His body was breaking… but it still moved.
Then came his reward: the cafeteria.
Three meals a day. Always hot. Always ready.
And now? More meat than he could eat.
The bear-like chef, ever watching from behind the counter, had taken a liking to him.
"Eat more," the man growled today, slamming another plate down. "You're still weak."
Cassian's plate overflowed with roasted meat, eggs, beans, cheese, and a protein-rich stew.
"I'm starting to think you want to fatten me up," he muttered, but didn't complain.
He ate like a man starving—because he was starving. Sword training burned through calories like fire through dry leaves. He needed every bite.
That night, after dinner, he didn't sleep.
He returned to the training grounds. Alone.
He stood in the moonlight, sword in hand, repeating Rock's instructions.
Slash.
Thrust.
Parry.
Footwork. Reset. Repeat.
Again.
Again.
Again.
His hands blistered. His fingers shook. His arms trembled.
But he didn't stop.
He pushed himself until his muscles locked and his grip slipped. Until his sword hit the ground and his palms bled.
That's when Lia arrived, watching from the edge of the field.
"…Why don't you heal yourself?" she finally asked, walking over.
Cassian sat against the fence, breathing hard, bleeding.
He smiled softly, looking at his reddened hands. "I can't waste my mana. There are people who need it more than me. These are just… small cuts."
Lia crouched beside him, frowning.
"You're kind to everyone but yourself," she whispered in her thoughts. "Foolish boy."
She didn't argue. Instead, she helped him wash the wounds and bandaged his hands.
And the next night?
He trained again.
The pain became a rhythm. The bleeding became routine. And every time, Lia was there, silently watching over him.
And so began his days of sword and healing.
In the morning, Rock broke him.
In the afternoon, he mended others.
At night, he forged himself.
He wasn't strong yet.
But he was becoming something more:
Reliable. Stubborn. Unbreakable.
And soon… the world would take notice.
-To be continued...