This time, when Meka pushed her mana toward Bunny, it felt different immediately. The flow was steadier, more deliberate, and threaded with intent instead of raw effort. The scraggly bushes, thorny vines, and mismatched plant matter she had originally grown with her plant growth spell began to shift and respond. Leaves softened. Thorns receded, curling back into stems that straightened and smoothed. The uneven clutter of competing plants bent and reformed as Bunny worked through the magic she fed him.

  The sand pit transformed, not dramatically, but decisively. What had been a chaotic patchwork became a single, grassy stretch of living green. It was not large, barely more than a modest clearing, but the intent was unmistakable. Short grass spread evenly across the sand, interspersed with small, gentle flowers. There were no thorn bushes left, no sharp edges or hostile growth. Everything had settled into a single, harmonious form of foliage.

  I studied it closely. It was a clever application, one I had never actually attempted myself. I understood the theory well enough, but I had never thought to use growth magic in quite that way. It made perfect sense that she could do it. Practically speaking, it was obvious once seen, and yet it had never crossed my mind. That alone told me something important about her instincts.

  When Meka opened her eyes, she took in the result for half a heartbeat before excitement overwhelmed her. She hopped up and down, hooves thudding lightly against the newly formed grass. Laughing, she spun Bunny around in her arms and then tossed him into the air again and again, catching him each time.

  The little plant bunny splayed his leaves wide, catching the air as he fell, drifting down slower than any normal creature could. He was far lighter than flesh and bone, made of sticks and leaves and living magic, and the sight of him floating down into her hands was unexpectedly charming.

  “I did it, Runt. I did it,” she said, voice bright with triumph.

  “Yes,” I said, watching Bunny settle back into her arms. “You did.”

  I let the moment breathe for just a second before continuing. “Now,” I added, shifting my grip on my staff, “we are going to play a game.”

  Her ears perked up immediately. “A game?”

  “I need to test my body and my new capabilities,” I said, rolling my shoulders and feeling how smoothly everything moved now. “And you need to be creative. You are not allowed to use any direct spells. You will feed Bunny your mana and your intentions only. Your goal is to tangle me up, slow me down, or stop me entirely.”

  She tilted her head, listening carefully.

  “If I can bonk you three times,” I continued, “I win. If you stop me fully, you win.”

  She considered that, then nodded. “That seems fair, I guess.”

  After a moment, she looked up at me and asked, “Are you going to bonk me on the head again?”

  “It is the only real way to bonk somebody,” I replied, entirely serious.

  She snorted softly. “I guess that’s fair. But if I win, do I get to bonk you?”

  I glanced at her massive fists and felt a flicker of amusement. Luckily for me, this game was fully rigged in my favor. I knew more about her magic than she did, and I understood the limits of what Bunny could do at this stage. Even with clever ideas like this, it was exceedingly unlikely she could actually stop me completely. Still, I intended to let her try.

  “Three bonks,” I said. “I win. If you stop me fully, you win. If you stop me fully, you get to bonk me on the head.”

  Her eyes widened slightly.

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  “If you win,” I added, “you get to bonk me. If I win, you have to learn how to light a fire.”

  Her eyes went very wide.

  “Fair’s fair,” I said after a moment. “If you bonk me, I’m pretty sure I’m dead.”

  I raised an eyebrow.

  She squared her shoulders and looked at me with determination. “Then I just have to stop you. I don’t want to do fire.”

  She had, at least for the moment, forgotten that she would need to confront her fear of fire eventually. That was fine. The sooner she faced it, the easier her future would become. I intended to make that process as easy and as gentle as possible.

  The gentle part might have been a lie.

  I walked up to her and, before she could react, tapped her lightly on the head with my staff.

  “That’s one,” I said.

  Her jaw dropped. “No fair. You didn’t say we started.”

  “I didn’t say we didn't start,” I replied calmly. “I only said what the rules were.”

  Meka looked at me with narrowed eyes and said, “Okay, we’re going to play like that?”

  “Yes,” I replied easily. “Yes, we are. What are you going to do about it?”

  Her jaw set, stubbornness flaring bright and immediate. “I’m going to win.”

  I laughed, genuine and pleased. “That’s the spirit, apprentice.”

  I walked away from her, crossing to the far edge of what had once been a sand pit. Now it was something else entirely. Meadow felt too generous a word, but sand pit was no longer correct either. It was a carpet of grass laid over churned earth, thin but alive, springing faintly under my steps. It smelled green and new, the sharp mineral scent of sand softened by growth.

  Meka turned to face me, hooves planted, Bunny cradled close. “Okay,” she said, squaring her shoulders. “Now we’re starting for real.”

  “That first one counted,” I said.

  She stared at me in disbelief. “Really? You’re going to be that mean?”

  I chuckled and lifted a hand. “All right, all right. If we’re doing this properly, We’ll count to three this time.” I raised my staff and began. “One. Two.”

  On two, I flipped the staff up into motion.

  Because it was far longer than I was tall, I had to bring it up and over my head, letting the length clear the ground as it spun. The motion was wide and looping, the staff whistling softly through the air above me as I twirled it once, then twice. I stepped sideways to keep the arc clean, letting my body move instead of thinking about moving. My feet found the rhythm without effort. My shoulders followed. The staff became an extension of my hands rather than something I was holding.

  Meka watched me closely, waiting for the count to finish.

  “Three?” she asked.

  I answered by snapping the staff forward.

  The tip crossed the space between us faster than she expected and tapped her squarely on the snout. It was not hard. I was still small, still light, and there was only so much force I could put behind the motion. Most of the staff’s reinforcement was spent on the throw itself, just enough to carry it cleanly across the distance. The moment it left my hands, that reinforcement faded, leaving only the momentum I had given it. It was enough to get the point across, no more than that.

  She stumbled back a step, more surprised than hurt.

  “You’re cheating,” she said, one hand flying to her face.

  "I said we would count to three,” I replied, already moving. “And you said three, didn’t you?”

  I broke into a run.

  By the time she realized what was happening, I was already more than halfway across the grassy pit. Her eyes widened, panic flashing through her expression as instinct took over.

  “No casting,” I shouted as she began to gather magic.

  She froze for half a heartbeat, then cursed softly under her breath as she remembered the rules.

  She poured mana into her familiar, urgently now, intent rushing after it in an unshaped wave. I could see the moment she shifted from thinking to reacting, from planning to desperation.

  My body felt light.

  Not weightless, not fragile. Light in the way a well-balanced weapon feels light, even when it has mass. I probably weighed the same as I had before, but everything about how that weight moved had changed. My muscles responded faster. My bones felt denser, more capable of bearing strain. My tendons stretched and snapped back with a spring they had never had before.

  Every motion carried less resistance. Every step landed where I intended it to land. I did not feel stronger in some dramatic way, but I felt more precise. More connected.

  The tin core had done its work.

  It had taken the body I had been given and made it better. Not by a great margin, not enough to turn me into something monstrous, but enough that I could feel the difference with every breath. Enough that movement itself felt easier.

  It finally made sense.

  This was how martial adventurers kept pace with those who relied on magic. Not by overpowering them, but by refining the body until effort became efficiency. Power did not need to be overwhelming if it was consistent, responsive, and reliable.

  As I closed the distance between us, Bunny’s leaves flared outward, reacting to Meka’s intent at last. The grass at my feet stirred, blades twisting and tugging as she tried to slow me, to catch my legs, to turn the ground against me.

  I grinned.

  Good.

  She was learning.