The walk back to his chamber was mercifully short and mercilessly loud. Armored boots clanging against stone, the rhythm punctuated by the guards’ snide remarks.

  “Sleep well, Outworlder,” one called with a grin. “Tomorrow the boys will have their fun.”

  The other chuckled. “Hope you last till supper.”

  Trace didn’t bother answering. Silence had a way of cutting deeper than words, and he wasn’t about to give them the satisfaction. They left him at the door, shoved it open, and locked him inside.

  It was the same lavish chamber as before: the massive bed, the carved chest at its foot, tall windows draped in heavy curtains. Food and drink still crowded the table, steam and scent lingering in the air like temptation calling to someone else. Trace ignored it all. His eyes looked straight to the bottle. Relief uncoiled in his chest when he saw the half-full bottle of bourbon waiting where he’d left it. He twisted off the top and tipped the bottle back.

  [Iron Stomach: Toxin Check… Passed]

  [Effect Detected: Alcohol Classified Stimulant]

  [No penalty applied. Minor Focus Boost active.]

  Trace barked a laugh. “Focus boost? Sure. That’s one way to dress up a buzz.”

  He set the bottle down carefully, then glanced at the bracelet on his wrist. They'd shoved it on him at the feast, mockery wrapped in polished silver, but this was the first chance he'd had to test it. He willed it open.

  A shimmer of light unfolded, forming a neat list:

  [Silver Storage Bracelet Tier 1 Relic]

  [Soul-Bound: Trace Veeran]

  [Slots: 10]

  [Used: 5 / 10]

  [Contents:]

  [Cracked Leather Shirt (+1 DEF) 1 slot]

  [Worn Leather Gloves (+1 STR) 1 slot]

  [Cracked Leather Boots (+1 AGI) 1 slot]

  [Waterskin (empty) 1 slot]

  [Rations (3 days) 1 slot food stacks]

  [100 Gold Coins, Slot not used, currency auto-stacks]

  [1 Ability Token, Slot not used, system-stacked]

  [Currency: 0 Copper | 0 Silver | 100 Gold | 0 Platinum]

  Trace tilted his head. “So… food stacks. Money and tokens don’t take a slot. Limited number of slots. Got it.”

  He rubbed his chin, then tested a thought. Retrieve shirt.

  The cracked leather shirt popped into his hands, warm and real. “Huh. Okay… that’s actually useful.”

  He stripped off the fine tunic from the feast and tugged on the leather shirt. It was rough, stiff in the shoulders, and itchy where it rubbed against bare skin.

  Trace scratched at the seam and muttered, “Yeah, I’m gonna need some underclothes. Wonder if this world’s got Merino wool, or am I stuck with medieval burlap?”

  The gloves followed, squeaking when he flexed his hands. Then the boots. He managed half a step before ripping them back off.

  “Nope. Not ditching the Salomons. I’ll pawn these later.” The boots flickered out of sight as he dismissed them back into storage.

  The bourbon caught his eye again. He reached over and laid a hand on the glass. Only then, with a nudge of will, did it disappear into the bracelet.

  [Buffalo Trace Unique Consumable Stored]

  [Slot Use: 1]

  [Status: Secured]

  [Slots Used: 4 / 10]

  Trace exhaled in relief. “One slot for peace of mind. Worth it.”

  A faint glow in the display’s corner tallied his funds:

  [Currency: 0 Copper | 0 Silver | 100 Gold | 0 Platinum]

  Trace gave a low whistle. “Skipped copper and silver day. With a hundred gold, either I’m rich or tomorrow’s target practice.”

  With a sigh, he donned the mismatched gear. The cracked leather shirt felt like someone had pulled it from the bottom of a barracks trunk, and the gloves squeaked like cheap workout gear.

  [Stats Updated: +1 STR, +1 DEF]

  He flexed his hand, and, yeah; he felt a little stronger. Just enough to notice, not enough to matter. Defense, he guessed, meant he’d take a hit slightly better.

  “Great. A little tougher, a little stronger. Still no pants, no leg protection, no weapon. Champion material right here.”

  He shoved a chair under the door handle, wedged the leg of the chest against it, and looped a strip of cloth over the latch. Old soldier tricks.

  The bed was too soft, the sheets too clean, but he didn’t fight it. He rolled onto his back, staring at the heavy drapes above, and murmured, “Here’s to tomorrow.”

  Sleep came quick.

  Trace woke before dawn, already dressed in the cracked leather shirt and squeaky gloves. For the first time in years, he wasn’t fighting a hangover. He lay there for a moment, blinking at the silence, almost suspicious of it.

  “Well,” he muttered, “either I slept like a rock or the ninja assassins got lazy.”

  He pushed off the bed and rolled his shoulders. A few stretches, a couple of pushups, then squats on the cold stone floor. Normally that would’ve left him aching and gasping. This time, only a light sweat prickled his skin. His muscles felt looser, stronger, like someone had tuned him up overnight.

  He flexed his hand, remembering the system chime from earlier.

  [+1 STR | +1 DEF Active]

  Trace gave a low whistle. “Huh. Guess those numbers aren’t just for show.” He swiped the sweat from his brow and smirked. “Alright. These stats are nice.”

  Satisfied, he moved to undo his makeshift barricade. The chest scraped against the floorboards, the chair clattered free, and the cloth loop came loose with a tug. He gave the door a light knock. A guard outside pulled it open.

  “Kitchen?” Trace asked flatly.

  The man smirked. “Figures the false champion’s first quest would be breakfast.”

  Trace shot back without missing a beat. “Better fueled than dead. You should try it sometime.”

  The guard said something quietly under his breath but pointed anyway. “Down the west stairs, follow the smell of bread.”

  This story has been taken without authorization. Report any sightings.

  Trace nodded and left him to stew.

  The palace corridors were quieter at this hour, servants gliding past with baskets or trays, avoiding eye contact. He followed the warm scent until it pulled him through a low arch into the kitchens.

  The kitchen bustled with activity. Fires crackled under iron pots while steam rose from bubbling soup. The steady rhythm of chopping knives cut through the morning air. He drew a few stares, then raised a hand. “Morning. Got any coffee?”

  One cook, a broad woman with flour dusting her sleeves, frowned. “Coffee?”

  The bracelet chimed a translation in his head: bittersweet brew.

  Trace grinned. “Yeah. Bitter and sweet in a cup of sanity.”

  She snorted. “That’s alchemist work, not kitchen fare. Too dear for the likes of us. Closest thing we’ve got is charred barley tea. Drink enough, and you’ll wish you were dead.”

  “Perfect,” Trace said. “Sounds like my last deployment.”

  That earned him a few chuckles. They fed him well enough. The roasted root vegetables were still warm; the dark bread was dense and filling. A bowl of porridge completed the meal, thick enough to cling stubbornly to the spoon. He ate in the back corner with the cooks, hunched over the rough wood like one of them.

  Two younger scullery boys whispered nearby, badly.

  “That’s him? The Outworlder? Doesn’t look like much.”

  “Shh, he’s supposed to be some kind of drunk god-slayer.”

  “Drunk, sure. Slayer? Doubtful.”

  Trace smirked mid-bite and remarked just loud enough, “Ears still work, thanks.”

  The boys turned scarlet; the older cooks laughed outright, the tension dissolving.

  When he finished, he stacked his dishes neatly and offered a nod. “Good food. Thanks.”

  A younger cook, still grinning, pressed two apples into his hands. “For later.”

  Trace pocketed them with a faint smile. Then he thought better of it, laid his palm on the fruit, and willed it into the bracelet.

  [Food Item Added: Apples x2]

  [Food Stack Detected, Stored with Rations]

  [Slots Used: 4 / 10]

  The apples winked away. Trace gave a satisfied nod. “That’s slick.”

  With breakfast behind him, he straightened, adjusted the cracked leather at his shoulders, and made his way toward the training yard.

  The training yard stretched wide and empty in the pre-dawn light. Most soldiers weren’t up yet. A few were drilling, sparring with wooden blades, or setting straw targets against the wall.

  Trace drifted toward the sparring area, watching two men clash. Their practice swords moved in blurs, the strikes ringing too fast for him to follow. His throat tightened. “This is serious.”

  A pair of guards approached. One wore the calm confidence of rank. The other grinned wide.

  “I hear you’re here to train,” the higher-ranked man noted. “I am Captain Pullar.”

  The grinning soldier cracked his knuckles. “Let me take him first.”

  Pullar’s voice cut like iron. “Rules of the yard. No abilities. No magic. Just steel and sweat.” He glanced toward the edge of the yard and raised a hand. “Healer! To the ring. He’ll need you.”

  A robed woman jogged over, carrying a satchel of bandages and smelling faintly of herbs. She gave Trace a quick knowing look before taking her place at the side.

  Trace walked to the rack and picked a practice sword. “This is as good as anything, I guess.”

  He moved into the ring. The Level 10 guard twirled his blade, lazy and sure.

  The hit was like a hammer. A clean diagonal from the guard. Trace got his sword up too late. Wood smacked wood. The shock rang through his arms. With a quick twist and steel-on-wood leverage, Trace's weapon ripped from his grip and slid across the dirt.

  Laughter erupted.

  Trace lunged barehanded, slamming a fist into the guard’s ribs. It landed. The knee that followed rocketed up and smashed Trace in the face. White popped behind his eyes. He hit the ground hard, blood splattering from his nose.

  Healer light seared along his cheekbones; the pain dulled, swelling eased. Trace rolled, snatched his weapon, stood.

  Trace barked a laugh through the blood. “You hit harder than my old sergeant.”

  The guard feinted high; Trace bit, lifting his guard too far. The man spun low, sweeping behind Trace’s calf. Trace’s feet went out from under him. He bounced once and tasted dirt. The follow-up strike thudded across his back, straight through the thin leather into bone. Ribs screamed.

  He pushed up onto his hands and knees, forcing breath back into his lungs. The crowd whooped. “Get up, Outworlder!”

  He got up.

  The guard stepped in, not even blocking. He struck Trace's knee with a casual tap that brought sharp pain. When Trace tried to parry, the man's blade smashed into his forearm and sent numbness shooting down to his fingertips. Then, a brutal downward cut took the center of Trace's blade and punched it wide. The practice sword spun out of his hands again. A backhand across the mouth split his lip; blood ran hot and coppery over his teeth.

  He crawled. The guard casually kicked the fallen sword further away.

  Healer hands again. Light, pressure, breath. Trace hauled himself upright. “Still here,” he rasped, one eye already swelling.

  The guard came fast now. Overhead, thrust, side cut. Trace caught the first with a desperate block. The thrust skipped past his guard and slammed his ribs. The side cut hammered into his blade and wrenched it free a fourth time. The weapon flew toward the rack.

  Trace staggered after it on instinct. The guard’s practice blade cracked across his temple.

  Darkness swallowed him.

  He woke in the healer’s light and the guard’s steady breathing above him. The man breathed as easily as if he’d been standing still. He spat into the dirt and turned away. “Not worth the effort.”

  Trace swayed, empty-handed, blood trickling down his jaw. He grinned through it. “Guess I win by default.”

  The yard howled.

  Another soldier stepped forward. He was younger, and broader through the shoulders.

  “Level 5,” someone called. “More your speed.”

  The man grinned, lifting his practice sword. “I’ll knock you out faster than he did.”

  Trace spat red into the dirt and picked his weapon back up. “Line up.”

  No finesse, just weight. A big overhead chop. Trace blocked. His arms jolted like he'd caught a falling tree. The second chop ripped down. His blade tore from his grip and spun away. A brutal kick slashed into his shin. Crack. His leg folded, white-hot pain detonating up his thigh. He screamed and hit the dirt.

  Healer light flared and bone knitted. Trace sucked air between his teeth and rolled to a knee.

  The light sealed the break, but it was messy. The bone closed, yet the ache stayed, buried deep in the muscle. Trace tested his weight and felt the pull every step. The healers gave him a quick look, then turned away as if that was good enough. He caught one of them murmur something about “higher circles” under their breath. Priestesses maybe. Whoever they were, it sounded like someone else’s problem. Out here in the yard, he would get patches and nothing more.

  He stood.

  The Level 5 swung low and wide. Trace parried once, held a good angle for half a heartbeat and then lost the bind. His weapon flew again. The soldier barked a laugh and smashed the wooden blade across Trace’s forearm. Something snapped. His sword arm went limp, fingers spasming as the weapon dropped.

  Trace dropped to a knee, then lunged forward barehanded, slamming a shoulder into the man’s chest. It barely shifted him, but surprise flickered in his eyes before he hammered Trace back down.

  Another healer rushed in, sweat already beading under the collar. The arm knit. The ache remained.

  Trace grabbed his sword with a shaky grip and grinned through blood. “Still here.”

  The Level 5 bullied forward, battering Trace’s guard aside like it was brush. A heavy shove to the chest sent Trace stumbling. He reached for balance, fell to a knee, clawed for his fallen sword but the soldier’s boot crushed down on his wrist. Bones popped. The scream tore itself out of Trace’s throat. The follow-up crack across the skull turned the world into ringing, spinning black.

  When he came to, the healer’s light was fading. His wrist was throbbing, his head pounding in waves. The Level 5 towered over him, sneering. “Worthless.”

  Trace swayed to his feet, weaving. He refused to sit.

  He raised his chin at the sneering soldier. “You are going to need more than that.”

  “Enough.”

  The single word cut the yard to silence. A scarred man stepped forward: broad stance, arms folded, presence like a drawn bow. Captain Pullar.

  He looked Trace up and down, then at the gathered men. “You’re no swordsman. Not yet. You’ve got no balance, no grip, no defense. If I keep you here, they’ll tear you apart for sport. And I won’t waste a healer’s time on that. There’s a weapons master in the city. Goes by Bran. He runs a school that takes fools and tries to hammer them into fighters. Maybe he can hammer you into a warrior. I’ll tell Bran you’re coming.”

  Trace wiped blood from his chin and managed a crooked smile. “Sounds like my kind of guy.”

  Pullar leaned closer, voice low. “Do you have coin?”

  Trace scratched at his beard. “A little.”

  “Find a cheap inn. Stay there. Soldiers here don’t like you. The castle won’t come looking, won’t care what happens to you. But if you live long enough to gain some levels and skills, come back. We’ll see if you’re worth the time then.”

  The captain turned away. The yard erupted in laughter again, sharp and ugly. Trace staggered toward the gate, bloody but unbroken.

  He raised one hand in a ragged wave. “See you soon, boys.”

  can’t ignore.

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