The sky was still tinged with a bluish-gray hue when Damon crossed the northern courtyard, the sharp morning air like an invisible blade between his body. The sound of his footsteps on the wet stones was muffled by the low mist that covered the ground, and only the faint call of a lone bird broke the silence.
Elizabeth's words still echoed in his mind.
"Become stronger."
That's all. No shortcuts. No charms. Esther saw only power. She respected strength. And if Damon wanted to reach her icy core, he would have to cast aside his passive shadow nature and assume the role of a soldier—or rather, a worthy opponent.
The courtyard was vast, surrounded by walls covered in moss and vines. In the center stood a small, weathered iron cabinet, sheltered by an ancient awning. Inside, old weapons, cracked shields, pieces of forgotten armor... a place for those who had no glory, only will.
Elizabeth hadn't lied—there were things there. But none of them were gentle.
Damon chose a straighter throw, even if rusty. The handle was rough, with barbs that hurt his fingers. The blade was worn, but still sharp. Heavy enough to require effort. Just what he needed.
In the corner of the courtyard, a straw and cloth doll, supported by a crooked stake, waited silently—like a dead enemy waiting to be remembered.
Without warming up, without hesitation, Damon advanced.
First thrust.
The spearhead struck the doll's center, but without force. The impact was just a touch. A miss. He stepped back, pivoted his feet, adjusted his weight.
Second thrust.
Steadier. His right arm trembled with the impact. His shoulder protested. But the doll swayed. This was something.
Third. Fourth. Fifth.
The fog began to dissipate as Damon stopped for breath. Sweat was already trickling down the side of his neck, and the muscles in his forearm burned with the effort of holding such an unbalanced weapon. He wiped his face with his sleeve and adjusted his stance.
His mind wouldn't rest. Each thrust was accompanied by a thought.
"Ester doesn't respond to gestures. Only posture."
"She wants to see someone who doesn't back down."
"If I don't impress her... I'm nothing to her."
More thrusts.
A began to fit into his movements. He wasn't a soldier, but he had discipline. And the system that bound him to this restricted world yielded results—or it would discard him.
By 6:00 a.m., his palms were already red, bruised in places where the handle bit into his skin. But he didn't stop. Each thrust became more precise. Each step forward more firm. He began training, too, with retreats, turns, and diagonal advances. He used the courtyard as if it were an invisible battlefield.
Damon knew that strength wasn't just muscle—it was control. It was intention. And he began to shape it.
[Status Updated]
Strength +1
Stamina +1
Martial Skill (Spears) – Initiated
He paused for a moment. The system recognized it. Small victories. Nothing worthy of Ester yet—but something inside him was transmitted.
The sun began to rise with real force, orange light breaking through the trees and reaching Damon's sweaty skin. The shadows in the courtyard lengthened.
And then... a sound.
Light footsteps.
Damon turned his head just enough to see—high on the eastern wall, between stone columns and ivy—a silhouette.
Ester.
She just stood there, motionless, arms crossed. Her blue hair, still damp from her shower, fell like a living curtain to her ankles. His eyes were half-closed, cold, watching from above. He didn't approach. He didn't call out. He just... watched.
Damon didn't dodge. I didn't try to show off. He simply launched the shot again, adjusted his feet, and struck the dummy harder. With more precision.
Another one.
And another.
Ignore it. Be worthy of being seen.
The figure appeared for a few seconds and, silently, turned. Gone.
Damon, without smiling, without faltering, kept the rhythm. The dummy now reached each impact. The spear began to become an extension of his arm.
And there, amidst sweat, pain, and stubbornness, the first crack appeared in the ice.
She didn't speak to him.
But she saw it.
And for Damon, this was already the beginning of victory.
Days passed. Then a week. Then, gone.
The North Wing Courtyard became a part of Damon's body, as if he'd already been born there. Every day, at five o'clock sharp, he would perform surgery amidst the low mists of the fog. Always with the same routine: he'd warm his arms, stretch his shoulders, clench his fist, and... begin.
Two hours without pause.
Two hours without distraction.
Two hours of thrusts, spins, blocks, and retreats.
The rusty spear was now wearing differently. The iron was beginning to show new, smooth scratches. The handle, molded to his hands, bore dark stains where dried blood had fused with the wood. Damon never complained. I never changed weapons. That was his. Crude, old, but his.
And every day, punctually, she appeared.
Ester.
At the same time—shortly after six—she would appear at the top of the wall, or sometimes in a shadowy corner of the upper garden. Always in the distance. Always still. Always silent. I watched for a few minutes… and then I left. As if it were just part of a silent patrol.
She never said a word.
Never reacted.
I never interrupted.
But Damon knew.
I knew she was selling. I knew that, in that simple act of looking, there was more than coldness—there was a plan. Judgment. Perhaps… surveillance.
On the fifth day, Damon began alternating his workouts. He used rusty weights to strengthen his arms before throwing. Then he began tying small stone bags to his legs to practice mobility with a load. Then, he ran in a circle around the entire courtyard before each session. And finally, they added shields—cracked shields that forced the body to maintain balance even with the arm attached to something heavy and useless.
He fell twice.
The first time, when he slipped with his weight on his feet.
The second, when he mistimed his turn.
The first time, Ester simply turned and walked away.
The second time, she stayed longer. I watched as he staggered, got up, and continued. A weaker thrust, then a firmer one. Then as if nothing had happened.
["Ice Resistance" Quest Progress: 2%]
Damon saw a notification appear discreetly in his vision. And in that instant, as he panted, his face sweaty, his knees scarred, and his arms numb, he closed his eyes and smiled—a tired smile, small, but real.
She had reacted.
Even if invisibly.
On the eighth day, it rained. But Damon appeared anyway. His spear slipped from his wet hands; the ground was treacherous. His blows were less clean, but the intensity was the same. He punched hard, even with the water weighing down his clothes.
Ester appeared.
This time she didn't stand high above. She stood in the shadow of a column. He caught a glimpse of her, her wet hair plastered to her face, her posture still erect, still distant—but something about her was… more present.
On the eleventh day, Damon changed his spear.
He picked up a sword. Worn. Blunt.
He needed to change. He needed to grow.
The sword was less natural to him, but Damon didn't recover. Every mistake, he corrected. Every imbalance, he repeated. Fell? Got up. Wrong angle? Repeat ten more times.
And there she was.
Same ritual. Same silence.
[Mission Progress: 5%]
It wasn't just the number.
It was her gaze. Even if it was vacant. Even if it was impassive.
She was recording.
She was watching a trial.
Damon no longer trained just for himself. He trained because he knew there was an audience, evaluating every move as if it were a courtroom.
And on the fifteenth day, when he finally felled the straw doll with a sideways blow powerful enough to split the wooden trunk in two…
She didn't leave immediately.
She stayed.
Enough to see him drop his sword, panting, kneel on the ground, and breathe with his fists dug into the earth.
Enough to trust—even if privately—that he was still standing.
Ester turned. Unhurriedly. Her hair blew in the cold morning wind. And as she disappeared through the stone archway of the wall, Damon met her eyes and stared up at the sky.
Strength +1
Martial Skill (Swords): +1
Stamina +1
[Quest Progress: 7%]
Frustrating?
Yes.
But for someone who had started with the counter stuck at zero, each new number was a silent cry of victory.
He will be tomorrow.
She would see him tomorrow.
And Damon… would continue… after all… this quest was just farming until he was strong enough to challenge in some way.
Focus. 100%. Focus.