By mid-morning, the place was buzzing. The clink of cutlery, the low hum of conversation, and the occasional bark of laughter from a table full of regulars blended into a familiar background noise.
I slid a plate of mana-grilled steak onto table five with the grace of someone who'd done it a thousand times and still didn't care enough to smile about it.
"Here you go. Don't burn your tongue, unless you enjoy that kind of thing."
The guy blinked at me, half confused, half amused. "Uh… thanks?"
"Anytime," I said, already walking away.
From behind the counter, Lyra gave me that look, the one that said Stop scaring the customers. I pretended not to see it, mostly because I didn't care.
"Zane," she called as I passed her, "try being nice for once. It's good for tips."
"I am nice," I said, grabbing another plate. "Just not to strangers who might stab me one day."
She sighed and shook her head, but I caught the faintest hint of a smile.
The lunch rush was a blur of plates, orders, and the occasional spilled drink. The regulars were easy, half of them just nodded when I set down their food, like we had some unspoken agreement to not bother each other. The newcomers… well, they were entertainment.
By the time the rush slowed, I leaned against the counter, wiping sweat from my forehead. "Remind me again why we're not rich heirs living in the innermost district?"
Lyra rolled her eyes. "Because life hates us."
Fair enough.
---
The walk home was quiet, the kind that wasn't awkward, just… comfortable. The streets of the central district thinned out the farther west we went, the polished stone walkways giving way to cracked pavement and weeds poking through. By the time we reached our building, the air smelled faintly of moss and damp earth from the nearby forest.
Usually, we'd just collapse on the couch, complain about customers, and pretend our problems didn't exist until tomorrow. But today? No. Today, I had different plans.
I set my bag down just inside the door. "Grab your weapon."
Lyra raised an eyebrow. "Why?"
"We're going training," I said, already heading for the bedroom. "Forest on the western edge. That F-rank dungeon spot the government keeps for the public."
"You mean the one full of idiots who think swinging a sword once a week counts as practice?" she asked, following me.
"Yeah. Perfect place for us, then."
She smirked. "Alright, fine. But if you get eaten by a slime, I'm telling Anakin it was your idea."
A few minutes later, I stepped out with my dual short swords sheathed across my side. They weren't pretty, steel nicked in places, leather grips worn, but they'd get the job done. Lyra had a matched pair of daggers strapped to her thighs that looked like they'd been sharpened a little too much.
We left the apartment, cutting through the last stretch of central district housing until the road simply… ended. Ahead was a wall of trees, thick and green, sunlight leaking through in uneven stripes.
The forest was alive with noise, steel clashing, and the occasional scream that sounded more humiliating than fatal. Somewhere deeper in, past the practice dummies and safe-zone markers, was the F-rank dungeon.
Too weak for real adventurers, too strong for civilians without gear, so the government just let it sit there for anyone who wanted free experience.
---
The deeper we went, the less the forest looked like a park and more like something out of a nature documentary you wouldn't watch before bed. Leaves rustled where nothing should be moving. Something cracked in the distance, followed by a low growl.
Our first "opponent" stepped out from behind a tree, a horned boar the size of a motorcycle. Its hide looked like hardened bark, tusks jutting forward like curved blades.
I slid my short swords free with a metallic whisper. "You take the left—"
Lyra didn't wait for me to finish. She darted forward, daggers flashing. The boar bellowed and charged, not at her, but straight at me.
"Fantastic start," I muttered, diving to the side.
Lyra managed to slash its flank, but the hide was tougher than it looked. It barely flinched. I closed in from behind, aiming for the joint at its front leg, only for Lyra to suddenly backstep right into me.
"Move!" I barked.
She stumbled forward just in time for the boar to swing its head, tusks carving a shallow line across my side. A small stream of blood flowed from under my shirt.
"Could you not block me while I'm trying to kill the thing?" I snapped.
"You're welcome for saving you!" she shot back, twisting to jab at its eye, missing completely when the beast moved its head to the side.
It took another three minutes of chaotic, uncoordinated lunges before we brought it down, me driving both blades into the back of its neck while Lyra pinned her daggers into its head.
We barely had time to catch our breath before the next one showed up.
This time it was a wolf, its fur a shimmering silver, eyes glowing faintly with mana. It moved faster than the boar, forcing us into each other's space constantly. I went for a clean slash at its side, only for Lyra to step into my swing range, forcing me to pull back before I cut her instead.
By the time we finally killed it, my arms ached, her breathing was ragged, and the ground around us looked like we'd fought with blindfolds on.
We both stood there for a long moment, staring at the carcass.
"...We're really bad at this," I said.
"No," Lyra said between breaths, "you're bad at this."
I pointed a bloodied short sword at her. "We're both bad at this."
She sighed, and we moved on, knowing full well the next fight probably wasn't going to go any better.
---
By the time we'd stumbled through our fifth fight, I could feel every muscle in my body screaming for a break. Sweat clung to my body like a second layer of skin, my grip on the short swords felt like it was slipping with every swing, and my side still ached from the boar's tusk.
Lyra didn't look much better, hair plastered to her face, breathing ragged, a streak of dirt smeared across her cheek. One of her daggers had a small chip in the edge, but she was too tired to even notice.
The last beast, a hulking badger with claws the size of kitchen knives, lay slumped in front of us. I'd ended it with a downward strike while Lyra distracted it from behind. It wasn't pretty. Neither was the trail of shallow cuts and bruises we'd collected along the way.
"Training," I panted, "was a terrible idea."
She gave me a look that said she agreed but wasn't about to admit it out loud.
We dragged ourselves out of the dungeon zone, the familiar glow of the central district's mana lamps greeting us like a half-hearted welcome home. Every step toward the house felt heavier than the last.
By the time we pushed the door open, both of us dropped our weapons on the nearest surface and collapsed into the living room without even bothering to clean up first.
"We're not doing that again tomorrow," Lyra muttered.
I scoffed in disapproval, knowing that this would be nothing compared to the trials I would face in the future.
---
The next morning, I woke up feeling like someone had swapped my bones for lead pipes and replaced my blood with sand. My back ached from yesterday's falls, my arms burned from swinging my swords too much, and even my jaw felt sore, probably from gritting my teeth half the time.
Lyra didn't look much better. She was slumped in her chair at the table, hair sticking out at odd angles, dark circles under her violet eyes. She was stabbing her toast like it had personally wronged her.
We didn't talk. Not out of anger, but because opening our mouths meant moving, and moving hurt. The only sounds were the clink of cutlery, the quiet crunch of bread, and the occasional grunt when one of us shifted in our seats.
If this was what F-rank beasts could do to us, then surviving the entrance exam in six months wasn't just ambitious, it was borderline suicidal.
---
For the next six months, Zane and Lyra lived in a relentless loop. They woke at nine, worked at the restaurant until five, then went straight to the F-rank dungeon on the city's western edge. From dusk until ten, they fought beasts, honing their skills through bruises and exhaustion. Nights ended with reheated leftovers and collapsing into bed, only to repeat it all the next day. It wasn't glamorous, but the grind made them stronger, slowly, stubbornly, and without pause