CHAPTER 14 - The Adept
The morning after his promotion, Chris woke to find his body had finally begun to forgive him.
The deep ache that had settled into his bones after the dire wolf fight had faded to a dull background hum—present but no longer debilitating. His injured arm, wrapped in clean bandages that Iris had insisted on changing before she'd left him at The Copper Coin, no longer throbbed with every heartbeat. When he flexed his fingers experimentally, they responded without the sharp protest that had greeted every movement the day before.
Progress. Slow, incremental, but undeniable.
He pulled up his status screen, the familiar gesture now as natural as breathing.
╔═══════════════════════════════════════════╗
║ Name: Chris ║
║ Level: 1 ║
║ Title: Shadow Young Lord ║
║ Rank: E (NEW) ║
║ HP: 89/100 ║
║ MP: 50/50 ║
╠═══════════════════════════════════════════╣
║ Shadow Skills: ║
║ - Shadow Control (F) ║
║ - Blink (F) ║
║ - Shadow Rise (F) ║
║ - Shadow Sense (F) ║
╠═══════════════════════════════════════════╣
║ Sword Skills: ║
║ - Precision Strike (F) [Passive] ║
║ - Piercing Thrust (F) [Active] ║
║ - Rapid Strike (F) [Active] ║
╠═══════════════════════════════════════════╣
║ Servants: 1/1 ║
║ - Scout (Shadow Goblin) - F rank ║
╠═══════════════════════════════════════════╣
║ Path of the Blade Progress: ║
║ ✓ Milestone 1: 100 strikes ║
║ ✓ Milestone 2: 10 enemy kills ║
║ ✓ Milestone 3: Critical hit ║
║ ⬜ Milestone 4: Fight without magic ║
╚═══════════════════════════════════════════╝
E-rank. The badge sat on his bedside table, bronze metal gleaming dully in the morning light filtering through his window. It felt heavier than it should, weighted with expectation and scrutiny.
Three out of four milestones complete. One more remained—the final test that would grant him the Blade Adept title and complete his journey down the Path of the Blade.
Fight without magic.
The irony wasn't lost on him. His entire existence in this world was built on a foundation of shadow magic. The System itself was a magical construct. His most powerful abilities were darkness made manifest. And yet the final milestone demanded he abandon all of it, rely solely on steel and skill and the techniques he'd earned through pain and repetition.
"Master, you are awake. Excellent. Your recovery metrics have improved significantly."
Chris swung his legs off the bed, wincing slightly as his arm protested the movement. "How much longer until I'm back to full strength?"
"At current healing rates, approximately thirty-six hours. However, I must note that 'full strength' is a relative term. Your baseline capabilities continue to evolve."
"Meaning?"
"Meaning each combat encounter, each training session, each technique mastered incrementally increases your physical conditioning. The you of yesterday is weaker than the you of today. The you of today will be weaker than the you of tomorrow."
Chris considered that as he stood and moved to the window. Below, Rendercity was coming to life—merchants opening shops, guards changing shifts, citizens beginning another day in a world that had no idea monsters like The Pale Man existed.
But Chris knew. He'd seen the corruption, fought the creatures it spawned, felt the wrongness of magic twisted into something malevolent.
And in three days, he'd be part of the team hunting its source.
Three days to prepare. Three days to train. Three days to become stronger.
He dressed quickly, buckled his sword belt, and checked his coin pouch. The quest rewards had accumulated—he now had just over one hundred copper coins. Not wealthy by any means, but enough for food, lodging, and perhaps a few basic supplies.
His stomach growled, reminding him that healing required fuel.
Breakfast first. Then training.
---
The Copper Coin's common room smelled of fresh bread and cooking bacon, scents that made Chris's mouth water as he descended the stairs. The innkeeper—a woman whose name Chris still didn't know despite staying here for over a week—nodded at him from behind the bar.
"The usual?" she asked, her tone suggesting she'd already anticipated his answer.
"Please."
She disappeared into the kitchen without another word. Chris found a table in the corner, his habitual position, and settled in to wait.
The common room held a handful of other patrons—workers eating before their shifts, a traveling merchant reviewing ledgers over coffee, an elderly couple sharing a quiet meal. Normal people living normal lives, their biggest concerns probably taxes or weather or family drama.
Chris envied them, sometimes. The simplicity of existing without secrets, without powers that would get you executed if discovered, without gods watching your every move for entertainment.
But only sometimes.
Because those same powers had saved his life. Had given him purpose. Had transformed him from an invisible nobody into someone who could actually make a difference.
The innkeeper returned with a plate of bacon, eggs, and thick slices of bread still warm from the oven. Chris paid her three copper and began eating with the focused efficiency of someone who'd learned not to waste energy on anything that didn't serve survival.
He was halfway through the meal when the chair across from him scraped against the floor.
Chris looked up, hand instinctively moving toward his sword hilt.
Iris sat down, a cup of tea in her hands and an expression on her face that was equal parts amused and exasperated.
"You know," she said conversationally, "most people say 'good morning' before reaching for weapons."
Chris relaxed his grip but didn't move his hand away entirely. "Most people don't sneak up on armed adventurers during breakfast."
"I didn't sneak. I walked normally. You were just lost in thought." She sipped her tea, green eyes studying him over the rim of the cup. "Thinking about the investigation?"
"Among other things."
"Care to share?"
Chris considered how much to reveal. Iris was his partner—had saved his life multiple times, fought beside him, healed his wounds. But she was also increasingly suspicious of his rapid progression, his unusual techniques, his secrets.
Trust was a currency he couldn't afford to spend carelessly.
"Just reviewing what we know about the corruption," he said finally. "Trying to prepare for whatever we'll face."
"We don't face anything for three more days," Iris pointed out. "Aldric said the briefing is scheduled for then. Until that time, we're supposed to rest and recover." Her gaze dropped to his bandaged arm. "Especially you."
"I'm fine."
"You nearly died two days ago. You passed out from blood loss. You used a technique that even experienced observers couldn't identify." She leaned forward, voice dropping to something more serious. "You're not fine, Chris. You're running on stubbornness and whatever secret fuel drives you. But eventually, that runs out."
Chris met her eyes, seeing genuine concern there beneath the frustration. "I know my limits."
"Do you? Because from where I'm sitting, it looks like you're constantly pushing past them, hoping you'll discover new ones before the old ones kill you."
She wasn't wrong. Chris knew she wasn't wrong. Every fight had been a calculated risk, every training session a gamble with his body's capacity to endure. He'd survived through a combination of skill, luck, and the System's support.
But luck was finite. And eventually, he'd face something that skill alone couldn't overcome.
Unless he became stronger first.
"I appreciate the concern," Chris said quietly. "Truly. But I can't afford to rest when there are people out there creating monsters that kill children."
Iris's expression softened slightly. "You can't save everyone, Chris."
"I know. But I can save someone. And that has to be enough."
They sat in silence for a moment, the sounds of the common room filling the space between them—clinking silverware, muted conversations, the crackle of the fireplace.
Finally, Iris sighed. "You're impossible."
"I've been told."
"And stubborn."
"Also been told."
"And you're going to train anyway, regardless of what I say about rest and recovery."
"Probably."
Iris shook her head, but a small smile tugged at her lips. "Fine. If you're going to be reckless, at least let me supervise. That way when you inevitably injure yourself again, I can heal you before you pass out."
Chris blinked. "You want to watch me train?"
"I want to make sure you don't die doing something stupid without witnesses." She stood, finishing her tea in one long swallow. "Meet me at the guild's training yard in an hour. And Chris?"
"Yeah?"
"Bring your sword. If we're doing this, we're doing it properly."
She left before he could respond, silver hair swaying as she navigated through the common room and out into the morning streets.
Chris sat there for a moment, processing what had just happened.
Iris wanted to train with him. Wanted to watch him practice, see his techniques, observe his methods.
Which meant more opportunities for her to notice inconsistencies. More chances for his secrets to surface.
But it also meant someone watching his back. Someone who could heal him if he pushed too hard. Someone who genuinely seemed to care whether he lived or died.
The risk-reward calculation was complicated.
Chris finished his breakfast and headed back to his room to prepare.
---
The guild's training yard was empty when Chris arrived, the morning sun climbing higher and casting long shadows across the packed earth. Practice dummies stood in neat rows like silent sentinels. Weapon racks lined the perimeter, filled with training weapons of various types. The air smelled of sawdust and old sweat, familiar scents that spoke of countless hours of violence practiced in the name of improvement.
Chris drew his iron sword, the weight comfortable and familiar in his grip. The blade had seen him through goblin fights and bandit encounters and dire wolves. It bore the scars of those battles—small nicks and scratches that mapped his journey from F-rank nobody to E-rank adventurer.
"Master, before you begin training, I have a suggestion."
Chris paused mid-stance. "What kind of suggestion?"
"Regarding Milestone Four. Your final test requires fighting without magic. I recommend dedicating today's training exclusively to pure swordsmanship. No Shadow Sense. No reliance on predictive capabilities. Only blade and body."
The System's logic made sense. If the milestone demanded he fight without magical assistance, then training without it would better prepare him for that moment.
But Shadow Sense had become such an integral part of his combat style that the thought of fighting without it felt like deliberately blinding himself.
"That's going to make things significantly harder," Chris said.
"Correct. Which is precisely why you should practice now, in a controlled environment, rather than discover your limitations during actual combat."
Chris couldn't argue with that reasoning. "Fine. Disable Shadow Sense."
"Confirmed. Shadow Sense has been suppressed. You will need to rely entirely on visual observation and combat instinct."
The change was immediate and disorienting.
The constant background awareness that had become his sixth sense vanished, leaving him feeling suddenly vulnerable and incomplete. The world seemed flatter, less dimensional, as if someone had removed a layer of reality he'd grown accustomed to perceiving.
Chris took a breath, steadying himself, then moved toward the nearest practice dummy.
He fell into his stance—feet shoulder-width apart, knees slightly bent, weight distributed evenly, sword held in a middle guard position. The fundamentals that the System had drilled into him through endless repetition.
Then he struck.
The slash was clean, controlled, his hips rotating to generate power while his arms guided the blade's trajectory. The sword bit into the dummy's torso, carving a deep groove in the wood.
Good form. Solid technique.
But without Shadow Sense feeding him constant tactical information, he felt blind. Exposed.
"Your form is adequate, Master. However, I detect tension in your shoulders. You are compensating for the absence of Shadow Sense by over-gripping your weapon. Relax. Trust your training."
Chris forced his shoulders to drop, his grip to loosen slightly. He struck again, then again, falling into the rhythm of practice. Horizontal slashes. Vertical cuts. Diagonal strikes. Combinations that flowed from one attack to the next.
His body remembered what his mind had doubted. The techniques were there, written into muscle and reflex through hours of midnight training. Shadow Sense might enhance his combat effectiveness, but it wasn't the foundation of his skill.
The foundation was this—steel and sweat and repetition.
He was so focused on the training that he didn't notice Iris's arrival until she spoke.
"Your footwork is improving."
Chris spun, sword halfway through a strike, and barely managed to redirect the blade away from her.
Iris stood at the training yard's entrance, arms crossed, watching him with an expression that was part impressed and part analytical. She'd changed from her casual clothes into her adventuring gear—green robes belted at the waist, staff strapped to her back, hair pulled into a practical braid.
"You trying to give me a heart attack?" Chris lowered his sword, breathing hard from the exertion.
"I've been standing here for five minutes. You were just too focused to notice." She walked closer, circling him the way a predator might circle prey—or the way a teacher might circle a student. "Show me that last combination again. The vertical slash into the spinning horizontal cut."
Chris hesitated. "Why?"
"Because I want to see if you can replicate it. A lot of fighters stumble onto effective techniques through instinct but can't consistently reproduce them." Her eyes met his, challenging. "So show me."
Chris fell back into position, ran through the combination—vertical slash flowing into a pivot and horizontal cut. The movements felt smooth, practiced, deliberate.
Iris nodded slowly. "Again. But faster this time."
He repeated the technique, increasing the speed.
"Again. Add a thrust at the end."
Chris adapted, the thrust punching forward at the conclusion of the horizontal cut.
"Interesting." Iris tapped her chin thoughtfully. "That's not self-taught technique. Those transitions are too refined. Too... deliberate." She moved closer, studying his stance. "Where did you really learn to fight, Chris?"
The question hung between them like a drawn blade.
Chris could lie. Could deflect. Could fall back on the mountain village story that was wearing thinner with every telling.
Or he could give her a piece of truth. Not the whole truth—never that—but something real.
"I taught myself," he said slowly, choosing each word with care. "But I had... guidance. Someone who understood combat better than I ever could. Someone who showed me the fundamentals and let me build from there."
It wasn't entirely a lie. The System had guided him, had corrected his form, had provided knowledge that no normal teacher could match.
Iris studied him for a long moment. "This teacher. Are they in Rendercity?"
"No. They're... far away."
"Will I ever meet them?"
"Probably not."
She nodded, accepting the non-answer for what it was—another wall, another boundary she wouldn't cross. Yet.
"Well," she said finally, stepping back and drawing her staff, "whoever they were, they taught you well. But theory and practice are different things. Let's see how you handle a real opponent."
Chris raised an eyebrow. "You want to spar?"
"I want to see what you can actually do. No monsters trying to kill you. No desperate life-or-death stakes. Just you, me, and the question of whether your mysterious training actually prepared you for combat." She smiled, but there was steel beneath it. "Unless you're afraid a D-rank mage will embarrass you?"
Chris couldn't help but grin. "You trying to provoke me?"
"Is it working?"
"Maybe."
"Good." Iris fell into a ready stance, staff held diagonally across her body. "First one to land three clean hits wins. Magic is allowed, but nothing that would cause permanent injury. Agreed?"
Chris considered the parameters. Sparring against Iris would reveal some of his capabilities, true. But it would also give him invaluable experience fighting against a skilled opponent in a controlled environment.
And more importantly—it would be the perfect opportunity to test himself without Shadow Sense.
"Agreed," Chris said, raising his sword. "Ready when you are."
Iris's smile widened. "Then let's begin."
She moved.
Iris didn't telegraph her attack.
One moment she was standing in a ready stance, staff held loosely across her body. The next, she was moving—a blur of green robes and silver hair closing the distance between them with speed that made Chris's instincts scream danger.
Her staff swept low, aiming for his legs.
Without Shadow Sense, Chris didn't have the predictive warning he'd grown accustomed to. He had only his eyes, his reflexes, and whatever combat instincts his training had developed.
He jumped backward, the staff whistling past where his shins had been a heartbeat earlier. His landing was awkward, weight unbalanced, and Iris capitalized immediately.
She reversed her grip and thrust the staff's tip toward his chest.
Chris brought his sword down in a desperate parry, steel meeting wood with a sharp crack. The impact jarred his arms—Iris was stronger than her slender frame suggested—but he managed to deflect the strike.
"One," Iris said calmly, already resetting her stance.
Chris blinked. "What?"
"That parry was sloppy. If this were real combat, I would have adjusted mid-thrust and caught you in the ribs. One hit for me."
"We're counting theoretical hits now?"
"We're being honest about effectiveness." Her green eyes glinted with something that might have been amusement or might have been challenge. "Or would you prefer I actually break your ribs to prove the point?"
"The theoretical approach is fine."
"Good. Then let's continue."
She attacked again, this time from a different angle—a diagonal strike aimed at his shoulder. Chris sidestepped, bringing his sword up in a counterslash that would have caught her midsection.
Iris twisted away from the blade with fluid grace, using her staff to redirect his sword while simultaneously creating distance. The movement was so smooth it looked choreographed.
"Better," she acknowledged. "Your counter was well-timed. But you committed too heavily to the attack. If I'd been faster—" She demonstrated, her staff sweeping toward his now-exposed side. "—you'd be hit again."
Chris reset his stance, breathing harder now. Fighting without Shadow Sense was like fighting with one eye closed. Every movement Iris made was a surprise, every attack a split-second scramble to respond rather than the smooth flow of prediction and counter he'd grown used to.
"You're fighting differently today," Iris observed, circling him slowly. "More reactive. Less... prescient."
Chris's heart skipped. "Prescient?"
"You usually move like you know what I'm going to do before I do it. It's subtle, but it's there." She tilted her head, studying him. "Today, you're slower. More uncertain. Why?"
Because I'm fighting without my sixth sense, Chris thought. Because I'm trying to learn how to be a swordsman instead of a shadow mage who happens to hold a sword.
"Trying a different approach," he said aloud. "Focusing on fundamentals instead of instinct."
"Hmm." Iris didn't sound entirely convinced, but she didn't press. "Well, your fundamentals need work. Your stance is solid, but your transitions are rough. You fight like someone who learned individual techniques but hasn't quite figured out how to flow between them."
She wasn't wrong. Chris's training had been focused on specific skills—Precision Strike, Piercing Thrust, Rapid Strike—but linking them together into a cohesive fighting style was something he was still developing.
"Show me how it should look," Chris said.
Iris raised an eyebrow. "You want me to demonstrate?"
"If you're going to critique my technique, I should at least see what proper form looks like."
A smile tugged at her lips. "Fair enough. Watch closely."
She moved through a series of attacks in slow motion—staff sweeping through arcs and thrusts and parries that flowed from one movement to the next like water. Each strike ended in a position that was already the beginning of the next attack. There was no wasted motion, no pause, no moment where she wasn't either attacking or preparing to attack.
"Combat isn't about individual techniques," she explained as she moved. "It's about the spaces between them. The transitions. The way one attack creates the opening for the next." She completed the sequence and reset to a neutral stance. "Your techniques are strong, Chris. But you're fighting like each one exists in isolation. Learn to connect them, and you'll be twice as dangerous."
Chris absorbed the lesson, his mind already working to apply it. The System had taught him techniques, but Iris was teaching him something else—the art of combining them into something greater than the sum of their parts.
"Again," he said, raising his sword. "And this time, don't hold back."
Iris's smile widened. "You sure about that?"
"Positive."
"Your funeral."
She exploded into motion.
This time, there was no measured demonstration, no pulling punches. Iris attacked with the speed and ferocity of someone who'd been holding back before and had just been given permission to stop.
Her staff became a blur—strikes coming from multiple angles in rapid succession, each one forcing Chris to defend or dodge or retreat. She used her wind magic sparingly but effectively, small gusts that threw off his balance or redirected his counterattacks.
Chris found himself driven backward across the training yard, his sword working overtime to parry strikes that seemed to come from everywhere at once. His arms burned with the effort. His legs trembled from the constant movement. Sweat dripped into his eyes.
And yet...
He was learning.
Each exchange taught him something new. The way Iris shifted her weight before a particular strike. The pattern in her footwork that repeated every few seconds. The slight tension in her shoulders that preceded her faster attacks.
Without Shadow Sense feeding him supernatural predictions, Chris was forced to rely on pure observation and pattern recognition. It was harder, slower, more prone to failure.
But it was real.
A staff strike whistled toward his head. Chris ducked under it and lunged forward with a thrust aimed at Iris's center mass.
She sidestepped—he'd expected that—but Chris had already committed to a follow-up, his blade reversing direction mid-thrust and slashing horizontally where Iris was moving.
The sword's edge stopped an inch from her ribs.
Iris froze, then looked down at the blade, then up at Chris.
"That," she said slowly, "was much better."
Chris lowered his sword, breathing hard. "One hit for me?"
"One hit for you," she confirmed. She tapped her staff against the ground, considering him. "That combination—the feint thrust into the horizontal slash—where did you learn that?"
"Just now. From you."
"From me?"
"You've been using variations of that pattern for the last five minutes. I just... adapted it to a sword instead of a staff."
Iris stared at him for a long moment. Then she laughed—a genuine, delighted sound that made her seem younger than her years.
"You adapted my technique mid-combat. After seeing it a few times." She shook her head, still smiling. "Most fighters take weeks to copy techniques from observation. You did it in minutes."
"Is that unusual?"
"Chris, everything about you is unusual." Her expression sobered slightly. "Which brings me back to my earlier question—where did you really learn to fight? Because that kind of adaptive learning isn't self-taught. That's the mark of someone who's been trained to analyze and integrate new information rapidly."
Chris chose his words carefully. "My teacher emphasized understanding principles over memorizing techniques. They taught me to see the why behind movements, not just the how."
It was true, in a sense. The System did exactly that—broke down techniques into fundamental principles of leverage, timing, and body mechanics.
"Your teacher sounds remarkable," Iris said. "And frustratingly mysterious, since you won't tell me anything about them."
"Some mysteries are better left unsolved."
"Is that a philosophy or a warning?"
"Both, maybe."
They stood in silence for a moment, the only sounds the distant noise of the city and their own labored breathing.
Finally, Iris planted her staff in the ground and stretched her arms above her head, joints popping. "I think that's enough for today. You're injured, exhausted, and you've already pushed yourself harder than any healer would recommend."
"I'm fine."
"You're always 'fine.' Until suddenly you're not." She walked over to where she'd left a water skin and took a long drink before tossing it to Chris. "But I'll admit—you held up better than I expected. That last combination was legitimately good."
Chris caught the water skin and drank gratefully. The cool liquid soothed his parched throat. "Thanks. For the sparring and the lessons."
"Don't thank me yet. Tomorrow, we're doing this again. And the day after that. If you're going to insist on being reckless, you might as well be skilled while doing it." She collected her staff and headed toward the exit, then paused and glanced back. "Chris?"
"Yeah?"
"That teacher of yours—whoever they are—they chose well. You've got talent. Raw and unrefined, but real." Her expression grew serious. "Just don't let whatever secrets you're carrying get you killed before you have a chance to develop it."
She left before he could respond.
Chris stood alone in the training yard, water skin in one hand and sword in the other, her words echoing in his mind.
Don't let your secrets get you killed.
Good advice. If only following it didn't feel impossible.
---
The rest of the day passed in a blur of recovery and preparation.
Chris returned to The Copper Coin, ate a substantial lunch, and then spent the afternoon maintaining his equipment. His iron sword needed sharpening—the blade had accumulated nicks and dull spots from constant combat. His armor, such as it was, needed repairs where claws and teeth had torn through leather.
Simple, mundane tasks that gave his mind time to process the day's lessons.
Fighting without Shadow Sense had been harder than he'd expected. The absence of that constant tactical awareness had left him feeling vulnerable and slow. But Iris was right—he'd adapted. Had learned to rely on observation and pattern recognition instead of magical prediction.
And when Milestone Four forced him to fight without any magical assistance, those skills would be the difference between life and death.
"Master, I have been analyzing your combat performance during the sparring session."
Chris looked up from sharpening his sword. "And?"
"Your adaptation rate was impressive. Without Shadow Sense, you demonstrated significant improvement in visual tracking and pattern recognition. Additionally, your integration of observed techniques exceeded typical learning curves."
"Meaning?"
"Meaning you have a natural aptitude for combat that extends beyond the skills I provide. Your mind processes tactical information rapidly and applies it effectively." A pause. "You would have been formidable even without my assistance."
Chris wasn't sure how to respond to that. The System rarely offered compliments without accompanying critique.
"Is there a 'but' coming?" he asked.
"Yes. Your physical conditioning remains a limiting factor. Your techniques are sound, but you lack the stamina and raw strength of veterans who have trained for years. Against opponents of similar skill, you will be at a disadvantage in prolonged engagements."
"How do I fix that?"
"Time and training. Your body is adapting to the demands you place upon it, but muscle development and cardiovascular conditioning cannot be rushed without risking injury. Continue your current regimen, and you will see steady improvement."
Chris nodded, returning his attention to the sword. The blade's edge gleamed in the afternoon light, sharp enough to cut with minimal pressure. He tested it against a piece of leather, satisfied when it sliced cleanly through.
"System, when Milestone Four completes... what exactly will the Blade Adept title do?"
"I cannot provide specific details before the milestone is achieved. However, I can confirm that it will represent a significant advancement in your combat capabilities."
"That's deliberately vague."
"Some surprises are more impactful when experienced rather than explained, Master."
Chris couldn't argue with that logic, frustrating as it was.
He finished maintaining his equipment, then spent the evening reviewing what he knew about the corruption investigation. The Pale Man—a demon from the Darklands, according to the fragmentary information Captain Thera had gathered. Creating corrupted creatures deliberately. Planting them near populated areas.
But why? What was the endgame?
Demons from the Darklands were supposedly sealed away by ancient magic, contained in their cursed continent to prevent them from spreading chaos across the world. If one had escaped—or been released—it represented a threat far beyond a few corrupted wolves.
It represented a potential invasion.
Chris stared at his ceiling as night fell, thinking about the investigation that would begin in two days. About the team he'd be joining. About the final milestone that stood between him and the power he needed to face whatever was coming.
Somewhere out there, The Pale Man was creating monsters.
And soon, Chris would be hunting him.
The thought should have terrified him.
Instead, it filled him with something that felt almost like anticipation.
He was ready.
Or he would be, by the time the investigation began.
---
That night, Chris stood in the guild's training yard once more, darkness wrapped around him like a familiar cloak.
Night Phase activated with its usual rush of enhanced awareness. His Shadow Sense expanded, touching the darkness that blanketed Rendercity. Scout emerged from his shadow without being summoned, the shadow goblin's purple eyes glowing softly in the gloom.
"Scout," Chris said quietly. "Combat drill pattern Beta."
The shadow servant moved immediately, flowing across the training yard toward the practice dummies. Its movements were fluid, predatory, utterly silent. It attacked the nearest dummy with vicious efficiency—claws that left deep gouges in wood, strikes that would have eviscerated flesh.
Chris watched, analyzing. Scout was fast, deadly, obedient. But it lacked intelligence, creativity, adaptability. It could execute commands but couldn't think beyond them.
Still, as a weapon, it was formidable.
"Return," Chris commanded.
Scout dissolved and flowed back into his shadow, settling into that dormant state where it waited, always ready, always patient.
Chris drew his own sword and began his nightly training routine. Without the restriction of suppressing Shadow Sense, he could practice with his full capabilities—feeling the movements of air around him, sensing the subtle shifts in shadow and light, existing in that heightened state where combat became almost meditation.
He worked through combinations, testing ways to link his techniques together as Iris had demonstrated. Precision Strike flowing into Piercing Thrust. Rapid Strike creating openings for follow-up attacks. Each movement deliberate, each transition smoother than the last.
The moon climbed higher. The city slept. And Chris trained.
Because in two days, he'd face real danger.
And when Milestone Four presented itself—when he was forced to fight without magic, without Shadow Sense, without any of the abilities that had kept him alive—he needed to be ready.
Not just ready.
Perfect.
The sword sang through the air, cutting shadows that couldn't bleed.
And somewhere in the darkness, something watched.
Not the God this time. Something else. Something patient. Something waiting for the right moment to reveal itself.
But Chris was too focused to notice.
Too dedicated to the Path he'd chosen to see the eyes that observed from the rooftops.
Tomorrow would bring new challenges.
The day after, the investigation would begin.
And soon—very soon—Chris would face the test that would define him.
Swordsman or shadow mage.
Warrior or weapon.
Human or something else entirely.
The blade cut through darkness, and the night offered no answers.
Only the promise of violence to come.
-----
The next two days passed in a rhythm of training and recovery.
Each morning, Chris met Iris at the guild's training yard. They sparred without magic—Chris continuing to suppress his Shadow Sense, Iris limiting herself to physical combat and basic staff techniques. The sessions were brutal, revealing every weakness in Chris's swordsmanship while simultaneously forcing him to develop compensatory skills.
He learned to read body language the way he'd once read Shadow Sense predictions. The subtle shift of weight that preceded a lunge. The tensing of muscles before a strike. The pattern of breathing that indicated fatigue or preparation for a burst of speed.
It wasn't the same as magical prediction. It was slower, less precise, more prone to failure. But it was real, and it was his.
"Better," Iris said on the second day, breathing hard as she lowered her staff. "You're actually starting to look like you know what you're doing."
Chris lowered his own sword, sweat dripping from his face despite the cool morning air. "High praise from someone who spent the last hour hitting me with a stick."
"A staff," Iris corrected primly. "And I only hit you when you deserved it. Which was frequently."
"My bruises agree with that assessment."
They'd fallen into an easy rhythm over the past days—banter mixed with genuine instruction, competition balanced by mutual respect. Iris pushed him harder than any instructor Chris had ever imagined, but she also healed the worst of his injuries afterward and made sure he ate properly between sessions.
It felt almost like friendship.
Which made the secrets Chris kept feel heavier with each passing day.
"Tomorrow's the investigation," Iris said, wiping sweat from her forehead. "You ready?"
Chris considered the question seriously. Was he ready? Two days ago, he would have said no. But now, after hours of training without his magical crutch, after learning to fight through observation and adaptation rather than supernatural prediction...
"As ready as I'll ever be," he said.
"That's not actually reassuring."
"It's honest."
Iris studied him for a moment, then nodded. "Fair enough. Just... don't do anything stupid tomorrow, okay? We're part of a team. That means we don't take unnecessary risks, we don't go off alone, and we definitely don't try to be heroes."
The irony of receiving that advice from someone who'd partnered with an F-rank for an E+ quest wasn't lost on Chris, but he kept the observation to himself.
"I'll be careful," he promised.
"You'd better be. I've invested too much effort into keeping you alive to have you die on some routine investigation." She collected her staff and turned to leave, then paused. "Chris?"
"Yeah?"
"Whatever happens tomorrow... I've got your back. You know that, right?"
Something warm settled in Chris's chest—gratitude, maybe, or the unfamiliar sensation of having someone who cared whether he lived or died.
"I know," he said quietly. "And I've got yours."
Iris smiled, genuine and bright, then headed for the exit.
Chris watched her go, then turned his attention to the practice dummy he'd been using. Its surface was covered in cuts and gouges from two days of relentless training—a wooden testament to his preparation.
Tomorrow, those cuts would be in flesh instead of wood.
The thought should have bothered him more than it did.
---
The afternoons were spent on practical preparations.
Chris visited the guild's quartermaster and purchased basic supplies—healing potions, rations, a whetstone, and a length of rope. The potions were expensive—ten copper each—but potentially life-saving. He bought three, leaving his funds significantly depleted but his survival odds marginally improved.
He also spent time studying maps of the region where the investigation would take place. The corrupted village was two days' travel west of Rendercity, near the border with less-settled territories. Remote enough that corruption could spread unchecked. Close enough that it represented a genuine threat to surrounding communities.
The strategic placement suggested intelligence behind the attacks. Someone—something—was choosing targets deliberately.
The Pale Man.
Chris had asked around the guild about demons from the Darklands, carefully framing his questions as general curiosity rather than specific concern. The information he'd gathered was fragmentary and often contradictory, but a few details emerged consistently:
Darklands demons were sealed away centuries ago by a coalition of kingdoms and magical orders. The seal was supposedly impenetrable, maintained by ancient wards and the sacrifice of powerful mages who'd given their lives to create it.
But seals could weaken. Wards could fail. And if even one demon had escaped...
Chris pushed the thought aside. Speculation without information was useless. Tomorrow, he'd learn more. Tomorrow, he'd see firsthand what corruption looked like when deliberately weaponized.
Tomorrow, he'd meet the team he'd be risking his life alongside.
---
The nights belonged to shadow and steel.
With Night Phase active and Scout at his side, Chris trained with a focus that bordered on obsession. He practiced every technique he'd learned, testing combinations, pushing his physical limits, preparing for the moment when magic would be stripped away and only skill remained.
"Master, your progress over the past two days has been significant. Your combat effectiveness without Shadow Sense has improved by approximately forty-three percent."
Chris paused mid-strike, breathing hard. "That much?"
"Confirmed. Your adaptation to visual tracking and pattern recognition has exceeded initial projections. You are developing compensatory skills that partially replace Shadow Sense's tactical advantages."
"Partially?"
"Shadow Sense provides information impossible to obtain through normal observation. However, against opponents without supernatural abilities, your current skill level is approaching adequacy."
"High praise," Chris said dryly.
"I provide accurate assessments, not praise. Though I will note—your dedication is... notable."
Chris resumed his training, a faint smile tugging at his lips. The System's version of a compliment was calling his dedication "notable." He'd take it.
Scout stood motionless at the edge of the training yard, purple eyes tracking Chris's movements. The shadow goblin had become more responsive over the past days, as if practice was refining their connection. It still lacked true intelligence, but its obedience was absolute and its combat effectiveness undeniable.
Having Scout as backup during the investigation would be invaluable. But only at night, only in deep shadows, only when no one was watching.
Another secret to keep. Another risk to manage.
Chris sheathed his sword and dismissed Scout, watching the shadow servant dissolve back into darkness. The goblin's presence was comforting in a strange way—a reminder that he wasn't entirely alone, even when he stood in empty training yards at midnight.
He looked up at the sky, finding the purple moon hanging low on the horizon. Somewhere beyond those distant lights, gods watched mortals struggle and called it entertainment. Somewhere in the Darklands, demons plotted escape and conquest. Somewhere in this very kingdom, The Pale Man created monsters and spread corruption.
And tomorrow, Chris would begin hunting him.
The thought carried weight. Purpose. Direction.
For the first time since arriving in this world, Chris felt like he was moving toward something instead of just running from his past.
---
The night before the investigation, Chris lay in his bed at The Copper Coin, staring at the ceiling and failing to sleep.
His body was exhausted—two days of intensive training had left him sore despite Iris's healing. His mind, however, refused to quiet. Thoughts circled endlessly, colliding and fragmenting and reforming.
Tomorrow he'd meet the investigation team. People who would trust him to watch their backs while they watched his.
People who had no idea he wielded forbidden magic.
People who would probably try to kill him if they discovered the truth.
"Master, your elevated heart rate and irregular breathing suggest anxiety. Would you like me to activate relaxation protocols?"
"The System has relaxation protocols?"
"I contain data on approximately fifteen thousand meditation techniques from various cultures and dimensions. Several are specifically designed to calm pre-combat stress."
Chris almost laughed. Of course the System had meditation techniques in its infinite database.
"Maybe another time," he said. "Right now, I think I need to sit with this feeling. Process it."
"An unconventional but psychologically valid approach. Very well."
Chris closed his eyes, letting his thoughts flow without trying to control them.
Fear of discovery. Anticipation of combat. Curiosity about his new teammates. Determination to complete Milestone Four. Hope that the Blade Adept title would provide the power he needed. Worry that even with it, he wouldn't be strong enough.
All of it swirled together, a storm of emotion and thought that eventually, finally, began to settle.
He thought of his old life. The office. The spreadsheets. The invisibility. The quiet desperation of existing without purpose.
He thought of this new life. The sword. The shadows. The danger. The terrifying, exhilarating sensation of mattering.
Given the choice, he'd choose this every time.
Even with the secrets. Even with the risks. Even knowing that discovery meant death.
Because at least here, he was alive.
Sleep claimed him eventually, pulling him down into dreams of steel and shadow and a pale figure that smiled with too many teeth.
---
Morning arrived with autumn sunlight and the smell of rain on distant wind.
Chris woke feeling surprisingly rested despite the previous night's anxiety. His body had adapted to the training, his mind had processed the stress, and now he felt... ready.
He dressed in his adventuring gear—leather armor over practical clothes, sword belted at his hip, boots worn but sturdy. The bronze E-rank badge went on his chest, gleaming dully in the morning light.
He looked at himself in the small mirror above his washbasin.
Two weeks ago, he'd been a nobody. An office worker with no future and no hope, killed by a truck and given a second chance in a world that wanted him dead for what he could do.
Now he was an E-rank adventurer. A swordsman who'd killed dire wolves and bandits and goblins. Someone who'd earned techniques through pain and blood. Someone who stood on the edge of something greater.
The face in the mirror looked the same. But the eyes were different. Harder. More certain.
Chris turned away from his reflection, collected his equipment, and headed downstairs.
The common room was quiet at this early hour. The innkeeper was there, as always, and she nodded at him with something that might have been approval.
"Heading out?" she asked.
"Investigation mission. Could be gone a few days."
"Be careful. The roads west aren't safe anymore." She paused, then added, "Your room will be here when you get back."
It was the closest thing to encouragement Chris had heard from her. He nodded his thanks and stepped out into the morning.
Rendercity was waking up around him—shops opening, guards changing posts, citizens beginning another day. Normal life, continuing oblivious to the dangers that lurked beyond the walls.
Chris walked through familiar streets toward the guild, his hand resting on his sword hilt. Not from fear, but from comfort. The weapon had become an extension of himself, as natural as breathing.
The Adventurer's Guild loomed ahead, its doors already open, light spilling out into the morning.
Inside those doors, his team waited.
Inside those doors, the investigation would begin.
Inside those doors, Chris would take the next step on a path that had no visible end.
He thought of the God's words, spoken in the void before his second life began: *Entertain me.*
Chris's jaw set with determination.
He'd do more than entertain.
He'd show that god—show this world—show himself—exactly what he was capable of.
The sword at his hip felt heavier than usual. Not with weight, but with promise.
Today, everything would change.
Chris pushed open the guild doors and stepped inside.
[END OF CHAPTER 14]