Osric entered the Adventurers' Guild just before noon.
The building was louder than the forest had been—voices overlapping, boots on wood, the scrape of chairs—but his attention never fully settled. His eyes tracked movement automatically now, noting where people stood, where sightlines broke, where exits remained clear.
Mud still clung beneath his nails.
His clothes were torn in places he hadn't bothered to mend, fabric stiff where it had dried wrong. A faint smell of damp earth followed him in, subtle but persistent. He ignored the looks it earned him.
Franklin noticed immediately.
The branch leader was behind the desk as always, posture relaxed, expression unreadable. His eyes flicked over Osric in a single glance—long enough to take in the state of him, short enough to seem casual.
"You took longer than I expected," Franklin said.
Osric stopped at the desk and nodded once. "I found it."
Franklin didn't reach for a parchment. He didn't ask where.
He studied Osric instead.
"You're hurt," he observed.
"Not badly," Osric replied. "I didn't fight it."
That earned him a pause.
Franklin leaned back slightly, fingers folding together. "Good," he said after a moment. "Tell me."
Osric took a slow breath and spoke plainly. The abandoned watchtower. The fresh kill. The tracks. The hobgoblin's size, its weapon, its behavior. He left out nothing that mattered—and nothing that didn't.
When he finished, the guild noise felt farther away than before.
Franklin listened without interruption.
When Osric finally fell silent, Franklin nodded once, eyes sharp with thought.
"A D-rank specimen, then," he said. "Aggressive. Armed. Territorial." He exhaled quietly. "You did exactly what you were supposed to do."
He reached beneath the counter and retrieved a small pouch, setting it down between them.
"Sixty copper," Franklin said. "As agreed."
Osric took it.
"And Osric," Franklin added, meeting his gaze directly now. "You made the correct choice today. Remember that."
Osric closed his fingers around the pouch.
"I will."
Osric returned home as the sun climbed higher, exhaustion settling deeper with every step.
The broken door creaked as he slipped inside, the familiar cold air greeting him like an old truth. He didn't linger. He knelt immediately and loosened the coin pouch, letting its contents spill onto the floor beside the thin blanket.
He counted carefully.
Once.
Then again.
One hundred and forty-one copper crowns.
Less than he'd hoped—but more than enough to do something he'd neglected for far too long.
Care.
Osric tied the pouch shut again and stood, ignoring the protest in his leg as he left the room once more. The nearest inn wasn't far—close enough that even in his state he could reach it without drawing attention.
The bath came first.
The water was hot.
Painfully so at first, stinging every scrape and torn patch of skin as he lowered himself in. Osric clenched his jaw and forced himself not to pull away. Slowly, the heat worked its way through him, loosening stiff muscles, softening dried blood and caked mud.
For the first time since the forest, his shoulders dropped.
Five copper well spent.
The meal came after.
Simple. Warm. Filling.
Seven copper for stew and bread—nothing extravagant, but it settled heavily and comfortably in his stomach. He ate in silence, letting strength return in small, honest increments rather than sudden surges.
By the time he left, his steps were steadier.
Still tired.
But no longer hollow.
He stopped by a small apothecary on the way back, spending another sixteen copper on ointment and clean bandages. The woman behind the counter asked no questions. She'd seen worse, and she'd learned not to pry.
Back in his room, Osric worked slowly.
He cleaned every cut. Wrapped what needed wrapping. Pressed ointment into raw skin until the sting dulled into warmth. His leg protested most loudly, deep and stubborn pain that reminded him just how close he'd come to losing it.
He sat back once he was finished, breathing evenly.
'That was reckless.'
The thought came without self-loathing.
Just fact.
Always pushing forward. Always fighting hurt. Relying on endurance instead of judgment. It had worked—until it almost hadn't.
Osric lay back on the blanket, staring at the ceiling.
'I don't need to rush.'
Strength gained while broken wasn't strength. It was debt.
This time, he would let himself heal.
Fully.
Before sleep took him, Osric raised a hand.
Status
Name: Osric
Potential: E
Strength: 11
Agility: 10
Stamina: 11
Endurance: 9
Vitality: 9
Mana: 0
Skills:
Pain Resistance (E)
Combat Instinct (E)
Heightened Senses (F)
The numbers felt… right.
Stamina had caught up. His body no longer lagged behind his will. The growth wasn't dramatic—but it was stable.
Earned.
Osric dismissed the screen and turned onto his side, the pain already quieter than it had been that morning.
Tonight, he would rest.
Not because he was weak.
But because he intended to live long enough to become strong.