Time did not move gently.
It pressed down on them—day after day—like an unrelenting weight, grinding weakness into habit, fear into instinct.
Four months passed.
No one celebrated the passage of time. No one even noticed it at first. Days blurred together, marked only by aching muscles, torn calluses, and the steady rhythm of training bells echoing through stone corridors and forest paths.
By the time they realized how much had changed, the change had already settled into their bones.
Morning began before sunrise.
A horn would sound—low and dull—and the heroes would rise from their cots, bodies protesting before their minds fully woke. Breakfast was simple: bread, soup, occasionally dried meat. No one complained anymore. Hunger had become familiar.
Training followed immediately.
Weapons first.
Haruto Miyazaki stood in the yard, sword raised, sweat already dripping down his temple as he repeated the same motion again and again.
Slash.
Parry.
Step back.
Breathe.
"Again," the instructor barked.
Haruto obeyed.
Four months ago, his grip had been sloppy. His stance uncertain. Now his movements were precise—not elegant, but controlled.
Nearby, Kenta Aoyama practiced heavy strikes, his shoulders thickening from relentless repetition. Shun Kobayashi struggled more than most—his body slower to adapt—but he never skipped a session.
No one did.
Skipping meant falling behind.
And falling behind meant dying.
Magic training came after weapons.
Spellbooks were laid out on stone tables, their pages worn and marked with notes. None of the heroes could cast freely yet. Chanting was still necessary. Precision mattered more than power.
Mio Kanzaki failed her spell for the third time that morning.
The wind dispersed too early, the formation unstable.
She closed her eyes, jaw clenched, and tried again.
This time, the airflow held.
Not strong.
But stable.
The instructor nodded once.
That was enough
Injuries accumulated.
Bruised ribs. Torn skin. Burned palms from misfired spells.
There was no healing magic to erase mistakes.
Bandages replaced miracles.
Hana Morimoto became skilled with them—not because she wanted to, but because someone had to be. She learned how to clean wounds, how to set fingers, how to recognize when someone was pushing too far.
Emi Kuroda fainted once from exhaustion.
No one mocked her.
They simply carried her back and trained harder the next day.
They spoke less now.
Not out of hostility—but fatigue.
Friendships still existed, but they were quieter. Deeper. More fragile.
Yui Hoshino sometimes sat alone at night, cleaning her bow, eyes distant. Souta Nishimura laughed occasionally, but there was strain beneath it.
Naoki Ueda slept lightly, hand always near his shield.
They all dreamed.
None of them spoke about it.
The Forest, Revisited
The forest stood unchanged.
That alone was unsettling.
Four months ago, it had terrified them. Every sound felt like a threat. Every shadow hid death.
Now, it felt… neutral.
Not safe.
But understood.
"I-rank territory," Commander Arvik said, voice calm. "Pack predators. Coordinated. No reckless advances."
The heroes nodded.
No cheers.
No excitement.
Only readiness.
The Ironhide Wolves revealed themselves slowly.
Three shapes emerged from the brush, muscles tense, eyes calculating. Their metallic hides caught the light faintly.
"They're testing us," Hana whispered.
"Yes," Arvik replied. "Let them."
Yui moved first.
Her arrow flew cleanly—aimed not to kill, but to disrupt. It struck a shoulder, forcing the lead wolf to stagger.
"Split," Kenta said.
Fire flared across the ground—Haruto's spell carefully restrained, forming a barrier rather than an explosion.
The wolves reacted instantly.
Naoki absorbed the first charge.
The impact rattled his bones, shield screaming under pressure—but he held.
Kenta struck low, blade biting deep.
Souta followed, mace crashing down with bone-breaking force.
The first wolf fell.
The second leapt high—too high.
Shun reacted late.
Claws tore through his arm, blood splashing the dirt.
Pain exploded—but he stayed upright.
"Still functional," he hissed.
Emi's wind slammed the wolf mid-air, twisting its trajectory. Mio's spear pierced cleanly through the throat.
It collapsed without sound.
The third wolf hesitated.
Then fled.
Aftermath
No one chased it.
Breathing filled the clearing.
Heavy.
Controlled.
Alive.
Hana bound Shun's arm while Arvik inspected the field.
"You didn't panic," he said. "You adapted. That's improvement."
No one smiled.
But relief flickered in their eyes.
They were still weak.
Still mortal.
Still afraid.
But fear no longer ruled them.
As they moved deeper into the forest—toward stronger monsters, harsher truths—Haruto looked at his hands.
They were steady.
Not heroic.
Just capable.
And for now—
That was enough.