The following weeks were purely about recovery.
Thiriel would wake up before dawn, sit cross-legged on the floor of his room, and begin his meditation, guiding the flow of magic toward the damaged areas to accelerate his healing.
The ribs healed first. Then the arm. Finally, the deep bruises that had covered his torso faded away.
Arielle came every morning to change bandages and apply ointments. Her professionalism had returned after that night, though Thiriel noticed small changes when they were alone—the way she avoided direct eye contact, the slight tremor in her hands when she touched his skin.
They never mentioned what had happened.
Neither of them.
It was easier that way.
Caethiriel observed everything with that discreet smile Thiriel had learned to recognize. His sister knew more than she let on. She was content to care for him in her own way, making sure he ate, rested, and didn't do anything stupid.
At least, nothing too stupid.
Because even while recovering, Thiriel could not remain still.
During the first weeks, when his body was still too damaged for real combat, he focused on internal training. He spent hours experimenting with magic, seeking ways to optimize his physical progress.
'If I could increase the weight of objects,' he thought one night, 'I could train with additional resistance without needing specialized equipment.'
The idea was promising. In his previous life, he had used stone and metal weights to strengthen his muscles. Here, with magic, he should be able to achieve something similar more efficiently.
He tried for days.
He failed.
Gravitational manipulation required a control over natural laws that was far above his current level. Each attempt ended in frustration, with the magic dissipating to no effect.
'Not yet,' he finally concluded. 'I need to understand the fundamentals better before attempting something so advanced.'
But the core idea remained: he needed a training method that would maximize his time and effort.
And then he found it.
Not in external magic, but in the internal.
The Magic Warrior Aura functioned by tensing muscle fibers and reinforcing them with energy. Normally, a practitioner would start with the most-used muscle groups—arms, legs, core—and gradually expand their control to smaller, more specific fibers.
Thiriel didn't have time for that.
His decades of experience gave him an intimate knowledge of his own body—every muscle, every tendon, every nerve connection. Though this body was different from his previous one, the fundamental principles remained the same.
So he did it all at once.
He channeled magic into every muscle fiber simultaneously. Not to activate the full aura, but to maintain a constant tension, as if every muscle were perpetually primed for action.
The first day was agonizing.
The second was worse.
By the third, his body began to adapt.
It was like walking with invisible weights tied to every part of his body. Every movement required more effort. Every step was a battle against the artificial resistance he had created for himself.
And when he finally deactivated the tension, the difference was immediate.
His movements became more fluid, faster. As if he had been walking against the wind for hours and the wind had suddenly ceased.
'It works,' he thought with satisfaction. 'Slowly, but it works.'
When Arielle finally declared him completely healed, almost a month had passed since the battle with the Alpha.
Thiriel wasted no time.
The very next day, he was back at the guild, tearing missions off the board with an efficiency that drew attention. Herb gathering. Minor beast hunting. Caravan escorts. Pest elimination.
He accepted everything he could find.
Not for the money, but for the training.
The first week, he completed seven missions.
The second, twelve.
By the end of the first month of activity, his name was circulating through the guild with a mix of respect and wariness.
Thiriel ignored everyone. He only cared about the results.
And the results were undeniable.
His body transformed day by day. The constant tension he maintained during missions strengthened every muscle fiber at an accelerated rate. What would normally take months of conventional training, he achieved in weeks.
His control improved as well.
At first, maintaining tension in all fibers required constant concentration. It was exhausting, both mentally and physically. But with every combat, the process became more natural.
Now, he could activate and deactivate tension in specific groups with just a thought. He could increase the resistance in his legs while relaxing his arms, or vice versa. He could adjust the intensity according to the situation.
It was like having a training system built into his own body.
And the forest beasts paid the price for his progress.
Shadow wolves fell under his sword with ease now. The magic boars that had previously escaped became regular prey. He even ventured against more dangerous creatures: cave bears, venomous snakes the size of logs, and packs of predators that would have sent any Bronze adventurer running.
None of them stopped him.
By the second month, he had officially risen to Iron Rank.
Not by his own request, but because the guild could not ignore his record. The accumulation of completed missions, combined with the quality of materials he delivered, had forced the supervisor to review his classification.
"Normally it takes a year to reach Iron," the thick-bearded man had told him during the promotion ceremony. "You did it in two months. I don't know if that makes you a genius or a madman."
His eyes showed more than just affability—he was warning him.
Thiriel understood. Progressing too fast drew attention. And attention, in a world where dark organizations hunted talents to drain them, was dangerous.
But he could not stop.
Not when he was still so weak compared to what he needed to be.
One afternoon, two months after the battle with the Alpha, Thiriel went deep into the forest for a routine hunting mission. A pack of common wolves had been attacking farms on the outskirts, and the guild offered a modest reward for eliminating them.
It was simple work. Almost boring.
He found the wolves near a stream, drinking without suspecting his presence. He eliminated them in a matter of minutes, his movements so refined now that he barely needed to think. Every cut was precise. When the last wolf fell, Thiriel cleaned his sword and began to process the carcasses.
That was when he heard them.
Footsteps. Multiple. Approaching from the east.
He tensed, but did not move. His senses expanded, identifying the presences before they appeared.
'Humans,' he identified. 'Five. No, six. Armed. No intention of hiding.'
That last part was the most telling.
They weren't bandits attempting an ambush. They were people who wanted to be seen. Who wanted him to know they were coming.
A minute later, they emerged from between the trees.
Six adventurers. Leather and metal armor. Weapons unsheathed. Expressions that oscillated between hostility and anticipation.
And at the front of the group, a face Thiriel recognized immediately.
The large man with scars. The one who had tried to grab him in the guild. The one who had flown against the wall.
Voric, he remembered. That was his name. He had heard it later, when the rumors were circulating through the guild.
The man was smiling now, but it wasn't a friendly smile.
"Look who we have here," Voric said, his voice dripping with satisfaction. "The problematic newbie. Alone. In the middle of the woods. No witnesses."
The other five deployed in a semicircle, blocking any escape routes.
Thiriel did not move.
"Can I help you with something?" he asked in a neutral voice.
Voric laughed.
"Help us? Oh, yes. You can help us a lot." He touched his chest, where he likely still had bruises from the blow two months ago. "You see, I have a pending debt with you. And my friends here are eager to help me collect it."
The other adventurers grinned.
"You're good," Voric continued. "I admit it. You killed that Alpha. You rose to Iron in record time. But here, there are no supervisors. No guild rules. Just us and you."
He made a gesture with his hand.
"And we're going to teach you what happens when a brat doesn't know his place."
Thiriel evaluated the situation in silence.
Six against one. All Silver Rank or higher, judging by their gear and posture. Likely used to working together. Coordinated.
Under normal circumstances, they would represent a serious challenge for any Iron Rank adventurer.
But Thiriel was not just any adventurer.
And the circumstances were not normal.
He deactivated the muscle tension he had maintained throughout the mission. The artificial resistance vanished, and suddenly his body felt light. Free.
"You know?" he said slowly, adjusting his grip on his sword. "You've made a mistake."
Voric frowned. "What mistake?"
Thiriel smiled.
"You should have brought more people."
The first adventurer lunged at him with a battle cry, his axe descending in a brutal arc that would have split any normal person in two.
Thiriel moved.
To the observers, it seemed he simply vanished. One moment he was there; the next, he was at the attacker's side, his fist sinking into the man's stomach with a force that lifted him off the ground.
The adventurer was sent flying backward, crashing into two of his companions and knocking them down with him.
The silence that followed was absolute.
Voric and the other two still standing stared at the scene with bulging eyes. The man Thiriel had hit lay on the ground, coughing up blood, unable to rise.
"What...?" one of them whispered.
Thiriel slowly turned toward the survivors.
His smile had not disappeared.
"Who's next?"