“By the grace of the God-King, you will not!” Hope tried to interject, her voice sharp with concern.

  But Harold stepped in like a grinning wrecking ball.“How about I entertain the young lad?” he said, rolling up his sleeves. “I’ll go soft on him. Even if he were at the end of his first stage, I could still teach him a thing or two without breaking a sweat—especially since he’s half-crippled right now.”

  “Challenge accepted, old fart!” I shot back with a grin. “How about we do some knife work together?”

  Harold gave a short laugh, then turned and waddled off. He came back a moment later holding two short wooden swords.

  When I picked one up, I nearly dropped it.

  “What the—”

  They looked like wood, but the weight told another story. These things were as heavy as iron, maybe heavier, and I could swear there were specks of rust clinging to the blades.

  “Ironwood,” the dwarf answered with a grin. “Good for training. Also makes great shields. But heavy.” He gave his beard a tug. “Now show me your moves, sun-dweller.”

  We started exchanging blows. Years of combat had taught me how to fight with a wide range of weapons—but medieval ones? Not so much. Knives, sure. I knew knives. But this was swordplay, and I really didn’t want to bring a knife to a swordfight.

  Still, my body felt lighter. My legs responded faster, like someone had taken the governor off an old truck. And fighting? Fighting was fun.

  A minute passed. Then two. I was sending the blade faster and faster, muscles warming with every strike. But the chubby dwarf in front of me didn’t seem to care. He blocked everything with casual precision, his hands fast and fluid from years of brutal repetition.

  I wanted to land one clean hit.

  A minute stretched into ten, then twenty. I pushed harder, sweat pouring down my face, every movement sharper than the last. But each time I thought I was close—slap. A wooden blade kissed my ribs, my shoulder, my thigh. A bruise for every overconfident move.

  Finally, an hour in, I collapsed. Completely out of juice. Panting like a dog on a July sidewalk.

  I looked up at Harold, wheezing like a dying accordion. The dwarf was barely glistening, a thin sheen of sweat on his forehead. His breathing? Smooth and calm. Like he’d just spent the last hour sipping tea and not tenderizing me like a side of beef.

  Hope arrived with the wheelchair.

  "I know you can walk now," she said gently, "but I think it’d be better if you didn’t overexert yourself just yet."

  I tried to stand—the idea of being pushed around wasn’t exactly flattering—but my body disagreed. Every bruise screamed in unison, and my ego was quickly overruled by pain and reality. With a sigh of defeat, I let Hope and Harold lift me back into the chair.

  “Let’s go get you clean and fill you back up,” she said, rolling me toward the alcove. “You know, if you didn’t overwork yourself like that, you’d probably be walking just fine by now.”

  Ouch. Called out by a priestess. Again.

  She parked me back in the room and stepped out. “I’ll go grab you a change of clothes.”

  The door closed behind her.

  My eyes drifted to the table. The strange glass tablet and brass quill still sat there, taunting me. I stretched out—aching limbs protesting all the way—and snatched them up.

  No way I was still level 1. I mean, I fought for over an hour! I bled! I sweated! I got owned, sure, but still—that had to count for something.

  So, of course, I pricked my finger again and tapped the glass.

  Name: Samael

  Race: High Human

  Class: Error

  Stage: 1

  Level: 2

  Mana: None

  Runa: None

  A grin spread across my face.

  “Ha! Gotcha, you stingy magic rock.”

  I flexed my arms like I’d just benched a truck. Okay—one level wasn’t exactly a massive power spike, but it was progress. Proof I wasn’t completely useless in this new world. I'd survived a full beatdown session with a training-hardened dwarf and lived to tell the tale... in a wheelchair, sure, but still.

  I leaned back, tablet in hand, staring at the oddities on that screen.

  Class: Error. No mana. No runa, whatever that was.

  But I was a level 2 High Human now. Whatever that meant.

  I had no idea what the future held, but I knew one thing for certain i could grind for more power.I used to hunt with a bow, so that skill set should translate just fine—but I’d need to learn how to be efficient with pretty much everything else. Sword, shield, spear, maybe even throwing axes if I wanted to get fancy. And somewhere in the back of my mind, I had this itch. This stubborn little voice asking: Can I still hunt evil shitheads, even without magic?

  A case of content theft: this narrative is not rightfully on Amazon; if you spot it, report the violation.

  Lost in my reverie, I didn’t even hear Hope come back in. She placed a bucket of warm water on the ground, set a towel and some robes on the table, then turned to me with that same radiant smile.

  She started picking at my clothes.

  “Hey! I’m a grown man—I can undress and wash myself,” I argued, trying to preserve the last shred of dignity I had left.

  “I’ll help you, Sam. Don’t worry,” she said, completely ignoring my protests as she kept going. “You’re still weak, and I’ll patch you up a bit while we’re at it.”

  At that point, I couldn’t help but wonder—were people just way more chill about nudity in this world, or was Hope secretly a battlefield nurse when she wasn’t around me?

  Her touch was soft as she washed my back, her warm breath brushing my neck. I tried—desperately—to think about the last season of the Habs. Canadian politics. Budget spreadsheets. Anything to cool off my head before I embarrassed myself.

  But as she started washing my chest—her hands moving lower, slowly, deliberately—the small towel covering what remained of my dignity decided it had other plans. It lifted like a flag in a stiff breeze, proudly betraying me.

  I stared at the wall. Hard. Like it had the answer to world peace carved into the stone. Hope said nothing. Not a word. Just kept going like this was the most normal thing in the world.

  She washed my arms next, then worked her way from my toes up to my thighs, not missing an inch. I was turning redder by the second, a perfectly cooked lobster marinating in shame and confusion.

  I risked a glance at her—and there it was.

  That smile.

  That smug, sadistic little grin that said she knew exactly what kind of torment I was going through. She was having fun. Enjoying every second of it.

  And me? In her hands, I felt like a bee facing its queen. Powerless. Obedient. Praying the floor would open up and swallow me before she finished polishing me like fine silverware.

  She finished cleaning me, then started dressing me with calm, practiced ease. As she pulled the robe over my shoulders, she leaned in close—so close I could feel the warmth of her breath tickle my ear.

  “Don’t worry,” she whispered, her voice soft and playful. “It’s okay. I won’t tell anyone.”

  Before I could even formulate a half-decent comeback, I felt it—energy, warm and soothing, pouring from her hands and spreading over my chest. Heat rippled through my body, melting the aches and bruises, breathing life back into sore muscles that had long since thrown in the towel.

  It was healing, yes, but it felt like more than that. It felt... safe. Comforting. Like being wrapped in sunlight after surviving a storm.

  And yet, despite the calm in my body, my mind was a chaotic battleground of embarrassment, gratitude, and whatever strange cocktail of emotion her wink had just stirred in me.

  “Wanna grab some grub?” she asked, flashing a smile so bright it could’ve jumpstarted the sun.

  For a second, I just blinked at her, brain still rebooting from the whole full-service sponge bath / divine healing combo. My dignity was somewhere under the bed, curled up in a fetal position. But food? Food I could do.

  “Yeah,” I managed, voice cracking like a teenage bard at open mic night. “Food sounds… really good right now.”

  I tried to play it cool. Failed. But hey, hunger trumps pride every time.

  On the way to the cafeteria, she explained how the calendar worked—fourteen months, each with exactly twenty-eight days. Neat, tidy, and suspiciously efficient. According to her, they only had two seasons: winter and summer. No spring. No fall. Just emotional extremes.

  But as she went on describing it, I started grinning.

  “Let me guess,” I said. “Too cold, then mud everywhere… too hot… nice for a couple of days, and then back to freezing your butt off?”

  Hope looked at me like I’d just read the Book of Seasons upside down and backwards. “Yes! That’s… basically it, actually.”

  I chuckled. “Feels just like home.”Except with fewer Tim Hortons and a higher chance of spontaneous monster attacks.

  Still, I couldn’t help but feel a flicker of actual gratitude. If I’d been dropped into this place in the middle of winter, my body might’ve been mistaken for a misplaced statue. And the cold? Yeah, it wouldn’t have waited politely for someone to find me.

  “Guess I owe someone up there a thank-you,” I mumbled, half to myself. “Could’ve been a real short isekai otherwise.”

  Hope gave me a curious look, but didn’t pry. Good. One step at a time.

  The line for food looked like a parade of rumbling stomachs and tired faces, but it moved quickly—efficiency powered by hunger and routine. . Apparently, people of Norestria love a hearty meal for supper No complaints from me.

  I piled my platter with scrambled eggs, thick sausages, some roasted boar meat that looked straight out of a Viking buffet, a roasted root veggie that screamed “sweet potato’s jacked cousin,” and, for dessert? A blue pear the size of a grapefruit. Exotic, intimidating, and very likely to explode with juice.

  As we sat down, my eyes caught on a curious centerpiece—a rack of seven bottles arranged in a neat line. Seven again. These people really liked their sacred numbers.

  I nodded toward it. “You guys got a thing for sevens, huh?”

  Hope smirked and reached over, putting a drop of each sauce on the edge of my plate like a sommelier with a streak of mischief.

  The first one hit my tongue and I almost gagged. Rancid mustard? Hard pass.

  The second? Ketchup. Sweet, tangy, dependable. That one was going on everything.

  Third—tasted like soy sauce got cozy with a plum. Weirdly delicious.

  Fourth—green and angry, like sriracha with abandonment issues.

  Fifth—sweet, floral, and something I’d never tasted before. Not bad. Mysterious.

  Sixth—pain. Pure, blistering, hell-brewed pain. Like napalm tap-dancing on my taste buds while shouting war chants in a language made of fire. I tried not to cry.

  And then… the seventh.

  Golden. Thick. Glorious.

  Maple. Freaking. Syrup.

  I dropped to my knees without thinking. “Oh, God-King, whoever you are… I thank you for this holy nectar of life. You truly are a merciful and wise deity.”

  Hope blinked at me, somewhere between entertained and deeply confused. A few people nearby paused mid-bite, casting curious glances, before muttering their own quiet prayers. Whether they were thanking the God-King for the syrup or just joining in the weird Canadian’s fervor, I didn’t know. Or care.

  Hope knelt beside me, stifling a laugh. “You… really like that stuff, huh?”

  I wiped a tear from my cheek, still staring reverently at the syrup. “You don’t understand, Hope. This isn’t just syrup. This is identity. This is culture. This is my people’s birthright poured into a bottle.”

  And with that, I dug in.I was gonna be okay in this world. Maybe even more than okay.

  As long as there was maple syrup.

  After dinner, she rolled me back to my alcove. She pulled out a book—an educational tool meant to teach the basics of letters and numbers. Then she asked me to take off the bracelet so I could start learning the local dialect properly, using images paired with words. The method was solid, but it would take time to adjust. We studied well past sunset. During those sessions, I wasn’t allowed to use the bracelet at all, and Hope was very strict about it. Not that I had a problem with proper discipline—I mean, I was in the army for a while after all.