The next day, as the sun rose, I grinned—my body felt great. I quickly ran through a test set: 100 squats, 100 push-ups, 25 pull-ups, and 150 sit-ups. Not bad, but that was about all I could give in one go. Still, it felt damn good.

  Next, I dressed myself and headed to the kitchen, where a kind, well-aged sister named Emma greeted me with a warm smile and handed over a generous plate of fried eggs, beans, bacon, and a fresh bread bun. I didn’t eat—I devoured. Five minutes later, the plate was squeaky clean.

  After dropping off my tray and giving a big thanks to the kitchen crew, I made my way to the training hall. I didn’t know if I’d find anyone there, but honestly, I didn’t care. As long as I could use the place, I was going to wring every drop of value out of it. You don’t run into powerful fighters every day—when opportunity knocks, you don’t nap through it. You show up, gloves off, ready to bleed and learn.

  The arena was already in use—a dozen warrior women were practicing shield formations and spear techniques. Leading them was a tall, svelte blonde whose arms looked like a bow pulled taut, ready to snap with lethal power. Her physique reminded me of UFC fighters back home—nothing but wiry strength and coiled force. Her face, though… her face looked like it had walked straight out of The Lord of the Rings. Not a blemish in sight, perfect skin, and a thousand-yard stare. She was a warrior through and through. I might not know magic, but I knew a soldier when I saw one.

  Not wanting to interrupt their drill, I kept to the edge of the grounds and picked up a light bow and a dozen arrows. I planted myself about twenty meters from the target—not far, but far enough to work on form without getting in the way.

  Arrow after arrow flew. My body remembered what to do, the rhythm coming back slowly. My groupings tightened until I had to aim at different spots to keep from splitting shafts. My speed picked up too. I’d always believed a good bow was better than a bad gun, and I didn’t miss the damn thing at all.

  An hour passed quickly. The squad of warriors rotated out, replaced by another group—still under the watchful eye of the elven drill sergeant. I figured it was time to switch things up, so I grabbed a short spear.

  I wasn’t fooling myself—messing around wasn’t going to get me far. I took a basic stance I’d copied from the shieldmaidens and practiced a single thrust, over and over, trying to understand the weapon system in my hands. No magic, no shortcuts. I was a baseline human in a high-fantasy world. That meant I needed every edge I could grind out, one drop of sweat at a time.

  Time passed. My arms burned. I kept going.

  Eventually, the elf approached, picking up a spear of her own.

  “You’ve got strength in your arms, boy,” she said flatly. “Your feet are planted well—but your thrusts are slow. You’re pushing with just your arms. Use your whole body.”

  She showed me. A perfect thrust, clean and sharp, like a snake striking.

  For the next hour, she trained me. No nonsense, no small talk. Just correction after correction, and I took each one like a sponge—soaked them up and kept going. No complaints, just sweat.

  Eventually, she offered to spar. And while she clearly toned herself down to avoid turning me into a pancake, it still felt like fighting a storm with a broomstick. My spear clashed against hers, every thrust met with deflection and a retaliatory jab. Over and over. Her speed was unreal. Her precision divine. And yeah, maybe I got smacked around like a training dummy—but I loved it. I couldn’t stop the grin creeping across my face.

  She noticed. I caught a flicker of amusement in her eyes—a hint of satisfaction, like she’d found a project worth shaping.

  Another group of shieldmaidens entered the arena, but they waited quietly, watching their instructor toy with the rookie.

  I could hear them giggling, probably at me, but I had more pressing concerns—like not getting impaled by a heavy, metal-tipped spear moving way too fast for my comfort.

  After a couple more solid hits that rattled my bones, she smiled and swept my legs out from under me. I landed hard, panting, aching everywhere—but it wasn’t over. Her spear shot straight to my throat before I could move.

  I froze. She laughed—an actual, genuine laugh.

  “You’ve got a good-looking body,” she said, teasing. “But you rely too much on looks and not enough on technique. We’ll have to fix that. Come back tomorrow morning—we’ll keep going.”

  “Thank you,” I said, bowing. No clue what the normal etiquette was around here, but I figured it couldn’t hurt.

  I limped back to the kitchen, retracing my steps, and devoured another generous helping of meat and vegetables

  "Sam!" Father Mathias boomed, arms wide like he’d just found me after years lost at sea. "The God-King is so generous, saving me the trouble of finding you after lunch. How great! May we sit and eat with you?"

  His eyes twinkled with mischief—he was absolutely having the time of his life. A joke only he and Harold were in on. The smug bastards.

  "Of course, I’m but a guest in your house, Father," I replied, offering a polite nod while quietly wondering if I should start looking for exits.

  They sat around me—Harold to my left, Mathias to my right, and the two towering robed figures across from me. As soon as I met their eyes, a shiver shot down my spine. I don’t mean a polite chill—I mean full-body, "someone just walked over my grave" kind of shiver.

  Were they… looking at my soul?

  Harold leaned in casually. “Sam, these are Brother John and Brother Smith of the Holy Capitol Inquisition Order.”

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  I broke into laughter—unfiltered, honest, and utterly uncontrollable.

  Both Harold and Mathias looked surprised, which only made me laugh harder. "Apologies," I managed, wiping a tear from my cheek.

  Harold pressed on. “We were discussing your unique circumstances. Your… unusual arrival, and the strange absence of mana or runa in your body.”

  Just like that, the laughs died. My gut flipped like a coin in free fall.

  “They’d like to perform a few tests,” he continued, “since, apparently, having neither is considered… impossible.”

  "Ha… tabarnak," I muttered under my breath.

  Both elves twitched.

  Like, actual physical ear twitches. Their eyes flicked wide for half a second before snapping back into that high-grade Inquisitorial poker face.

  I swallowed hard. Probably shouldn’t swear in front of the goddamn Inquisition, I thought. Let’s not get disappeared by the Fantasy CIA.

  But Father Mathias? He nearly choked trying not to laugh. I swear, this man might be my spirit animal.

  I cleared my throat and straightened up. “Of course, I have no objection to helping the brothers with their investigation. Please, excuse my earlier rudeness.” I gave them a respectful nod.

  They returned the gesture, polite but unreadable.

  Brother Smith reached across the table, his calloused hand resting gently over mine. His grip was firm, not forceful—just enough to hold my attention.

  “Worry not,” he said, voice calm like the eye of a storm. “I sense no evil in you. Thus, I have no interest in your demise.”

  Brother John, who’d looked one stiff breath away from pulling a soul-cleaving sword out of a robe somewhere, visibly relaxed at those words.

  Smith pulled out a piece of glass—same kind of thing as the one from earlier—but wider, about the size of an iPad. He also produced an ornate gold quill with a nib that looked like it had been carved from ruby.

  One thing bugged me though.

  Where the hell did he pull that from?

  He didn’t have a satchel. No bag, no scroll case, not even oversized sleeves. The damn thing just blinked into existence in his hand like a magician at a kid’s birthday party.

  Well, of course the Inquisitors would have magic party tricks. Figures.

  “May I?” Smith asked.

  I nodded, and he pricked my thumb faster than I could flinch. A single drop of blood landed dead-center on the glass.

  Both of them stared at the screen, brows furrowed like it had just told them their favorite cat was a spy for the enemy. Then they turned and looked straight at me.

  “Can I see?” I asked.

  “Sorry,” John said curtly. “But… are you really only level four?”

  “HAAA—I leveled up? YEAH!!!” I pumped both fists in the air like I’d just won the lottery.

  That stunned look on their faces again? Worth it.

  Smith cleared his throat. “Would you mind continuing the interview in private? We’ll need to perform a physical check.”

  I nodded, and we stood. Mathias and Harold stayed at the table, casually high-fiving like smug bastards.

  Wait a second.

  Had I just been used so they could avoid spending time with the Inquisition?

  Sly assholes.

  Reminded me of my time in the army—dodging brass, pulling dumb pranks, and getting into trouble with the boys. Haaa... I missed shenanigans.

  The next couple hours were spent retelling my story and getting poked and prodded by weird instruments that they apparently also pulled out of their magical butts. I learned a couple things during the exam:

  John’s a mage. Smith’s a seer—whatever the hell that means or eats in the winter.

  John couldn’t stop muttering about my mana and runa situation. Apparently, it enters my body no problem, but the moment it does, it vanishes. Just fizzles out. Like, 5% of the magical energy gets used, the rest? Gone with the wind. It's like my body’s allergic to mana or something.

  Thankfully, John did all his tests with healing magic—not fireballs. Classy move.

  After all that, they finally left. Not exactly the chattiest dudes to be around, but at least I didn’t explode.

  With nothing better to do, I made my way back to the training hall. The same male drill sergeant from yesterday was running a dozen guys through their paces.

  I eyed the weapons rack.

  Warhammer or axe?

  The axe made sense. I’d need to master it if I ever wanted to wield that monster from my dream. But man… a hammer just sounded fun.

  Maybe I could dual wield them...

  Yeah, turns out: no. No, I could not.

  I sheepishly put the hammer back while the instructor gave me that look—half grin, half "you idiot."

  Right. Let’s not pretend I’m some fantasy berserker just yet.

  I picked up a kite shield instead and spent the next couple hours practicing swings on a wooden dummy, trying to burn the elf warrior’s movements into my brain. The dull thud of my hits slowly became a satisfying smack. My shoulders screamed from the morning session, but I kept going.

  I wasn’t here to play.

  I wanted to earn the power to walk the battlefield without fear. No trusty rifle this time. No scope to turn heads into mist from a thousand yards.

  Just me, my aching arms, and the stubborn fire in my gut telling me I could rise to their level.

  Harold came to meet me in the arena. He smiled, grabbed an axe, and I could see his eyes—filled with mirth.

  “So that’s how you dodge an inquisitor?” I asked. “Find something more interesting?”

  “Ha! You’re wrong about one detail, Sam,” he said as he started to send blows my way. All I could do was dodge and block, not finding a single opportunity to strike while the dwarf pummeled me.

  “We didn’t dodge them. Father Mathias and I made a bet with them. We asked if they’d ever heard of someone alive without the energy of mana or runa. You can guess the rest, I’m sure.”

  “Old sly fox... What did you bet?”

  “A small gold coin each! Hahaha!”

  “Doesn’t sound like much to me.”

  “Not a lot? That’s about what a farmer earns in a year. That’s a thousand large copper coins, son. Not negligible.”

  “Oh. Well, apologies—I don’t know the value of money here.”

  “I’ll only tell you once, so listen tight,” he said, his strikes growing fiercer and faster. He might not be tall, but he hit with the force of a charging bull in every swing.

  “Currency goes like this: ten small coins make one of the next size up. So—small copper, large copper, small silver, large silver, small gold, large gold. Then ten large gold make a gold bar. Ten gold bars make a small platinum coin. Ten small platinum coins make a large platinum, and ten of those make a small mithril coin. Then you’ve got large mithril coins, and finally, mithril bars at the top.”

  The next hit lifted me off the ground and threw me ten steps back—flat on my back and breathless.

  I was seeing stars. Harold didn’t take it easy on me.

  I groaned, dragging myself off the floor, every rib screaming in protest. Harold walked over, laughing like he hadn't just turned my insides into soup with a glorified crowbar.

  "You'll live," he said, slapping my back with the force of a falling tree. "Be here at sunrise if you want another lesson in humility."

  “Looking forward to it,” I lied, half-limping, half-stumbling my way out of the arena.

  The sun was dipping below the horizon, casting long golden streaks through the stone halls. My body ached in places I forgot I had, and my brain was a stew of information, pain, and confusingly detailed currency conversions.

  By the time I reached my alcove, the warmth of the evening light had been replaced by the cool hush of twilight. Hope had left a folded blanket and a fresh tunic at the edge of the bed, along with a small carved wooden plaque that read in blocky letters: Rest well, fight harder.

  I collapsed onto the straw mattress, not even bothering to change.

  Maybe this world wanted to kill me with training, bureaucracy, or divine syrup-fueled heart attacks. But for the first time since arriving, I felt like I was moving forward. Not just surviving.

  I let out a long breath, staring at the ceiling as my eyes grew heavy.

  Tomorrow, I'd do it all again.