Chương 2: Half The Load

The clearing remained silent after the words vanished. I knelt in the bloodstained snow with Orven's axe hanging loosely from my hand and tried to steady my breathing while the cold forest watched from every direction at once. My shoulder still hurt. My wrist still felt torn somewhere deep beneath the skin. Yet the pain no longer sat in my body the same way.

It had become sharper, cleaner somehow, as though every injury had been separated and individually outlined, and the sensation frightened me more than the Crimson Elf had. I looked down at my hands. The cuts across my knuckles had already stopped bleeding. My breathing felt deeper too, fuller in my chest, and when I stood, the motion came strangely easily despite the exhaustion dragging through my limbs. It reminded me of drinking too much spirits too quickly after a freezing shift at the mill.

Not drunkenness exactly, but heat spreading outward beneath the skin, dulling certain aches while sharpening everything else. IRON BODY CONFIRMED Your body is now more resilient. Strength has increased from 5 to 7. Dexterity has increased from 4 to 5. Constitution has increased from 7 to 9. Intelligence has increased from 6 to 7. Spirit has increased from 6 to 7. Will has increased from 2 to 3. I stared until the symbols blurred again, but Iron remained.

Orven had spoken of it less than an hour earlier like a thing foolish men bought charms for. A lottery dream. A tavern boast. A word labourers used when their backs hurt and their lives felt too small to endure sober. Now it sat inside me with numbers attached, cold and impossible and real. Everyone in Dunmere knew what Iron meant. Children talked about ranks before they understood coin. Guards displayed theirs proudly. Caravan mercenaries boasted about theirs loudly while drunk.

Iron was the beginning of becoming something more than ordinary. Not powerful exactly, but recognised. Useful. Harder to kill. I had never expected it for myself. And then I realised there was more. ABILITIES CONFIRMED You have learned a new ability: Timbercraft. Your hands better understand timber, grain, weight, tool pressure, and the practical shaping of worked wood. You have learned a new ability: Labour-Hardened.

Your body better endures repetitive strain, cold, fatigue, and the accumulated punishment of hard labour. You have learned a new ability: Axe Strike. Your axe blows carry cleaner alignment, stronger follow-through, and a more instinctive sense of edge and weight. You have learned a new ability: Desperate Counter. When injured, cornered, or overwhelmed, your body can turn panic and pain into a brief retaliatory opening. Most labourers remained Common their entire lives.

They grew old lifting timber, hauling stone, loading barges, and eventually died with bent backs and ruined joints. Advancement required resources, training, tutors, combat, cultivation methods, money, or luck. Usually several at once. I looked down at the dead Crimson Elf. Then at Orven. Luck did not feel like the right word. The cold finally returned enough for me to move. I found the mule where it had nearly pulled itself free from the cart harness during the fighting.

The poor creature rolled its eyes at the smell of blood but settled after I spoke to it softly and rubbed its neck. Animals calmed easier around certainty. Men rarely did. Dragging bodies uphill through snow proved harder than killing them. Orven weighed far more in death than he ever had in life. I hauled him first, boots slipping repeatedly on frozen roots while my shoulder screamed beneath the effort. Twice I nearly fell.

Yet beneath the pain there remained that strange sense of reserve inside my body, as though exhaustion no longer reached as deeply as it once had. Labour-Hardened, I thought, and the name arrived with understanding attached to it. Not words exactly. Instinct. Recognition. The same thing happened when I gripped the axe properly again. My hands settled naturally into the balance of the haft. I understood immediately where the edge wanted to travel and how momentum should move through the shoulders and hips.

Axe Strike. That knowledge had existed before, buried beneath years of labour, but now it sat sharpened and organised inside me. That frightened me too. The Crimson Elf came second. I almost left him in the clearing. Some part of me wanted the forest to swallow him whole and erase the morning entirely. But another part understood how impossible my story would sound without proof. Common labourers did not kill Crimson Elves. Common labourers barely survived bad winters, falling trees, and Harl Morn's wage book.

So I dragged him as well. Up close, death had not made him uglier. That disturbed me more than the blood. His pale features remained unnaturally composed despite the ruin of his chest and collarbone. The ears caught my attention briefly as I lifted him into the cart. Longer than human. Finer. One had torn partly during the fight, exposing silver-white cartilage beneath the blood, though the narrow black crescent clasp still clung to the other as if even death had not earned the right to loosen it.

I covered the body with canvas quickly after that. The journey back toward Dunmere passed in uneasy silence. Snow cracked beneath the cart wheels while the mule plodded stubbornly downhill through the trees. Morning light spread gradually across the forest, turning frost silver along the branches. Several times I caught myself looking over my shoulder toward the canvas covering the bodies, half-expecting the Crimson Elf to rise again. The words kept returning whenever my mind drifted. Iron.

I still did not entirely understand what had happened. Advancement ceremonies existed in larger cities, overseen by guild officials and instructors. Dunmere barely possessed a registrar capable of recording basic ranks correctly. My awakening had happened in a blood-soaked clearing beside a dead woodsman and a butchered ritual. Nothing about it felt right. Yet the effects remained undeniable. I noticed them most clearly while handling the cart. The weight pulled less harshly against my shoulders now.

My footing felt more stable on icy ground. Even my eyesight seemed subtly clearer, as though the outlines of trees and stones sharpened whenever I focused on them. Not dramatically. Just enough to notice. That made the world feel less trustworthy, not more. If you discover this tale on Amazon, be aware that it has been stolen. Please report the violation. At one point the mule slowed near a bend where the forest opened briefly toward the frozen river below.

I followed its gaze automatically and noticed a small bird perched on one of the snow-covered branches ahead. The creature looked strangely vivid against the pale winter forest, its feathers a deep clear blue unlike any riverbird I recognised from the Greywash marshes. It remained perfectly still as the cart approached, watching me with bright dark eyes while frost drifted softly from the surrounding branches. For several moments neither of us moved.

Then the bird lifted suddenly into the air and vanished between the trees in a blur of blue against white snow. I found myself watching the empty branch long after it had gone, with Iron still circling back through my head in dull disbelief. By the time the outer walls of Dunmere emerged through the river mist, the sky had fully brightened into pale winter morning. Smoke drifted above the rooftops in thin grey streams.

Ferrymen shouted somewhere along the Greywash docks below, and I could hear the distant groan of the mill wheels beginning their daily rotation. Life continuing. That felt strange too. The gate guards noticed the blood before I reached them. One straightened immediately atop the timber barricade while another rested a hand on his sword. Renn Talvek emerged from the gatehouse a moment later pulling on heavy gloves, his broad coat hanging open against chainmail darkened by age and weather.

Unlike most men in Dunmere, Talvek moved with the balanced caution of someone who had spent years expecting violence. His eyes settled first on me. Then on the cart. Then on the blood soaking through the canvas.

"What happened?" he asked. I stopped the mule a few paces short of the gate. My mouth felt dry suddenly. The story sounded insane even inside my own head.

"Something in the northern woods killed Orven," I said.

"I brought it back." Talvek's gaze narrowed.

"What kind of something?"

"A Crimson Elf." One of the younger guards laughed nervously, but the sound died quickly when Talvek did not join him.

"Remove the canvas," the captain said. I climbed down slowly and pulled the covering aside. Silence followed. Orven's body lay twisted awkwardly beside the pale corpse of the Crimson Elf. Frost clung to silver-white hair streaked with drying blood. Even dead, he looked wrong beside ordinary humans. Too still. Too refined. The younger guard stepped backward instinctively. Talvek stared for several long seconds before speaking again.

"Start at the marker stone," he said.

"Leave out guesses." So I did. Not all of it. I omitted the strange words and the feeling inside my body. I omitted the advancement. But I told enough truth that lying around the edges became easier. The ritual. The doe. Orven attacking first. The fight. Talvek listened without interruption, and when I finished, he looked at me for a very long time.

"You killed this?"

"The doe broke loose and struck him," I said.

"Orven's axe did the rest."

"In your hands."

"Yes."

"You are telling me a Common labourer killed a Crimson Elf after crossing a forbidden marker, finding a blood ritual, and surviving whatever opened Orven's chest."

"I am telling you what happened. It was not much of a fight." One corner of Talvek's mouth twitched faintly at that. Not amusement. Something closer to disbelief wrestling practicality. He stepped toward the cart and crouched beside the corpse. His gloved hand pulled briefly at one pointed ear before releasing it again. I noticed then how carefully he avoided touching the blood directly.

"This is a restricted incident," he murmured quietly.

"Wrong side of the markers. Foreign blood. Civilian witness." The younger guard looked uneasy.

"Captain?" Talvek stood again.

"Fetch Registrar Pell. Quietly. Then inform no one else until I say otherwise." The guard hurried away, and Talvek turned back toward me.

"You will answer more questions later."

"I know."

"You may also be arrested later."

"That too." This time the captain almost smiled. He looked me over once more, lingering briefly on my torn shoulder and bloodstained clothes. I had the strange feeling he was comparing something against his own expectations and failing to make the pieces fit together properly.

"You're standing well for a man who claims that thing hit him," he said. I forced myself not to look at my shoulder.

"Standing is easier than explaining."

"No," Talvek said quietly.

"I doubt that." For a moment neither of us moved. Then he stepped aside from the gate.

"Go deliver your load before Harl starts screaming about lost profit. And Vey?" I looked at him.

"Do not wash the blood from your clothes until Pell has seen you."

"That will make Harl happy."

"Harl is rarely happy. We survive it." The mill yard smelled of wet timber, smoke, and river mud. Men moved between stacked logs hauling chains and tools while the great waterwheel turned steadily beside the saw trench. Conversation quieted as my cart rolled through the gate. People noticed bodies quickly. Harl Morn emerged from the counting shed still carrying a ledger beneath one arm. He stopped walking when he saw Orven beneath the canvas.

For the first time since I had known him, the foreman seemed entirely without words.

"What happened?" I repeated the story again, shorter this time. Harl listened silently while workers nearby pretended not to eavesdrop. His eyes drifted repeatedly toward the Crimson Elf corpse before returning to Orven. When I finished, he removed his cap slowly and rubbed one hand across his thinning hair.

"Damn fool," he muttered. I was not sure whether he meant Orven or me.

"You brought the load back at least," he said eventually. I glanced toward the timber stacked in the cart and felt suddenly sick at how normal the conversation sounded beside the bodies. Harl noticed.

"That was not criticism," he said more quietly.

"Orven would have done the same." For several moments neither of us spoke. Then Harl's practical instincts reasserted themselves. They always did in Dunmere.

"Half the eastern cut came in," he said.

"So half pay. Orven's burning still has to be arranged, and that thing needs keeping cold until Talvek decides whether it is evidence or trouble." PAYMENT RECEIVED You received 5 iron pieces for incomplete timber stock. Your Current Coin is now 22 iron pieces. I blinked at him and he shrugged awkwardly.

"Dead men still need burning. Timber still needs hauling. The world keeps counting." Strangely, I understood exactly what he meant. Harl handed me a small leather pouch. The coin inside felt lighter than it should have after a morning like this.

"I'll see the bodies counted and covered," he continued.

"You stay where Talvek can find you." His eyes flicked once more toward the Crimson Elf corpse beneath the canvas. Just briefly. Yet this time I noticed calculation there beneath the fatigue. Not fear. Calculation. That should have frightened me immediately. Instead, I was too tired, too cold, and too newly Iron to understand what men might start calculating once a dead Crimson Elf arrived in their yard. I turned toward the bunkhouses before Harl could see that I had noticed.