Chapter 49: What He Had Earned (Edited)

Chapter 49: What He Had Earned

Kerr divided the first fruit into six portions.

Silas watched her seal them in separate containers and mark the lids. The second fruit remained whole, stored cool according to the grower’s advice. He had paid for both and still felt an unreasonable urge to protect them from the knife.

"One portion a day until your next check," Kerr said. "Finish the circulation properly. More won’t help if you’re wasting most of it."

Silas remembered the pressure beneath his breastbone during the first session. He accepted the containers without attempting to negotiate.

Alden arrived as he was leaving, carrying his own purchase. They compared the morning’s timetable and agreed to meet for practice that afternoon.

There was something pleasantly ordinary about it. They had crossed several gates to reach a place neither had known existed. Now they had classes to attend, notes to finish, and a reason to stop spending their money on things they didn’t need.

The new bracers were waiting at Vessa’s workshop after class.

His adamantite had arrived the morning after he authorized the transfer. The date on the work record put a full week between that delivery and today. Vessa handed him the finished pair before allowing him to admire them for too long.

"Put them on," she said. "Then hold your weapon."

They weren’t as elaborate as the guards displayed by the entrance. Dark plates overlapped along his forearms, with a narrow reinforced edge protecting the wrist. The straps sat clear of the place his old pair had pinched.

Silas drew his shortblade and followed her instructions.

On the third movement, he noticed what was missing. He could bring his hand back into guard without the lower plate pressing against the base of his thumb. Reinforcing the channels required less correction, too. Mana followed the fitted lines instead of gathering awkwardly near the fastening.

Vessa adjusted one strap while Nera checked the range of his left wrist.

"The grade doesn’t swing the sword," Vessa told him. "But it shouldn’t interfere with the person doing it."

Silas tried the return again. He liked it enough to do it once more after she’d stopped watching.

He paid the remaining twenty gold and checked the material record. Fifty grams used for the commission, with the rest of his original kilogram still held in the vault. Tier One, Peak-grade. Something he could use now, made properly for his body.

On the walk back, he caught himself looking down at his wrists.

All right. They can be sensible and still be nice.

After practice with Alden that afternoon, Silas went home, ate dinner, and took his first portion.

Nim sat beside the cultivation cushion. Silas had already provided the spirit’s agreed mana offering and rested afterward. He wanted his attention on the fruit when its warmth began spreading beneath his ribs.

He entered Steady Current slowly.

The extra supply reached his circulation, and this time he didn’t try to take everything at once. He kept the flow narrow enough to refine properly, opening it only as his breathing settled and the current became steady.

His body answered more readily than it had during his first weeks of cultivation. Remote Grasp had taught him control. Assimilating Shadow Passage and Burst Motion had changed how readily mana moved through him, giving him potential that the original C-rank body hadn’t possessed.

He still had to do the work. Now more of that work stayed with him.

The ring around his Core remained stable through a circulation that would once have exhausted his concentration. He finished with sweat beneath his collar and a pleasantly heavy feeling in his limbs.

Middle Rank One. Still.

Silas sat with that for a moment, then checked the progress against his recent sessions. He’d gained more than he would have from another evening without the fruit. Wanting the next stage didn’t make that worthless.

Nim put a paw on his knee.

"Finished?" the spirit asked.

"For now," Silas said.

Nim climbed onto the warm cushion as soon as he stood.

Silas washed, drank some water, and called Mara.

She noticed the bracers first. He showed her the fitted plates and the way his wrist could turn. When she asked about the price, he told her before she could accuse him of avoiding it.

Mara pressed her lips together. Silas waited for the complaint.

"Do they protect that arm better?" she asked instead.

He glanced at the place Lydia’s blade had opened above his old guard.

"Better coverage," he said. "And they fit properly."

"Good." Mara leaned closer to the screen. "Let me see the fastening."

He turned his arm for her. She had patched enough damaged people to care about more than the finish on the metal.

Nim jumped onto the desk while they spoke.

Mara’s expression changed at once.

"You have a cat?" she asked.

"A spirit," Silas said. "His name’s Nim. He decided he liked my room."

Mara went still. "A spirit? Can you actually reach him?"

"We’ve formed a small bond," Silas said. "I had help learning from a student who understands them."

His mother looked from him to Nim. "Silas, that’s extraordinary."

Her delight made him smile. He hadn’t announced it, he told her, and would rather keep it between them for now. Mara nodded without asking him to share the news with anyone else in the household.

Nim inspected the screen, then sat directly in front of it. Silas moved him aside with both hands. The spirit tolerated this long enough for Mara to laugh, then settled against his forearm instead.

"Is he staying?" she asked.

"I hope so," Silas said.

Mara looked at them for a little while. "You used to stop whenever we passed the kitchen cats. Even when you were angry with everyone."

The memory came before he could search for it: a boy holding a saucer under his coat, certain his mother hadn’t noticed where the last of the milk had gone. Her hand resting on the back of his head when he finally admitted it.

Silas rubbed a thumb along Nim’s shoulder.

"I remember," he said.

He did. That was still strange sometimes.

By the following afternoon, Silas was finding a routine that left enough mana for both of them.

He had practiced Spirit Communion after the call and again before breakfast, keeping the morning offering small. The day’s fruit portion would wait until dinner. Nim helped by answering a gentle invitation instead of demanding that he make it brighter. Silas learned to recognize acceptance without following every little movement of the spirit’s body.

[Spirit Communion — Assimilation: 5%]

He was pleased by the increase and annoyed by how much remained. The original copy still had several days left. He intended to use them, and Elyra’s willingness to visit again mattered considerably more now.

He met Alden at their usual practice lane.

The new bracers made returning to guard easier. They didn’t stop Alden from touching his belt tab when he watched the weapon and forgot the person holding it. Silas swore, reset his feet, and made the next attempt harder for him.

Ferrow observed the last few exchanges before calling them over.

There would be an assessment the following morning. Students ready for more demanding weapon instruction could earn recommendations to supervised technique courses. Winning a bout would help their case, but Ferrow would also judge control, recovery, and whether they could correct a mistake under pressure.

Silas asked whether Bronze Class students were eligible.

"That’s why I’m telling you," Ferrow said.

He accepted the registration sheet before he could spend too long imagining reasons to wait. The shortblade on his belt was useful. He wanted to know how to use it against someone who had learned more than a handful of exercises.

His assigned opponent was Rovan Kest, another Bronze Class student at Middle Rank One. Silas knew him by sight: a wolfkin boy with gray-edged ears, a long practice staff, and little patience for people blocking the training lanes.

Rovan was checking the same sheet near the equipment racks.

"Surefoot," he said when Silas approached. "C-rank. You use Remote Grasp?"

"Yes," Silas said.

Rovan nodded toward the instructor’s desk. Their declared Talents would be listed for the assessment. There was no advantage in pretending otherwise.

"I need the polearm course," Rovan said. "The frontier patrol entrance trials include it."

Silas glanced at the worn grip on the staff. "Then I expect you’ll make this unpleasant."

"I expect you will too," Rovan said.

He didn’t smile. He didn’t move away from Silas either.

For tomorrow, they wanted the same recommendation. Silas would have to earn his while someone else was working just as hard for it.