The lab had become the heart of the castle.
It was warm. A single, gray "Common-Brick" smoldered in a small iron brazier, filling the room with a dry, stable heat that felt more luxurious than any roaring fire.
Fyrion was at the desk, his quill scratching across a new, clean ledger. On the other side of the table, Silas was nervously reading from his own notes, his voice no longer whimpering, but sharp and focused.
"Master, the first caravan of Common-Bricks sold out in the lower town in three hours. The demand is... it's infinite. We don't have enough ash."
"We will," Fyrion said, not looking up. "Grom's contracts are now my contracts. His men are now my men. Send them to the lumber mills in the western woods. Have them buy the ash from the kilns. If they won't sell, buy the wood and make our own. I want a steady, daily supply of 500 kilos."
"Yes, Master." Silas bowed, his admiration visible. In 48 hours, Fyrion had not just saved the house; he had turned it into the most powerful economic force in the territory.
Fyrion made his final entry and closed the book. He had solved the first problem: money. The Sun-Bricks and Common-Bricks had turned their worthless slag into a river of gold and silver.
Now, for the second problem.
He stood up, his body stiff. He had spent his entire regression—all 5 days of it—in a forge or at a desk. His mind was a Grandmaster's, but his body was still "Fyrion the Rubbish."
He walked out of the warm lab, ignoring Silas's, "Master, where are you going?"
He headed for the one place he had avoided his entire youth. The training yard.
The yard was a wide, frozen expanse of packed snow, silent and abandoned. The weapon racks were mostly empty, the wooden training dummies cracked and rotting.
In the past, this was the that had mocked him. It was the symbol of his failure.
Today, it was a new beginning.
A single figure was in the center of the yard, his movements slow, practiced, and heavy.
A man was practicing his sword forms alone in the freezing wind, his breath pluming. He was old, maybe fifty, with a face like a worn leather boot and a network of silver scars that cut through his left eye, rendering it a milky white.
Watch Captain Gregor.
His father's last loyal soldier. The man who had stayed, not out of love for House Fyrion, but because he was a Northerner, and this was his post. He had nowhere else to go.
Fyrion's footsteps were silent on the snow, but the old soldier's head snapped up. He stopped mid-swing, his one good eye narrowing with suspicion.
"My Lord," Gregor grunted. The title was an insult. It was a word for the soft-handed boy who hid in the castle while real men froze.
Fyrion walked to the edge of the yard. "I need you to train me."
Gregor actually laughed. It was a short, harsh, barking sound.
"Hahauha, Train you?" He spat on the snow. "Go back inside, my lord. You're an alchemist. That's good. Stick to it. This yard is for fighters. And with your partially alive core if you train it would only risk your life."
"I am a fighter," Fyrion said.
"No," Gregor said, his voice hard. "You're lucky. You broke a Southern fop's arm because he was an arrogant fool who underestimated you. That's a trick. It only works once. Here..." He tapped the iron plate on his chest. "...tricks get you killed."
He turned back to his forms, dismissing him. "Your core is dead, boy. You have no aura. Go back to your powders before you catch your death."
Fyrion said nothing. He unslung the heavy bag from his shoulder. It was the bag of silver coins he had extorted from the envoys. He undid the leather tie and tossed it.
The bag landed in the snow at Gregor's feet, spilling a river of shining, Tower-minted silver coins.
Gregor froze. His one good eye widened, staring at the silver. It was more money than he had seen in twenty years of service.
"I'm not asking, Watch Captain," Fyrion said, his voice cold. "I'm hiring you. You no longer work for my father. You work for me. Ten silver coins, every day, from dawn until dusk, to train me."
Gregor stared at the gold, then back at Fyrion, his mind processing the offer. Ten silver a day was a absurd, for context Gregor's salary under Fyrion's father was only 75 silver per month.
"And," Fyrion added, "five silver coins extra..."
He walked to the rack and pulled out a heavy, blunted wooden training sword. He tossed another one to Gregor.
"...for every time you knock me down. Five silvers for every time you don't hold back because of my name. Five silvers for every time you make me bleed."
Gregor looked at the silver in the snow. He looked at the weak, thin-armed boy holding a training sword like it was a broom. He looked at Fyrion's eyes. They were not the eyes of a boy. They were the eyes of a man who had already died and had nothing left to lose.
The old soldier's doubtful, weathered face broke into a slow, terrifying grin. It was the first time Fyrion had ever seen him smile.
"A contract is a contract," Gregor rumbled. He picked up the training sword, his entire demeanour changing. He was no longer a servant. He was a paid professional.
He kicked the bag of silver to the side.
"Raise your sword, my lord."
Fyrion settled into a stance. His mind was clear. He knew this. [First Canto of the Sword: Northern Wind, Stance Five]. It was a defensive stance, designed to redirect an opponent's weight. He'd read the manual a hundred times in his past life, dreaming of a power he could never have.
Gregor's one good eye widened in surprise. "You... you know the form."
"I've read the book," Fyrion replied, his core beginning to hum with warm, untrained aura.
Gregor's grin widened. "Reading isn't knowing."
He charged.
He didn't move with the grace of a Southern fop. He moved like an avalanche. He was all weight, power, and brutal, Northern efficiency.
Fyrion's mind screamed the correct response. 'Parry, Stance Five! Use his momentum! Redirect the blow to his lower left!'
His mind gave the command.
His body, weak from a lifetime of neglect and three days of alchemy, failed.
His arms were too slow. His footwork was clumsy. His parry, which should have been a sharp, clean deflection, was a weak, desperate flap.
Gregor's heavy wooden sword smashed through Fyrion's guard as if it wasn't even there.
It slammed into his ribs.
BAAAAM.
The sound was as sharp and final as a breaking branch.
Fyrion's world exploded in white-hot, agonizing pain. He was launched off his feet, flying three meters before crashing into a frozen bank of snow. The air left his lungs in a single, painful whoosh. He couldn't breathe. He couldn't see.
He was in agony. He had injured a muscle. Maybe two.
'This... this is what it feels like.' In his past life, he had only felt the lash.
However this was different.
This was the blunt, shattering trauma of true combat.
A shadow fell over him. Gregor stood above, his face impassive in the cold light, not a trace of pity in his one good eye.
"You're right," Gregor rumbled. "You're not a fighter. You're rubbish."
He reached into the bag of spilled silver and tossed five heavy silver coins onto Fyrion's chest. They landed with a dull thud on his body.
"Get up, 'my lord.'"
Gregor pointed his sword at Fyrion's throat.
"You paid for this."