By dinnertime, an overseer led a squad into the cell. They yanked the prisoners out one by one for pat-downs and questioning in the corridor.
When it was Shane's turn, he calmly spread his arms and let them slap him down from head to toe.
The class card was hidden in his mind—there was no way they'd find a trace.
By the time they finished with the last person, night had fallen completely. The cell was unusually quiet; years of rigid routines meant that even with an afternoon off, the prisoners lay down early as always.
Shane closed his eyes too. He was probably the most exhausted one here; the welt on his back still ached dully.
He slept dreamlessly, only the card's residual warmth flowing slowly through him, nourishing his body.
He slept so well that he woke naturally the next morning before the overseer's whistle.
"Ahh…" He stretched like he was in his own bed.
He reached back and brushed his wound. A tingling itch ran through the scab; at a light touch, the black crust flaked away, revealing new skin beneath.
"Some recovery," he couldn't help praising. Beyond the Archer card's obvious firepower, that steady warmth was nothing to sneeze at either.
It didn't just restore stamina—it sped up healing—only in a subtler, more gradual way.
"Not a bad morning." Feeling physically better put him in a good mood. What puzzled him was that the Archer memories that should have surfaced overnight hadn't stirred at all.
"Was it the Noble Phantasm usage draining power? Or are the dreams irregular by nature?"
The Book of Heroic Spirits didn't come with a manual; most things he'd have to figure out by trial and error. He didn't have time to dwell on it.
The sharp, grating whistle shrieked again. An overseer stood at the door, banging the bars with a stick as if nothing unusual had happened yesterday, and drove the slaves out yet again.
"That doesn't add up…" Shane roused Simon and Erza, who hadn't adapted to the schedule yet, and moved with the line.
"After an attack like yesterday, there's no way they'd restart work this fast. There should've been at least some internal chaos…"
A bad feeling climbed his spine. He ran through the possibilities:
Most likely, the stone tower was nearing completion—the schedule was too tight to allow a shake-up.
Or, they had a level-headed commander who stabilized things quickly.
Worst case: both were true.
Shuffling down the pitch-black passage, he pressed his knuckles without thinking; they clicked softly.
If his guess was right, it would throw off his plans. He'd have to adjust.
In the end, he decided he couldn't stall any longer. Whether or not he dreamed tonight, he'd try calling the True Name.
He refused to let things veer unpredictably because of a moment of personal indulgence. That, he couldn't accept.
Decision made, he felt lighter. Then he reached the work site, saw the hill of stone in front of him, and went quiet for a beat.
After all that thinking, he'd almost forgotten he was still a beast of burden.
He didn't dare dawdle. He rolled up his sleeves and started hauling. Even if he was healing fast, he had no desire to earn another whipping.
Clang—
He hefted a block into the cart. The load had him sweating in no time, a fine sheen beading on his skin. Maybe it was his imagination, but it felt a touch easier than yesterday.
Still tough—arms aching, breath heavy—but he definitely had a little more in the tank.
He wanted to flip open the Book right away, but that required focusing inward, and zoning out on the site would be far too conspicuous. He held off.
Instead, he spent the extra energy observing.
Patrols were clearly more frequent, and there seemed to be more overseers than before. Grips tight on whips and clubs, eyes like hawks, they swept over every slave's movements.
"So, they did learn something," he murmured, a faint smile tugging at his mouth.
Worth noting: his cellmates were working with unusual vigor today. Not the mechanical grind of men driven by whips, but with a long-missing spark—backs straight.
There was something new in their eyes—hard to name.
Soon he found the words: a rekindled desire for life, laced with a little hope for the future.
It was a subtle change. In a few days, reality might snuff it and leave only numbness again.
But it was a good sign. He didn't think a few idle words yesterday had caused it; he preferred to believe the longing had always been there—they'd just never been given a reason to change.
Seeds buried too long in the mud forget they can sprout.
He stopped woolgathering and focused on the surroundings and the overseers' patrol patterns.
With a bit more energy to spare, work hours were the best time to learn the lay of the land. He wouldn't waste them.
By noon, with no new incidents, food was handed out on-site.
Shane didn't eat with Jellal and the others. He found a shady corner, sat down alone, and while gnawing on the hard bread, sank his mind inward.
He needed to clarify the change in his stamina.
"Book of Heroic Spirits," he called silently, and the plain-bound treasure materialized before him.
He turned straight to the status page and scanned it, then froze.
…
Name: Shane
Alignment: Neutral · Good · Human
Strength: E– (a thin trickle of power runs through your muscle fibers; you now qualify as a passable child)
Endurance: E– (your body is still fragile, but there's a hint more toughness to it)
Agility: E– (near-zero mobility; you can't rely on yourself to evade)
Mana: E– (there is indeed a barely-perceptible flow within you, faint to the point of almost not existing)
Luck: EX (bearer of the Book of Heroic Spirits; beyond normal metrics; maximum resistance to "predestined fate")
Skills: None
…
"The notes… changed?" Shane blinked.
The ranks themselves hadn't shifted, but the comments after Strength, Endurance, and Mana had all nudged in a positive direction.
He clenched a fist on instinct, tightened his muscles, and focused.
A faint but undeniably real sense of power flowed along the fibers—something this frail body had never had.
"Could it be… my rank is close to improving?" he thought.
But why?