Chapter 014 - Maintenance Under Extreme Pressure

  Morning light streamed through the large glass window of the master bedroom, painting the pale wooden floor in stripes of gold. For the first time since his arrival, Mark woke up without the crushing weight of vertigo or a mind-splitting headache. The aches and bruises from the imp's assault were still there, a dull, thrumming reminder of his vulnerability, but the oppressive mental fog had finally lifted, replaced by a quiet clarity.

  He luxuriated in a hot shower, a simple act that felt like the peak of civilization, before heading down to the kitchen. A quick breakfast, some kind of vegetable that once fried tasted like a nutty potato and a strip of the cured meat that was almost bacon. As he ate, he stared out the window at the colossal, silent face of the mountain, the sheer scale of it still difficult to comprehend. The dread was still there, but beneath it, the flicker of resolve he'd felt the night before had solidified. He had a plan, and it started today, other goals such as what Knowledge had suggested would have to wait until much later.

  After eating, he went back upstairs to the wardrobe. Beside the fine, dark blue tunic and trousers the Oracle had gifted him, he found several other sets of basic clothing, sized at best guess and a little baggy. One was clearly designed for physical activity, with trousers made of a dark, durable, yet surprisingly soft material, the tunic of a lighter cloth that wasn't quite cotton. The quality was exceptional, feeling far better than any gymwear he'd ever owned. It was another piece of the puzzle, more evidence that his arrival and needs had been anticipated, there was a plan in play, he just needed to know what it was, and if he was a disposable part of it.

  Not long after changing there was a sharp, precise knock echoed from the front door downstairs. He took a steadying breath, bracing himself for whoever "Sam from the garrison" might be. He pictured a mountain of a man, someone like Lothar but with a drill sergeant's scowl.

  He opened the door, and had to look down, anticipation did not match the man before him.

  He was short, maybe 5'2" at most, with a lean build that showed little in the way of visible muscle, probably closer to some of his staff that spent their offtime at the local gym. His red hair was cut short and practical, and his eyes were a sharp, intelligent grey that seemed to take in every detail of Mark's appearance in a single, analytical glance. He gave a curt, professional nod.

  "Sam," he said, his voice crisp and even. He tapped a tattoo on the back of his hand, an intricate design that blended the image of a hammer with the lines of a shield. It pulsed with the faint, clear-white light of Quartz. "Heart of the Battle-Smith".

  Mark stared for a moment, processing the unusual introduction.

  "Valerie sent me over," Sam continued, his gaze sweeping past Mark to assess the inside of the house. "Said you needed a training plan." He looked back at Mark, his expression unreadable. "So, you want to start inside or out?"

  Mark blinked, surprised by the man's directness. He glanced past Sam to the street, where a few people were already moving about, their curiosity at their new neighbour pulling more than a few hushed comments. Lothar's warning from the day before echoed in his mind.

  "Uh, inside, I think," Mark said, gesturing for Sam to enter. "I feel like I've been on display enough already."

  Sam gave a sharp nod and stepped across the threshold, his analytical gaze sweeping the open-plan room. "Suits me. Fewer distractions this way." As he spoke, Mark noticed a faint but distinct burr in his voice, a slight Scottish lilt that rode just beneath the surface of the translated language. It was a small, humanizing detail in this increasingly strange world.

  "This'll do for a start," Sam declared, pointing to the open space in the living room area. "Let's get this lot cleared."

  Once Mark had pushed a low table aside, the training began without any further ceremony. Sam directed him into a series of what seemed like basic stretches, but the intensity was immediate. Every muscle, still bruised and protesting from the imp's attack, screamed in defiance. As Mark grunted through a particularly grueling hamstring stretch, Sam began to explain.

  "This isn't about building bulk," the small man said, his voice a calm, steady rhythm against Mark's pained breathing. "It's about conditioning. Your muscles, your tendons, your bones... they all need to be prepared. A weak foundation will shatter when using even basic magic."

  Mark, gritting his teeth as he tried to hold the pose, needed a distraction. "You said... 'Heart of the Battle-Smith'," he forced out, the words strained. "What does that do for you?"

  Sam paused and looked at him, his sharp grey eyes filled with a flicker of genuine curiosity. "So it's true, then? rumors are you're really from another world." He shook his head with a small, almost imperceptible sigh. "The children learn what a Battle-Smith does in their foundation classes."

  Seeing Mark's blank expression, he relented. "It's a hybrid style of Heart. A mix of concepts, the Forge and the Warrior. In a fight, when a shield gets dented or a weapon starts to crack, I can mend it on the spot. A quick, dirty fix to make it hold for a few more crucial seconds. It’s about maintenance under extreme pressure."

  Sam's expression became all business once more. "Now, stop talking. You're losing your focus. Breathe. Hold the stretch."

  The next thirty minutes were a blur of controlled agony. After the initial stretches, Sam moved on to core exercises, planks that made Mark's entire body tremble, leg lifts that felt like hoisting stone, and strange, slow crunches that targeted muscles he barely knew he had. His lungs burned, the dull ache of his old injuries flared into sharp protest, and sweat dripped from his brow onto the polished wooden floor. Sam offered no encouragement, only quiet, precise corrections. "Lower your hips. You're putting the strain on your back." "Breathe from your diaphragm, not your chest. Control it."

  "Alright, that's enough," Sam finally said. The words were a lifeline. Mark collapsed onto the floor, a quivering, sweat-drenched heap, his chest heaving as he gasped for the cool mountain air. He wasn’t sure that even the imp made him feel this bad when he got here.

  Sam stood over him, his expression completely unreadable. "You have a lot of work to do," he stated. "Physically, you're a wreck. It's obvious you weren't a warrior or a laborer wherever you're from." He paused, a thoughtful look in his sharp grey eyes. "A politician, maybe? Someone who sat and talked for a living?"

  Before Mark could even formulate a response, Sam pulled a small, worn notebook and a pencil from a pouch on his belt. He quickly scrawled a series of notes on a fresh page, tore it out, and handed it to Mark.

  This content has been misappropriated from Royal Road; report any instances of this story if found elsewhere.

  "This is your routine," he said. "Do it every morning when you wake up, and every evening before you sleep. No excuses. I'll drop by every other day to check your progress. I expect to see improvement."

  Sam walked to the door, then paused and looked back at Mark, who was still trying to muster the energy to sit up. A tiny, almost imperceptible smirk touched the edge of his lips.

  "Look at it this way," he said, his Scottish burr tinged with a dry humor. "You can't possibly get any worse than you are right now."

  The door clicked shut, leaving Mark alone in the silence of his temporary new house. He was sprawled on the floor, the piece of paper with his new, punishing schedule clutched in his hand. Apparently the real work was just beginning.

  For the better part of an hour, Mark didn’t move, his muscles had gone from trembling to a deep, profound ache. He replayed the trainer’s blunt assessment over and over in his head. “Physically, you’re a wreck.” It wasn’t the pain that truly bothered him, it was the indignity. He was a competent, semi-successful man, used to managing complex projects and difficult people. To be so thoroughly defeated by a handful of simple exercises was a humbling experience he hadn't anticipated.

  Just as he was contemplating the herculean effort of getting to his feet, another knock came at the door. With a groan, he hauled himself up, every muscle screaming in protest, and limped over to answer it.

  It was Valerie, her expression a mixture of professional concern and faint amusement. “Sam stopped by the infirmary,” she said, her eyes taking in his disheveled state. “He reported that he didn’t break you. I thought I’d come and confirm his assessment.”

  “Barely,” Mark wheezed, leaning against the doorframe. “He… seemed like he enjoyed it.”

  She stepped inside, raising a hand that glowed with a soft, clean light. She held it a few inches from his chest, her expression focused. “No serious strains,” she diagnosed after a moment. “Just the predictable agony of a body being reminded it exists. You’ll be sore for days.”

  “That’s something to look forward to,” he muttered. He looked past her, as if expecting to see her colleague. “And Tori? Is she alright?”

  Valerie’s professional smile softened into something more genuine. “She has other responsibilities at the infirmary this afternoon.” She paused, choosing her next words carefully. “And, if I’m being honest, I think she’s still a bit embarrassed about… everything that happened. She’s processing it in her own way.”

  “Don’t be offended, because I don’t know your relationship.” Mark took a deep breath. “But I do worry about her, I’ll respect she's a healer, and she has a lot going on up there.” Mark tapped the side of his head.

  The silence was awkward for a few moments as Valerie thought, occasionally looking almost offended on Tori’s behalf. “I’ve known Tori for a long time. She is an exceptional healer with other talents, but what happened with you really made an impact, she is still working through it.”

  “I won’t ask more, it's not my business.” he said, not wanting to add strain to the conversation. “I really don’t hold it against her, and don’t wish her harm.”

  “That’s part of the issue, she's stubborn, knows she's done wrong by you, and you have already moved on.” Valerie let out a sigh, "She's spending a lot of time studying again, she wants to do better.

  They chatted for a few moments more, Valerie offering some advice on which herbs from the pantry might help with muscle soreness. Finally, she headed for the door. “Don’t forget your evening routine,” she said with a smile that didn’t quite hide her sympathy. “Sam has a habit of knowing those things.”

  She left, and the house was quiet once more. Mark’s stomach rumbled, a simple, grounding reminder of his needs. He looked toward the kitchen, the thought of another simple, methodical task, a welcome break in a day of physical failure. First, however, he had to successfully navigate the five steps from the living room. The day was far from over.

  After forcing himself into the kitchen, moving with the stiff, undignified limp of a man twice his age. He found something to cook, a hasty collection of fried vegetables and meat, he didn't even register what he had boiled in the pot. Between the pain and embarrassment of these activities, he was only grateful he didn't poison himself, he didn’t even notice if it tasted good or not. The last thing he remembered was the empty plate in front of him before his head grew heavy and the world faded to black.

  Mark woke with a jolt, a sharp pain in his neck from sleeping slumped over the table. He pushed himself upright, groaning as every muscle protested. Through the large window, the sky was a deep twilight blue, and the street below was bathed in the soft, steady glow of crystal lamps. It was early evening, mentally questioning if there was a reason for crystal over gas or electric for the lamps.

  Then he saw it. The crinkled piece of paper on the table, Sam's handwriting clear and precise. The evening routine. Every fiber of his being screamed in protest, begging him to ignore it and crawl into the luxurious bed upstairs. But the memory of his own profound weakness, and the quiet, determined resolve he'd felt the night before, pushed him to his feet.

  The second workout was a slow, agonizing process, considerably harder than the morning's trial. He had to take long breaks between each exercise, his muscles trembling with the effort. What Sam had guided him through in thirty minutes took well over an hour to complete on his own. Finally, after one last, shuddering plank, he collapsed onto the floor for the second time that day. He lay there, drenched in sweat and gasping for air, but this time, the exhaustion was mixed with a small, fierce flicker of pride. He’d done it.

  He dragged his aching body upstairs to the shower. The hot water was a blessing, washing away the sweat and soothing the worst of the fire in his muscles. He practically fell into the bed, the soft sheets and supportive mattress a world away from the lumpy excuse for a bed back in his Manchester flat. He was too tired to process the strangeness of it all, too sore to contemplate the political games or the cosmic truths. As sleep claimed him instantly, his only thought was that the day was finally over. He had survived, and he had done what was needed.

  The next several days blurred into a simple, brutal rhythm. He would wake, every muscle screaming in protest, force himself through Sam's morning routine, and then spend the day in a state of sore, aching recovery. In the evening, he would repeat the agonizing process. The luxurious house became his entire world, a comfortable prison where his only two tasks were to endure the punishing exercises and try to rest.

  Sam, true to his word, dropped by every other day, sometimes accompanied by Valerie. His trainer’s methods were direct and unforgiving, pushing Mark to hold a stretch for a few seconds longer, to complete one more agonizing repetition.

  “Better,” Sam said during one visit, after watching Mark hold a plank for a full minute, his body shaking with the effort. “Your form is less appalling. Keep at it.”

  Valerie would follow with a quick, glowing scan of her hand. “He’s right,” she confirmed, a warm, encouraging smile on her face. “Your muscles are recovering much faster now. You are looking better for yourself as well.”

  Mark heard their praise, but all he could feel was the monumental effort it took to achieve such tiny steps forward. Progress felt agonizingly slow. In his old life, he managed projects with shrinking timelines and increasing results. Here, his only project was himself, and he felt hopelessly behind schedule, frustrated with a body that refused to cooperate after years of take-away food and neglect.

  After they left one afternoon, Mark went to the kitchen to make a meal. He opened the larder and the pantry and was met with a lot less on the shelves than when he started. The Oracle’s generous initial stock was not going to last. The idea was normal enough. Here and now, it was slowly becoming a terrifying endeavour. He would have to go to the market, and soon.

  He would have to navigate the bustling town on his own. He would have to face the curious stares, knowing that every person he passed was different. They were stronger, and all of them possessed a control of the magical arts that he lacked. But this was less of a worry, the practical fact was he was running out of food.

  He steadied himself. The vague plans from the Oracles could wait. His short-term goal, his shrinking soft middle, was a tangible, daily battle. But now, a new and immediate task stood before him. He was no longer just a patient or a curiosity. He was a citizen of this alien town, and he had to buy groceries.