Artham followed Vaendalle through the winding village streets, absorbing details that should have felt familiar but remained foreign. Children played with wooden swords between houses, their laughter echoing off weathered stone walls. Evening was settling over Terabis, vendors closing their stalls while the warm scent of baking bread and roasting meat drifted from homes preparing dinner.

  This was Arthanis's world, he thought, watching a blacksmith bank his forge for the night. These people knew him. Expected things from him.

  They stopped before a modest two-story house with weathered wooden walls that spoke of decades well-lived. A small orchard grew beside it, apple trees heavy with fruit, while a stone well sat quietly in the yard, its rim worn smooth by countless hands. The place radiated the kind of comfortable shabbiness that came from being truly lived in rather than merely occupied.

  "Home," Vaendalle said simply, pushing open the door with a familiar creak. "Get yourself cleaned up. I'll put something together for dinner."

  The interior struck Artham with unexpected warmth. Worn furniture arranged with obvious care, herbs hanging in neat bundles from kitchen rafters, the lingering scent of pipe tobacco and old leather. It felt... right. Loved, even.

  [Interesting. The emotional resonance of this space is significantly affecting your stress indicators,] Mire observed quietly.

  It feels like home, Artham realized with surprise. Even though I've never been here before.

  He climbed the stairs, drawn by half-remembered muscle memory that wasn't quite his own. Two doors waited at the top—one revealing a neat, almost spartan room with military precision in every folded blanket and polished surface. The other...

  Artham winced. Complete chaos. Weapons scattered across the floor, empty bottles clustered on a desk, clothes discarded wherever they'd fallen. The contrast painted a stark picture of two very different people sharing this house—one disciplined and controlled, the other spiraling into darkness.

  This was Arthanis's room, he realized, stepping carefully over a discarded dagger. And he was falling apart.

  Vaendalle must have left it untouched during the three days he was gone. A quiet kind of respect—or maybe denial that the boy he'd raised had really intended to die out there in the forest.

  Artham began tidying automatically, organizing weapons by type and clearing surfaces of debris. The act felt therapeutic somehow, imposing order on the chaos that the original owner of this body had left behind. When he'd finished, he changed from his bloodstained travel clothes into simple village attire—soft cotton that felt strange against skin accustomed to leather armor.

  Downstairs, the kitchen had filled with incredible aromas. Vaendalle stood over a bubbling pot, humming tunelessly as he stirred something that made Artham's stomach growl with anticipation.

  "Smells amazing," he said, meaning every word.

  "Old family recipe," Vaendalle replied without looking up. "Go wash up. Dinner's almost ready."

  The well water was shockingly cold against his skin, washing away the grime and dried blood from the forest battle. As he scrubbed, he became aware of Mire hovering nearby, its soft blue glow invisible to everyone but him.

  [Master, your life countdown has decreased to 25:11:12. You should consider finding another source of sustenance soon.]

  The reminder hit him like ice water. Less than twenty-six hours left. He'd been so caught up in playing the role of Arthanis that he'd almost forgotten his body was slowly dying. Without blood—without essence—he would simply... stop.

  I know, he thought grimly. But what am I supposed to do? Start draining villagers?

  [That would be the most efficient solution.]

  Not happening.

  He dried off and dressed, then spent a moment staring at the sunset. The sky burned with orange and crimson, beautiful and peaceful. For the first time since arriving in this world, he felt a moment of genuine contentment.

  "Arthanis! Food's ready!" Vaendalle's voice called from inside.

  The dining table groaned under the weight of the feast—roasted venison glistening with herbs, mashed vegetables steaming in their bowls, fresh bread still warm from the oven, and what looked like honey cakes for dessert. Artham's mouth watered as he took his seat.

  "This looks incredible," he said, then caught himself. "What is it exactly?"

  Vaendalle raised an eyebrow. "Venison stew. You've had it dozens of times." There was a note of curiosity in his voice, but he didn't press the issue.

  Artham took a bite and couldn't suppress a groan of pleasure. The meat was perfectly tender, the sauce rich and complex with layers of flavor he couldn't identify. "This is amazing," he mumbled around the mouthful.

  "Easy there," Vaendalle chuckled, settling into his own chair. "It's not going anywhere."

  As Artham continued eating with obvious enthusiasm, he noticed Vaendalle watching him with growing amusement. "Aren't you eating?"

  "I had something earlier. Go on, enjoy yourself."

  They ate in comfortable silence for a while, the only sounds being the clink of utensils and Artham's occasional appreciative noises. The venison was perfectly seasoned, the bread still warm with a crispy crust, and for the first time since arriving in this world, he felt genuinely relaxed.

  "This is really incredible," he said, reaching for another piece of bread. "I'd forgotten how good your cooking was."

  Vaendalle paused mid-chew, a slight frown crossing his weathered features. "Forgotten? You've never complimented my cooking before. Usually you just eat and disappear to your room."

  Damn. Another slip. Artham covered by taking a large bite, buying himself time to think. "The forest changes a man's perspective on simple pleasures," he said finally. "Makes you appreciate things you took for granted."

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  The old man's expression softened. "Aye, I suppose it would."

  As the meal wound down, Artham found himself reluctant to leave the warmth of the kitchen. He began clearing the table without being asked—a small gesture that earned him a surprised glance from Vaendalle.

  "You don't have to—"

  "I want to," Artham said, stacking plates with careful precision. "It's the least I can do after a meal like that."

  They worked together in companionable silence, Vaendalle washing while Artham dried and put away dishes in cabinets he somehow knew the locations of. It felt domestic. Normal. Like something a real family might do together.

  [Master, your stress indicators have decreased significantly. This environment appears to have a pronounced calming effect.]

  It does, Artham admitted silently. For the first time since I got here, I actually feel safe.

  As they finished cleaning up, Vaendalle stretched and rolled his shoulders with audible pops. "Getting old," he muttered, then looked at Artham with a considering expression. "You know, it's been a while since we've done any proper training."

  "Training?" Artham asked, though something in Arthanis's borrowed memories stirred at the word—images of wooden swords and endless repetition.

  "Combat practice. You used to be quite dedicated to it, though you've been... distracted lately." Vaendalle's tone remained carefully neutral. "Might be good to see if that forest adventure knocked some of the rust off."

  Artham felt a flutter of nervousness. He had combat experience from his previous life, but this body's muscle memory was still largely a mystery to him. "I don't know if I'm up for it tonight. It's been a long day."

  "Just a quick session," Vaendalle coaxed, though something had shifted in his demeanor. The casual warmth from dinner was fading, replaced by a sharper focus. "I want to see how you've changed."

  The way he emphasized 'changed' made Artham's skin prickle. Was this a test? Had Vaendalle noticed something off about his behavior?

  "Besides," the old man continued with a smile that didn't quite reach his eyes, "you used to love showing off your improvements. What's different now?"

  He's noticing, Artham realized. All these little changes in my behavior—they're adding up.

  "Nothing's different," he said, forcing his own smile. "Just tired, that's all. But you're right—it has been too long."

  Vaendalle's expression brightened, becoming more genuine. "That's more like it. Come on then, let's see what the forest taught you."

  The training ground occupied a cleared area behind the village's main buildings, surrounded by torches that cast dancing shadows across packed earth. Several villagers were engaged in practice bouts with wooden weapons, their movements ranging from clumsy enthusiasm to genuine competence. The sound of wood striking wood filled the air, punctuated by grunts of effort and occasional laughter.

  "Arthanis!" A young man with sandy hair waved from across the practice area. "You're back! How was your little vacation in the woods?"

  Artham waved back, hoping his smile looked natural. Another person who knew him, another relationship he'd have to navigate carefully.

  "It was... educational," he called back.

  Vaendalle led him to a weapon rack filled with practice swords, daggers, and staves, all carved from dense hardwood and worn smooth by countless training sessions. "Pick your tools," he said, his tone becoming more serious. "It's been too long since we've done this properly."

  Artham selected a wooden sword and dagger, testing their weight and balance. They felt almost toy-like compared to real steel, but the craftsmanship was excellent. He looked up to see Vaendalle drawing his actual sword—a length of quality steel that gleamed in the torchlight.

  "Real sword versus wooden practice weapons?" Artham asked, raising an eyebrow.

  "The blade stays sheathed," Vaendalle replied with a grin that carried a predatory edge. "I'll use it as a club. Consider this a lesson in adapting to disadvantages."

  [Master, shall I scan the target for tactical advantage?]

  Do it.

  Artham shifted into a combat stance, muscles coiling as he prepared to attack. Vaendalle looked relaxed, almost casual, but something about his posture screamed danger to every combat instinct Artham possessed.

  [Warning! Target's power level exceeds scanning parameters. Unable to track movements or predict—]

  Artham lunged forward, aiming for Vaendalle's chest in a straightforward attack. He was fast—faster than any normal human should be—but his body hesitated where his instincts urged movement, a half-second delay that could cost him everything. And Vaendalle...

  Vaendalle simply wasn't there.

  The world blurred. Something struck Artham between the shoulder blades with the force of a battering ram, sending him face-first into the dirt. He rolled instinctively, gasping as pain exploded across his back.

  "What the hell—?" He scrambled to his feet, wooden sword raised defensively. "How did you—?"

  Vaendalle stood exactly where he'd started, sword still sheathed, looking as if he hadn't moved at all. Around them, the other villagers had stopped their own practice to watch, murmurs of excitement rippling through the small crowd.

  "Again," Vaendalle said simply, but something had changed in his eyes—an intensity that hadn't been there during dinner.

  Artham circled left, trying to find an angle of attack. This time he feinted right, then spun with his momentum, aiming for Vaendalle's ribs. It should have worked against any normal opponent.

  The sheathed sword appeared in his attack path as if by magic, deflecting his wooden blade with casual ease. Before he could recover, something hit him in the stomach, doubling him over. Then the pommel tapped him gently on the back of the head.

  "Dead again," Vaendalle observed with clinical detachment.

  Artham straightened, wiping dirt from his mouth. His pride stung worse than his bruises. "You're not exactly fighting fair."

  "Fair?" Vaendalle's laugh held a sharp edge. "Boy, when has life ever been fair? You think those goblins in the forest were worried about fairness when they tried to kill those girls?"

  The words hit harder than the physical blows. Artham realized with growing unease that this wasn't just training—Vaendalle was trying to prove a point. But what point? And why now?

  "I get it," Artham said, raising his wooden sword again. "You're faster than me. Stronger. More experienced. What exactly are you trying to teach me?"

  "That you're weak." The bluntness of it was like a slap across the face. Vaendalle's expression had turned cold, all traces of the kind guardian from dinner vanishing. "That despite whatever happened in that forest, despite saving those girls, you're still the same helpless boy who can't even land a single blow on an old man."

  The watching villagers shifted uncomfortably. This had gone beyond normal training into something harsher, more personal.

  Artham felt anger flare in his chest—not just his own, but something deeper. Borrowed memories of countless similar humiliations, years of being made to feel inadequate despite every effort to improve. "Then teach me," he said through gritted teeth. "Stop playing games and actually teach me something."

  For a long moment, they stared at each other across the training ground. The air between them seemed to thicken with tension. Then Vaendalle's expression shifted, becoming unreadable.

  "Perhaps," he said quietly, "it's time you learned what real power looks like."

  He moved.

  Not the quick strikes from before, but something else entirely. The air around Vaendalle seemed to shimmer and distort, and when he stepped forward, it was as if reality itself bent around him. His form blurred, not from speed but from something far more fundamental—as if the very concept of distance had become negotiable.

  Artham didn't even see the attack coming. One moment he was standing with his sword raised; the next he was flat on his back, staring up at stars that seemed to spin in lazy circles. Every muscle in his body felt like it had been struck by lightning, and the taste of copper filled his mouth.

  [Warning! Essence manipulation detected! Master, this individual is operating on a completely different power scale than anticipated!]

  "You're an Essentor," Artham breathed, the pieces finally clicking into place.

  Vaendalle nodded slowly, his expression becoming gentler as he sheathed his sword completely. "I have been for thirty years." He extended a hand to help Artham up. "And until tonight, I thought you understood what that meant."

  The implications crashed over Artham like a cold wave. This kind, patient old man who'd raised Arthanis was one of the awakened. One of the people who could bend reality to their will through sheer force of developed essence.

  "I..." Artham caught himself before asking questions Arthanis would never need to ask. Ten years living with this man, and he was supposed to know these things already. "I never really understood how strong you were."

  Vaendalle studied him for a long moment, his pale eyes seeming to look right through him. "No," he said finally, with what might have been disappointment. "I don't think you did."