The sun had barely climbed over the hills when Cain stepped into the orphanage’s yard, his long pole in one hand and a piece of stale bread in the other. The dawn light was faint, filtered through gray clouds promising rain, and the air carried a chill that seeped through the cracks of his tattered tunic. The children were already awake, some sweeping dust with dry branches, others stacking firewood near the chimney. The orphanage hummed with a contained energy, a fragile routine holding chaos at bay. Cain took a bite of the bread, chewing slowly as he observed: About 20 children active today, two fewer than yesterday. Tasks divided by age, basic but efficient. Resources stretched thin, as always.

  He’d slept little, just a few hours on a hard cot by the common room, but the rest—meager as it was—had cleared his mind. The leg burned by the monster’s acid was better, the pain dulled to a faint echo thanks to the short bursts of skin hardening he’d maintained overnight. Recovery: 60% estimated. Inflammation low, no signs of infection, he thought, flexing his knee to test it. It was a good day to train, and Flesh Shaper was a muscle that needed as much exercise as his body.

  He found a corner of the yard, near the broken fence, where the earth was compact and clear of debris. He planted the pole in the ground as a marker and closed his eyes, letting his mind sink into the familiar map of his body: skin, muscles, bones, all laid out like a living blueprint. Skin first, he decided, recalling the crack fight. Current duration: 30 seconds stable. Goal: 40, with less fatigue. He imagined the dermal layers, not as a cold machine but as a living network—collagen fibers weaving like threads in a loom, reinforced in hexagons that interlocked to withstand more pressure. The tingling came, warm and precise, and his forearm hardened, the skin turning rough like aged leather. He counted: 10, 20, 30… 40 seconds. He released the change, and the pinch was faint, barely a whisper compared to the fire of weeks ago. Solid progress, he thought, satisfied. Wear rate: 4% per cycle, manageable on this diet.

  He moved to muscle, focusing on his right bicep. Current stability: 15 seconds. Goal: 20, with sustained strength. He visualized the muscle fibers as braided cords, spirals that tensed without breaking, distributing load like a finely tuned spring. Heat flowed, the muscle thickened under his skin, and he lifted the pole with a slow but steady motion. 10, 15, 20 seconds. He dropped it, and the pain was a distant echo, not a stab. Strength up roughly 10%, stability improved, he analyzed, flexing his arm. It wasn’t a huge leap, but every second mattered in a world where death didn’t wait.

  A murmur broke his focus. Jek, the older boy who’d given him bread yesterday, stood a few meters away, two smaller kids trailing him. One, a demi-human with wolf ears, pointed at his arm. “How do you do that?” he asked, his voice shy but curious.

  Cain lowered the pole, studying them. “It’s a skill,” he said, simple but clear. “Something I was born with, but you have to practice. Like learning to chop wood.”

  Jek nodded, crossing his arms. “Looks weird. Anyway, thanks for what you did with Tani.”

  Before Cain could respond, Lira stepped out of the orphanage door, her cloak fluttering in the breeze. “Speaking of the little sick one,” she said, her tone dry but tinged with relief. “He’s awake. Mara says the fever broke last night. She wants to see you.”

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  Cain propped the pole against the fence and followed Lira inside, the children trailing like a quiet shadow. The common room was livelier now, the smell of fresh soup replacing yesterday’s staleness. Mara was by Tani’s cot, adjusting a damp cloth on his forehead, but the boy no longer sweated as before. His eyes, yellow like Lira’s but duller, opened when he saw Cain, and a weak smile crossed his face.

  “It worked,” Mara said, her voice soft and warm as ever. “He’s not out of the woods, but he’s breathing easier. What you did with the water and the root… I don’t know where you learned it, but thank you.”

  Cain stepped closer, giving the boy a quick scan: Temperature down to 37-38°C, pulse steadier, about 90 bpm. Initial recovery: 70% likely with rest. “It’s not magic,” he said, shrugging. “Just knowing how to use what’s here. Keep giving him water and a bit of that root every few hours. He should be fine in a day or two.”

  Mara smiled, her eyes crinkling with gratitude. “You’re a gift, Cain. We don’t have healers here, not like the guild ones. Those get snapped up by clans or the rich in Iron Crest. We’ve only got what grows and what we can boil.”

  Lira snorted, sitting on a nearby bench. “And luck,” she added. “Without it, half these kids would be underground already.”

  Cain nodded but said nothing, the weight of the reality settling in—not as guilt, but as another data point for survival.

  Tani raised a weak hand, touching Cain’s sleeve. “Thanks,” he mumbled, his voice barely audible. The other children—Jek and the two younger ones—edged closer, their eyes shining with something new, not just curiosity but trust. Cain glanced at them, a bit uneasy.

  “No big deal,” he said, dry but not harsh, and stepped away from the cot, letting Mara take over. Lira followed him to a corner of the room, where the children’s chatter was a distant hum.

  “You’re getting popular,” she said, crossing her arms with a half-smile. “First villagers, now sick kids. Sure you’re not a hero in disguise?”

  Cain laughed, a low but genuine sound. “Not heroism. Pragmatism.”

  She studied him, her ears tilting slightly. “Maybe. But you’re good at it. And that makes me trust you a bit more.” She paused, lowering her voice. “Speaking of, we need to talk. This place won’t last on watery soup and crumbs.”

  Cain nodded, sitting on a bench and resting his elbows on the table. Current resources: 2-3 days of food, estimated. Reliance on external donations: 80%. Sustainability: nil without intervention. “What’s the plan?” he asked, meeting her gaze.

  “Hunting,” she said, blunt. “There’s a forest west, a few hours out. Not like the one we crossed—denser, with decent prey, not just vermin. We can bring back meat, maybe hides to sell. It’s not much, but it keeps this place afloat.”

  Cain processed the idea, his mind sketching a mental map: Distance: 5-10 miles, viable in a day. Likely prey: small mammals, birds, 300-500 calories per piece. “Works,” he said, nodding. “But we need a strategy. I’m not fast like you, and my skill’s still got limits.”

  Lira grinned, flashing sharp teeth. “I run, you hit. Like the crack, but with less acid in our faces. We can head out tomorrow, at dawn. Bring back what we kill and share it here.”

  “Deal,” he replied, extending a hand. She took it, her grip firm, and for a moment, Cain felt something new: mutual trust. Not friendship, not yet, but more than they’d had in Iron Crest.

  Mara approached with two bowls of soup, breaking the moment. “Eat,” she said, her maternal tone cutting through any tension. “And rest. The kids are looking at you like you’re legendary hunters.”

  Lira laughed, taking a bowl. “Just a thief with a dagger,” she said, but her eyes gleamed with something like pride.

  Cain took his, the warmth of the liquid easing his cold hands. He glanced at Tani, now sleeping peacefully, and at Jek, quietly directing the younger kids with silent authority. The children saw him differently now, and so did Lira. For the first time in months, he wasn’t just running. He was building something, fragile as it was.