Gamble King Chapter 22. Grind

Oof.

Hngh.

Fuck.

Max's hands slammed into the grain sack for what felt like the thousandth time, his grip already slipping on the rough burlap despite the thick work gloves Edmund had given him. The thing weighed more than a small horse and had apparently been designed by someone with a personal vendetta against human spines.

"Come on," he grunted, wrapping his arms around the sack and trying to muscle it up the ladder. "Come. On."

The sack moved approximately one inch before gravity reminded him who was really in charge here.

Week one, day three. The Crow farm. And Max was beginning to suspect that farming was just elaborate torture disguised as agriculture.

Thud.

The grain sack hit the cellar floor with the sound of Max's dignity dying a slow death.

"Having trouble, my lord?" called Jorik Crow from above, though his tone suggested he found Max's struggles more entertaining than concerning.

"No," Max lied, already reaching for the sack again. "Everything's fine."

It was not fine. Nothing about this was fine.

His back screamed. His shoulders felt like they were being slowly separated from his torso by very patient demons. His hands were developing blisters despite the gloves, and he was pretty sure he'd pulled something in his left leg that didn't have a name but definitely had opinions about his life choices.

But he kept working.

Grunt. Lift. Climb. Breathe.

Grunt. Lift. Climb. Breathe.

By midday, when Marta Crow called them in for the meal, Max had moved exactly twelve grain sacks and was operating on what could charitably be called fumes. He collapsed onto the wooden bench in their kitchen like a man who'd just discovered gravity was negotiable but had been denied the privilege.

"You're looking a bit peaked, my lord," Marta observed, setting a bowl of thick stew before him. "Perhaps you should rest this afternoon."

"I'm fine," Max managed between spoonfuls. The stew was good—hearty, warming, just what he needed.

Jorik studied him across the table. "You know, when Garrett first mentioned you'd be working the farms, we thought it was some kind of whim. Something you'd try for a day before deciding it was beneath you."

"And now?"

"Now I think you might actually be serious about this." Jorik's weathered face creased. "Stupid, maybe. But serious."

Max laughed despite his exhaustion. "Thanks. I think."

The afternoon brought more grain sacks, plus an introduction to the joy of mucking out stables. If moving heavy objects was torture, then shoveling horse shit was torture's more creative cousin—the one who specialized in offending multiple senses simultaneously.

"Don't hold your breath," advised Stephan Crow, the youngest son, as Max tried not to gag. "You'll just make it worse when you finally have to breathe."

"Noted," Max wheezed.

By evening, when they finally called it quits, Max felt like he'd been beaten with sticks and then asked to run a marathon. Every muscle in his body had filed formal complaints, and several joints were threatening to go on strike.

But he'd finished the day. All of it.

Week one, day seven. The Henderson farm.

"Hah!"

Max's axe bit deep into the wood, splitting the log clean down the middle. The two halves fell away with satisfying thuds, joining the growing pile of firewood at his feet.

He straightened, wiping sweat from his forehead despite the bitter cold. His breath came out in white puffs, but it was controlled now, steady. Not the desperate gasping of week one.

"Better," called Sam Henderson from across the yard. "Your form's improving."

"Thanks," Max called back, already reaching for another log.

The work had changed him. Not dramatically—he wasn't about to challenge Garrett to any arm-wrestling contests—but the changes were there. His hands, once soft and uncalloused, now bore the rough patches of honest labor. His arms, while still far from impressive, no longer shook after lifting heavy objects. His back had stopped filing daily complaints and settled into a grudging acceptance of its new reality.

And the fat was starting to melt away.

It wasn't obvious yet—not unless you knew where to look. But his clothes fit differently. His face looked leaner. The soft roundness around his middle was gradually giving way to something more solid.

"You know," said Marta Henderson, setting down a cup of cider beside his woodpile, "when you first showed up here, I thought you looked like a man who'd never missed a meal in his life."

"And now?"

"Now you look like a man who's earned his meals." She smiled. "There's a difference."

That evening, as they sat around the Henderson family's dinner table, talk turned to the wolf attacks that had been plaguing the valley.

"Third one this week," Sam said grimly. "Hit the Thomson farm yesterday evening. Got two sheep before the guards drove them off."

Max looked up from his stew. "Guards, huh?"

"Aye. Your father sent a rotation out after you spoke to him. Six men, good with bows." Erik's expression was grateful. "Makes a difference, having proper protection again. Though I still say we could use more."

"The wolves are getting bolder," added Sam. "Bigger packs. They're not afraid of the guards like they used to be."

Max made a mental note to discuss the situation with Tredor when he returned to the castle. If six guards weren't enough for the Hendersons, they'd send twelve.

Week two, day four. The Marsh farm.

"Ungh."

Max heaved the water barrel up onto his shoulder and began the trek from the well to the farmhouse. The barrel was full—maybe fifty gallons of water that needed to be carried a hundred yards across uneven ground without spilling.

Two weeks ago, this would have been impossible. Hell, one week ago it would have been difficult. Now it was just work. Hard work, but manageable.

His legs had learned to adjust for the shifting weight. His shoulders had accepted that this was their life now. His core had given up complaining and simply gotten stronger.

"You're looking good," called Garrett—Bubbles, as Max had taken to calling him, much to the younger man's confusion and eventual acceptance. "Much better than when you started."

Bubbles had ridden out for the day, one of his occasional visits when Sir Bors could spare him. He'd fallen in naturally with the farm work, clearly comfortable with the rhythm of agricultural labor.

"Thanks," Max said, carefully lowering the barrel onto the kitchen platform. "I feel better too."

And he did. The constant ache in his muscles had settled into something more like awareness. His body felt... functional. Like a machine that had been properly calibrated for the first time.

"My lord," said Sara Marsh, the young widow who ran the farm with impressive efficiency, "I hope you won't take offense, but you look like a completely different person than the one who first came here."

"Different how?"

"Leaner." She paused, studying his face. "More alive, I suppose."

Max thought about that as he returned to the well for another barrel. More alive. He liked the sound of that.

Week two, day ten. Back at the Thorne farm.

"Hah. Hah. Hah."

Max's breathing came in controlled bursts as he hefted the millstone—not Gregory's millstone, but a smaller one Edmund used for grinding grain. He couldn't lift it over his head yet, but he could get it to chest height and hold it there for a slow count of five.

Progress.

"Not bad," Edmund observed. "You might actually make a farmer yet."

"Thanks for the vote of confidence."

"Don't let it go to your head. You're still soft compared to my grandsons." But Edmund was grinning as he said it. "Though I'll admit, you've surprised me. Thought you'd quit after a few days. This ain't easy work."

Max lowered the millstone carefully. "I thought about it."

"What changed your mind?"

That was a good question. At first, he simply did not have a choice. Either adapt in this new world, or die like a dog. Then it had become about proving something to himself, about earning the respect of people whose opinions mattered.

But somewhere along the way, it had become something else entirely.

"I started to like it," Max said, surprising himself with the honesty. "The work. The results. The way my body feels when I'm tired but not broken."

"Aye," Edmund nodded. "There's satisfaction in honest labor. Especially when you can see what you've accomplished at the end of the day."

That evening, as Max sat with the Thorne family around their dinner table, Willem looked up from his bowl and said, "Garrett told us you can do magic now."

"Some," Max replied carefully. He'd been practicing in private with only one spell, following the techniques Gerth had taught him, but he wasn't ready to advertise that particular skill yet.

"What kind of magic?" pressed Marcus.

"Nothing exciting. Just... basic stuff."

"Could you make the crops grow faster?" asked Meredith hopefully.

"I don't think it works that way," Max said. "From what I understand, magic requires a lot of study and practice. I'm still learning the fundamentals."

Which was true, as far as it went.

Kellor had been surprisingly accommodating about Max's request to spend time away from formal magical training, accepting his explanation that he still hadn't grasped how to reach for the Source. The archmage had even provided some reading materials—dusty tomes on magical theory that Max studied by candlelight each evening when he returned to the castle.

He hadn't mentioned his growing connection to the Source, the way it felt more accessible with each passing day. That was a conversation for later, when he better understood what was happening to him.

Week two, day fourteen. The Miller farm.

"Hoof. Hoof. Hoof."

Max's breathing was steady as he carried the last of the hay bales into the barn. His movements were efficient now, economical. No wasted motion, no unnecessary strain.

The physical changes were obvious to anyone who looked. The soft layer of fat around his middle had melted away, revealing the beginnings of actual muscle underneath. His face was leaner, more defined. His arms and shoulders had broadened slightly, the result of two weeks of constant lifting and carrying.

But the mental changes were equally significant. He felt... capable. Competent. Like someone who could be relied upon to get things done without complaint or excuses.

Week three, day fifteen. 'Rest' day.

The rooster was an absolute bastard.

Max had been awake for maybe thirty seconds when the damn thing started its morning routine—a series of ear-splitting crows that seemed specifically designed to offend anyone within a half-mile radius. The sound cut through the pre-dawn quiet like a rusty blade through silk.

"Shut up," Max muttered, though he was already sitting up. His body had adapted to the early schedule whether he liked it or not. Dawn meant work, and work meant getting his ass out of bed regardless of what any particular chicken had to say about it.

The smaller chamber he'd moved into two weeks ago was still mostly dark around him.

He'd given up his comfortable lordly quarters for this—a servant's room in the lower levels of the castle, barely large enough for a bed and his belongings. The stone walls were thicker down here, which meant it stayed colder, and the narrow window faced east, which meant the first light of dawn hit him directly in the face every morning.

It had been a calculated decision. The comfortable chambers upstairs made it too easy to justify sleeping in, to find excuses for missing the early start that farm work demanded. Down here, with thin blankets and a hard mattress, comfort wasn't an option. When dawn came, getting up was a relief rather than a struggle.

And it had worked. He hadn't missed a single early morning in two weeks.

Max dressed quickly in the clothes that had become his uniform—practical wool, sturdy boots, everything designed for someone who expected to spend their day doing actual work instead of sitting around.

He felt... good. Not perfect, not at his peak, but good. Solid. Like his body had finally figured out what it was supposed to be doing and settled into the rhythm of it.

The physical changes were obvious now. The soft layer around his middle had melted away almost entirely. His arms and shoulders had broadened, not dramatically, but enough that his clothes fit differently. His hands were permanently calloused now. His face was leaner, more defined.

But it was more than just the visible changes. He moved differently now—with economy of motion. His stamina had improved dramatically. Where two weeks ago he'd been gasping after carrying a single grain sack up a ladder, now he could work for hours without feeling like his lungs were trying to escape through his throat.

A large part of that progress, he suspected, was due to Gerth's mysterious evening concoction.

The old healer had presented it to him at the end of the first day of farm work, when Max had limped back to the castle looking like he'd been beaten with sticks and then asked to run a marathon.

"Drink this," Gerth had said, handing him a clay mug filled with something that looked like muddy water and smelled vaguely of herbs and... something else he couldn't identify.

"What is it?"

"Muscle preservation. Pain prevention. Things that will let you continue this idiotic training regimen without your body declaring mutiny."

Max had been skeptical until he drank it. The stuff tasted like chalk mixed with grass clippings, but the results were immediate. Instead of waking up the next morning feeling like he'd been trampled by horses, he felt... functional. Sore, yes, but manageable sore.

The nightly routine had become essential. Every evening, Gerth would have the mixture ready—some combination of herbs and powders that the old man refused to explain in detail beyond muttering about "muscle recovery" and "pain reduction."

It was a surprise Gerth even knew about the body's needs that way.

Max was pretty sure it was basically a medieval protein shake. The consistency was right, the effects matched what he remembered from his old gym days, and there was that telltale side effect that confirmed his suspicions.

He'd been constipated for most of the two weeks.

Not completely—things still worked, eventually—but it took forever. He'd spend twenty minutes in the privy every morning, contemplating life choices while his digestive system worked through whatever Gerth was putting in that mixture. It was a small price to pay for being able to train consistently without rest days, but God, did it take long.

Still, the trade-off was worth it. Without the recovery drink, he never would have been able to maintain the pace he'd set for himself. Two solid weeks of dawn-to-dusk physical labor, every single day, pushing his body to adapt faster than should have been humanly possible.

And now, standing in the pre-dawn quiet of his sparse chamber with only that bastard rooster for company, Max felt ready to test the results.

He made his way through the castle corridors toward the training yard, trying not to wake the entire fortress. The guards he passed nodded respectfully—he'd earned a different kind of recognition over the past weeks.

The training yard was empty except for the usual collection of practice weapons and equipment. And there, exactly where Gregory had left it a little more than two weeks ago, sat the millstone.

Four feet across, thick as a man's torso, easily three hundred pounds of carved stone that had become the benchmark for everything that came next.

Max approached it slowly, not yet reaching for his Fanga. He wanted to feel the weight of it first, to understand exactly what he was asking his body to do.

The rooster crowed again from somewhere in the distance, as if announcing the beginning of something important.

Max crouched down beside the stone, worked his fingers through the center hole, and tested his grip.

Two weeks ago, this thing had felt impossible. Like it had been carved from concentrated suffering and spite.

Now...

Now it just felt heavy.

Heavy, but not impossible. Heavy, but manageable.

He stood back up, rolling his shoulders, feeling the steady confidence of muscles that had been properly conditioned. His breathing was calm, controlled. His hands were steady.

Time to see what two weeks of labor had earned him.

Max closed his eyes and reached inward for the first time in two weeks.

He'd been avoiding this moment deliberately, saving it, wanting to feel the full impact of what his body had become when it was finally ready. The anticipation had been building for days—would the changes be enough? Would all that grinding, painful work translate into real improvement?

The Fanga answered his call.

The first few times he'd manifested it, weeks ago, his heart had raced like a hummingbird's wings. His breathing had become ragged, uncontrollable. It felt like being plunged into the coldest bathtub of ice water imaginable without any warning—that same shocking, system-wide jolt that made every nerve scream in protest.

The closest thing he'd ever experienced was taking the Heightening. Which reminded him—he should really get some more of those when possible.

But this time was different.

The energy still surged through him with that familiar rush of exhilaration, but it felt... controlled. Manageable. Like his body had learned to accommodate the power instead of fighting it.

Whitish, transparent energy began to flow visibly around him, accompanied by wisps of what looked like steam in the cold morning air. His heart rate increased, yes, but it was the controlled acceleration of a machine shifting into higher gear, not the panicked racing of something being pushed beyond its limits.

The Fanga moved through his muscles like warm honey, toning and strengthening everything it touched. His joints felt smoother, more fluid, as if he'd just completed the world's most effective warm-up routine.

Max opened his eyes and looked down at the millstone.

He crouched down, worked his fingers through the center hole, and found his grip. The stone felt solid, heavy, but not impossible. Not anymore.

Then he planted his feet, took a deep breath, and lifted.

The millstone rose smoothly from the ground. Up to his waist. Up to his chest. Up to his shoulders.

Then above his head.

His arms locked into position, holding three hundred pounds of carved stone like it was exactly what Gregory had promised—a sack of grain. Heavy, but manageable. His breathing was controlled, his stance stable.

"One," Max counted aloud, his voice steady. "Two. Three."

No shaking. No desperate strain. Just controlled strength doing exactly what it was supposed to do.

"Four. Five. Six."

The energy flowed through him like a river finding its proper channel, enhancing every muscle fiber, every tendon, every joint.

"Seven. Eight. Nine. Ten."

Max lowered the millstone back to the ground with the same controlled movement he'd used to lift it. The stone settled onto the packed earth with a satisfying thud.

He straightened, breathing normally, the Fanga still humming through his system.

"Okay," he said, staring down at the stone. "I actually—"

"Congratulations."

Max spun around, heart suddenly racing for entirely different reasons.

Gregory stood about twenty feet away, arms crossed, wearing what might have been the closest thing to a smile Max had ever seen on the knight's face.

"Holy shit!" Max blurted, then immediately caught himself. "I mean—sorry. Language. You startled me."

"Evidently." Gregory approached. "Good morning, Harek."

"Good morning, sir." Max tried to get his breathing back under control. "Have you been there the whole time?"

"Just in time to see you pass the test," Gregory replied, stopping beside the millstone and examining it as if confirming it was, indeed, the same heavy piece of stone it had always been. "Though I suspect you've been ready for this moment for several days now."

"I wanted to make sure," Max said. "Didn't want to attempt it and fail again."

"Hmm." Gregory looked him up and down. "I've observed your daily departures to the farming valley. You've lost considerable weight."

Max felt heat rise in his cheeks and let out an awkward laugh. "Yeah, well. Still got a long way to go and all that." He gestured vaguely at himself. "Not exactly knight material yet."

"Progress is progress," Gregory said simply.

The conversation felt stilted, formal in a way that Max was getting used to but still found slightly disappointing. Thinking about it, the Gregory from the books had been warmer than this—more prone to dry humor, more willing to engage in the kind of back-and-forth banter that made relationships feel natural.

But then again, in the books Gregory's primary relationship had been with Bjorn. They'd teased each other constantly, fought over everything, maintained the kind of competitive rivalry that brought out both their best and worst qualities. Bjorn had been stronger than Gregory, which had made Gregory see him as a challenge to overcome, someone worth pushing against.

Max didn't feel like teasing this man. Gregory felt more like a rather strict but fair boss—someone who expected competence and delivered consequences when he didn't get it. The kind of authority figure you respected but didn't necessarily want to grab a beer with afterward.

Not that they had beer. Or that knights probably grabbed drinks together in the first place.

"Well," Max said, still feeling awkward about the whole interaction, "what's next? Swordwork? Hand-to-hand combat? The fun stuff?"

Gregory studied him for another moment, then nodded once. "Come with me."

"Where are we going?"

But Gregory was already walking away, clearly expecting Max to follow without further explanation.