Chapter 82: Another Man’s Walk

Joe waited four days before asking Theodere about repeated tempering.

He did not mention himself.

That part had become instinctive.

They were alone in the Hall after evening practice, where several wooden frames had been pushed against the wall and the smell of old sweat, medicine and polished floorboards lingered after the students left.

Joe helped Theodere move one of the heavier benches.

“Can someone return to an earlier layer after entering the next?”

Theodere stopped.

“What did you read?”

“Why does everyone assume I read something?”

“Because normal seventeen-year-olds ask whether they can punch harder. You ask questions that make instructors worry.”

Joe smiled.

Theodere sat.

“Skin after entering Muscle?”

“For example.”

“Possible.”

That answered one question.

“Common?”

“No.”

“Why?”

Theodere rubbed his knee.

“Because most people have a perfectly good road forward. If you finish Skin, why spend another year and a pile of medicine trying to improve Skin again when Muscle gives better returns?”

That matched Joe’s own reasoning.

“And someone who is stuck?”

“Different.”

Theodere considered how much to say.

“Some families have methods for strengthening an old layer again. Some practitioners work backward when they discover their foundation is too weak for the next realm. Sometimes it helps.”

“Sometimes?”

“Sometimes they ruin what was already balanced.”

Joe became more attentive.

Theodere noticed.

“The body grows around what you already built. You change an earlier layer afterward, everything above it has to adjust. Skin, Muscle, Bone—they aren't separate suits you put on.”

Exactly.

Joe asked, “So stronger Foundations would help?”

“Of course.”

“How much?”

Theodere laughed.

“If I knew a formula for every body in the world, I would charge more than Edwin.”

Joe accepted that.

No fixed answer.

Not yet.

“What about someone already in early Muscle?”

“Depends on the person, the method, how far they've gone, what exactly they're trying to repeat.”

Simon.

Joe thought about him.

He had only recently entered Muscle, but that did not mean Joe should walk home tonight and tell him to begin experimenting on Skin.

Joe himself possessed Perfect Body, Perfect Health, No Regression and talents Simon did not have.

What was safe for Joe was almost useless as evidence for what was safe for anyone else.

Theodere narrowed his eyes.

“You aren't planning something stupid?”

“No.”

That answer was truthful.

For once.

-----------

Bone III progressed through early autumn.

The third tempering was slower to reveal obvious changes.

Bone I had created the first complete refinement.

Bone II had corrected the largest remaining inequalities.

Bone III began finding smaller differences.

One section of the femur accepting force slightly less cleanly.

A transition through the pelvis producing a faint imbalance under rotation.

The supporting structures around one shoulder adapting a little slower than the other.

Joe had once thought increased cultivation would make his body simpler to understand.

Instead, improvement exposed smaller flaws.

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That suited him.

Every Hard Work Pays Off rewarded valid refinement.

One Effort Equals a Hundred multiplied each genuine session.

Perfect Body coordinated the changing layers.

And now Joe understood something he had missed for years: Perfect Body had probably been protecting him from consequences he had never even known existed.

Ninefold Skin had made ninefold Muscle possible.

Ninefold Muscle now gave Bone room to grow.

His talents did not merely make individual realms stronger.

They allowed the entire sequence to remain compatible.

That realization made him even less willing to advise Simon casually.

He needed more evidence.

------------

The other experiment progressed faster.

Joe bought a worn brown coat from a secondhand stall.

Nothing distinctive.

He replaced his usual boots with an older pair, changed how he tied his hair, and stopped carrying himself like a guard.

That last part proved hardest.

Years of Foundation practice had made efficient movement automatic.

To look ordinary, Joe had to deliberately introduce harmless imperfections.

A shorter step.

A slight outward turn of one foot.

A shoulder carried lower.

A tendency to look at the ground while passing strangers.

Static Foundation Perfection let him know which distortions were merely cosmetic and which actually compromised his structure.

Dynamic Foundation let him maintain the appearance while remaining balanced underneath.

The first evening, two people recognized him.

The second, one.

On the third, Joe passed Cole outside a food stall.

Cole looked directly at him.

Then looked away.

Joe continued walking.

Five steps later—

“Joe?”

Joe did not turn.

Cole hesitated.

Then muttered something about being tired and entered the stall.

Joe smiled.

Progress.

---------

Voice was harder.

Joe could lower it slightly.

Change rhythm.

Use fewer words.

But dramatic changes sounded artificial.

So he stopped trying to become another person.

That was the wrong approach.

He only needed to become someone people did not immediately identify as Joe.

Different clothes.

Different walk.

Different expression.

Different expectations.

People completed the rest themselves.

Past Life Memory helped enormously.

Joe began noticing how laborers from different districts carried themselves.

Warehouse workers tended to walk differently from guards.

Clerks protected their hands unconsciously.

Porters widened their stance after years beneath unstable loads.

Men who expected trouble scanned rooms differently from men who expected to be ignored.

Identity was made of hundreds of small habits.

Joe did not need all of them.

He needed enough.

-----------

One week later, he entered the southern tavern Bret favored.

No one looked at him twice.

Joe wore the brown coat, an old cap pulled lower over his hair and enough dust from the warehouse district on his sleeves to make the clothing look used rather than deliberately dirty.

He chose a table near the wall.

Ordered cheap food.

Ate slowly.

Bret arrived perhaps half an hour later.

Joe did not look up.

That required more discipline than expected.

The red-cord man came with him.

So did the broad warehouse fighter Joe had seen several times before.

Two others joined later.

Joe listened.

Most of the conversation was useless.

Work.

Money.

A woman one man disliked.

Complaints about warehouse supervisors.

A fight from several nights earlier.

Bret drank faster than the others.

Eventually Simon’s name appeared.

Joe kept eating.

“—still filed the report,” Bret said.

The red-cord man laughed.

“You're still angry about that?”

“It wasn't his business.”

“You left your route.”

Bret stared at him.

The man lifted his cup.

“Just saying.”

Interesting.

Even Bret's drinking companions understood the facts.

Bret drank again.

“He thinks Black blood makes him important.”

The broad man asked, “He married her?”

“No.”

“Then he doesn't have Black blood.”

Laughter.

Bret did not enjoy it.

“He walks around like Garrick can't touch him.”

Joe lowered his eyes toward his bowl.

That was not actually Simon's attitude.

Bret needed it to be.

One of the men said, “Your father already moved him west.”

“Not enough.”

The red-cord man leaned back.

“What do you want?”

Bret did not answer immediately.

That changed the table.

Joe noticed everyone becoming slightly quieter.

Finally Bret said, “He needs to understand filing papers has consequences.”

The broad man smiled.

“Talk to him.”

“I have.”

“Then hit him yourself.”

Bret’s jaw tightened.

“No.”

Joe nearly smiled.

At least Bret possessed some survival instinct.

Simon was early Muscle.

Bret was not stupid enough to assume a drunken street fight would go exactly as planned.

The red-cord man asked, “What are you asking?”

Bret lowered his voice.

Joe changed his breathing.

Slower.

Barely moving.

He listened.

“Nothing permanent.”

There it was.

“Catch him somewhere away from the Black streets. Shake him up. Make sure he misses duty for a few days.”

One of the men laughed.

“And if he reports that?”

“He won't know who did it.”

Joe's expression did not change.

The broad man looked unconvinced.

“Guards ask questions when guards get jumped.”

Bret snorted.

“My father handles half the western reports.”

That was interesting too.

Not my father agreed.

Not my father knows.

Only Bret assuming Garrick's position would protect the aftermath.

Joe filed the distinction carefully.

The red-cord man asked, “What about the girl?”

Bret's expression changed.

“Not near her.”

Good.

There were still boundaries somewhere inside him.

The man shrugged.

“Then when?”

Bret said, “He walks back from her place alone sometimes.”

Joe stopped chewing.

That was enough.

---------

He remained for another twenty minutes.

Leaving immediately after hearing the useful part would be memorable.

So, Joe finished the meal.

Listened to another argument about freight fees.

Paid.

Walked out.

Nobody followed.

Outside, he maintained the false gait for three streets before gradually returning to normal.

His breathing deepened.

His shoulders settled.

Joe considered what he had learned.

Bret wanted Simon assaulted.

Not killed.

Not permanently crippled.

That distinction mattered morally.

It mattered very little practically.

People arranging violence rarely controlled exactly how violence ended.

A fall.

A weapon.

One man striking harder than intended.

Simon had already been injured once because another person decided his life was acceptable collateral for a lesson.

Joe had no intention of allowing another.

The older version of himself might have gone directly to Simon.

Warned him.

Changed his route.

Reported Bret if possible.

Those were still options.

But there was another problem.

Bret had already used Garrick’s influence to alter assignments.

He had lied about patrol orders.

He had attempted to provoke Simon publicly.

Now he was arranging an off-duty attack through men outside the guard.

Each incident was small enough to survive individually.

Together they formed a pattern.

Joe did not need to be angry to recognize one.

----------

When he reached home, Simon was asleep.

Joe stood outside his room for several seconds.

He could wake him.

Tell him everything.

Then what?

Simon would confront Bret.

Or report it.

Garrick might protect his son.

Bret would deny the conversation.

The warehouse men would disappear.

And Joe would lose the advantage of knowing exactly where the threat was coming from.

Better to wait.

Not long.

Just enough.

Joe would make sure Simon was never actually at risk.

That part was non-negotiable.

But if Bret sent the men, Joe wanted to know who came.

What they were willing to do.

And whether anyone besides Bret was involved.

Information first.

Then response.

---------

Joe opened the panel before sleeping.

Static Foundation — Lv5 — Perfection

Dynamic Foundation — Lv5 — Perfection

Muscle Tempering — Lv5 — Perfection

Bone Tempering — Lv2 — Minor

And beneath them, a new line.

Disguise — Lv1

Joe stared at it briefly.

No magical transformation.

No new face.

The panel had simply recognized enough coherent practice to call what he was doing a skill.

That was useful.

He dismissed it.

Across Blackwood, Bret was probably still drinking.

Simon was sleeping without knowing several men had been asked to hurt him.

Joe felt no urgency.

Urgency made people careless.

Simon would be protected.

Bret would have his chance to reveal exactly how far he intended to go.

After that, Joe could decide what kind of problem Bret Vane had become.