The Formant Power chap 14

The wind stirred his curtains before sunrise.

Valen was already awake, staring at the ceiling. The sky beyond his window was pale gray, waiting for light to return. His room was as modest as ever—bare wooden walls, one shelf with essentials, and the money under his floor boards.

Eight gold. Twenty-six silver.

Almost there.

But today, he didn’t want to count it again.

He rose quietly, slipping into his gear. Cloak, boots, shoulder straps. The bone sword rested where it always did, within arm’s reach. He picked it up, turning the grip over in his palm, then strapped it across his back.

He hesitated.

His fingertips brushed the hilt again, then fell away. Something stirred inside him — not fear, not quite longing — but a restless pressure. A sense that he was circling the same ground over and over, like a wolf in a cage.

It hasn’t worked once in five years…

His mind drifted back to that moment — age ten, body broken, lungs crushed by exhaustion, and that blinding second of power when The Unknown Power had triggered. A strike so beautiful it split air, and scared a fearless monster into running away

He’d tried everything to recreate it. Repetition. Momentum. Perfect angles. Nothing worked.

Couldn’t even see it in his stat page

He clenched his jaw.

No herb jobs today. No fevergrass, no stone mushrooms, no simple tasks. He’d done enough farming work in his first life and this one — crops, soil, seasons — it all made sense, but it didn’t make him more. It just kept him from slipping backward.

He wasn’t here to survive anymore. He was here to grow.

But first... he had to ask.

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Fenward Smithy

The clang of steel greeted him as he stepped into the forge yard. Smoke drifted upward in thin ribbons, carried by the wind. The scent of ash and heated iron wrapped around him like a second cloak.

Clyde stood at the anvil, hammer rising and falling with precision. Sparks flew, steel hissed, and time seemed to slow between each beat of metal and fire.

Valen waited near the door, patient and silent.

When Clyde finally straightened, wiping his brow with the back of his arm, he caught sight of his son. Their eyes met — two men who didn’t need many words.

Stolen from its rightful author, this tale is not meant to be on Amazon; report any sightings.

“You’re early,” Clyde said, setting his tongs aside.

Valen took a breath. “I want you to make something.”

A pause. Then a quiet nod. “Alright.”

“Daggers. Dual. Short length, reverse grip if needed. Light enough to throw, but not too thin. Something durable — meant for speed.”

Clyde raised an eyebrow. “So… you're changing styles?”

“Does your swordsman class allow that”?

Valen shook his head. “Not changing. Expanding. The sword's still mine. But I need more options. Something faster. Something I can move with and no itll still work as a sword but then I can surprise them with another.”

Valen thought to himself I’m not sure if that skill will ever work again. But when it did… it felt right. The way I moved, it was amazing strength that made it work.way better than the mage I wanted to be when I got here.”

“if you need I can pay for it dad”

Clyde gave a thoughtful grunt, then walked to a shelf stacked with unused cores — materials salvaged from beasts, monster bones, tempered steel. He looked them over with a practiced eye.

“Any particular enchantments?” he asked.

“No. Just pure craftsmanship. Let me learn how to fight with them first.”

“That I can do.”

Valen allowed himself a faint nod. “Thanks.”

“think of it as an early birthday present you don’t need to pay me”

“You’ll need to start training your stance from the ground up,” Clyde added as he sorted materials. “Daggers are about rhythm and footwork. Not reach or force.”

“I know.”

“Do you?”

Valen glanced down at his hands. Calloused. Scarred. Steady.

“I will.”

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Fenward Dungeon

The dungeon’s mouth hadn’t changed. It still yawned open in the mountain, a wound in the mountainside slick with moss and magic. But stepping inside now, Valen felt the weight of aura surrounding him except it wasn’t as threatening this time around.

His steps echoed softly in the stone corridors as he moved deeper into the first floor.

No gathering sacks on his belt today. No drying kits. No flasks for preservation.

Just the bone sword. Just him.

He stopped near a familiar chamber — one with a low ceiling and wet ground, where some beetles often nested beneath broken bricks.

He heard the familiar scrape before he saw it. One emerged — clicking and slow — its mandibles twitching.

Valen didn’t even draw his sword. A step forward, heel twist, and a kick crushed its shell against the wall. Ichor splattered his boot.

Too slow.

Two more came. He drew this time.

Momentum Slash.

A burst forward, sword wide. Their bodies split cleanly in two.

Still not fast enough. Still clumsy compared to what he remembered from that day.

He kept moving.

Fang rats lunged from above — he ducked, parried, drove the blade through one and flung the other away.

He reached for it again.

Nothing.

Just breath and steel and sweat.

He stopped beside a moss-covered wall and leaned against it, feeling the sting of failure settle beneath his skin like a slow burn.

He hated that it still bothered him. That one brief taste of something more had left such a hollow behind. The rest of his skills worked like clockwork — even Instinctive Parry had improved, responding faster, cleaner, on reflex.

Still waiting for something he couldn’t name.

Maybe the daggers would help. Maybe it wasn’t about strength, or command, or even stats. Maybe it was style.

He pushed himself upright and sheathed the bone sword.

“Next time,” he muttered.

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Evening – Fenward Village

The dungeon trail led him back as the sun dipped low behind the treetops. The sky above was a warm amber, shadows stretching long across the dirt roads.

He passed the baker’s boy, who gave him a cheerful wave. Valen returned it with a nod.

He passed the old priest, who offered a quiet blessing. Valen didn’t stop.

He passed the forge again. The lights were still on. Clyde was inside, drawing up sketches. Working already.

That meant something.

Back at home, Valen pulled open the chest beneath the floorboards and tucked the silver from today’s minor drops beside the rest.

8 gold, 31 silver.

Almost there.

Tomorrow, he'd train with his sword again. Then his footwork. He’d prepare for the daggers. For what came next.

And maybe, one day soon,This power would finally answer him again