I Acquire Overpowered Traits Just By Taking Damage

Of course, I refused Clifford's offer of the lord's quarters. While I might have helped, it was mostly his magical talent that brought us here. The Marquis had been so impressed—and so desperate to enlist him—that he ended up entrusting both a castle and a town to a foreigner.

That said, I still made sure to find myself a decent room. It was a castle, after all, with no shortage of chambers to pick from. I chose one of modest size, facing away from the sea and its constant salty winds. I'd had enough of that back on the ship. Now even the sight of water—or the faintest whiff of brine—turns my stomach.

The lone window overlooked the town and the chapel beyond. The view was high and wide, rooftops and crooked lanes stretched out like a child's rough drawing, with the people below small enough to look like scurrying ants. From up here, I could almost pretend the town was nice, that the stench of fish guts and dung didn't drift on the air when the wind turned.

"This used to be the room of Master Marcos, one of my father's men-at-arms. He's no noble, but he makes me call him 'Master' anyway. His father's a wealthy merchant in Boarsmouth," Lucas rattled off the moment he stepped inside. His mouth had not stopped since.

He busied himself picking up the clutter left behind, evidence enough of the previous occupant's disdain for cleanliness. Dust coated every surface. Boots were piled in a corner, hard as wood from sweat and salt. A chipped cup still sat on the floor beside the bed, long dried with wine stains.

The boy paused when he uncovered a crumpled gown, holding it up with both hands, brow furrowed.

"He'd bring women here all the time. Loud ones. Every day, it seemed. My father didn't mind. I heard they pay him just to keep Marcos here and not back in Boarsmouth, ruining the family's reputation."

Leofric's laughter erupted from the corner as he hauled a heavy closet across the room single-handedly. The old boards groaned under its weight, but he kept at it with the ease of long practice. I wanted a desk and shelf by the window for my books, which meant pushing most of the furniture near the door to make space. The room itself wasn't small, but its layout was clumsy, as if whoever designed it didn't expect more than a straw bed and a chest.

"You talk a lot for someone so young," I remarked.

"Kids who grow up around soldiers only turn out two ways," Leofric rumbled in his thick northern accent, still grinning beneath the web of scars on his face. His voice had that gravelly timbre of a man who had breathed too much cold air and smoke. "Back in my fighting days, there were always camp brats running around."

He set the closet down with a thud that shook dust from the rafters.

"If they're stuck with the wrong kind of men—the sort who think it's sport to slap a boy or torment a girl—they go quiet. Afraid to breathe wrong. But if they're with good folk, they turn out talkative. There's no tongue sharper than a soldier's campfire." He chuckled at the memory.

I thought that sounded clever, and true enough in its way. My own "grown-ups" had been my parents and older siblings. They found any excuse to beat me bloody, so I learned to be quiet.

"I guess that's not true all the time," Lucas piped up.

I raised an eyebrow. "And why not?"

The boy stood, lifted his tunic, and revealed a dark bruise blooming across his stomach. Then he rolled up sleeves and leggings, showing more scars and marks, some fresh, others faded into pale streaks.

"The soldiers here beat me whenever they please," Lucas said proudly, as though declaring a badge of honor. "But I still ended up talkative."

Leofric's grin faded.

"The beatings never scared me. My mother always said, 'what doesn't kill you makes you tougher.' Me and her, we're tough as nails now." He grinned again, and without pause went back to gathering the mess, humming under his breath like bruises were no more than scratches from play.

"That's… a way of looking at it," I muttered, awkwardly.

I'd thought I'd had it hard, but not like that. I was bullied, yes, but not relentlessly. For all my family's cruelty, I still enjoyed the scraps of noble privilege—warm food, clean sheets, and lessons in letters. Lucas had none. He and his mother were treated as little more than servants. It's true what they say: there's always someone worse off.

Leofric cleared his throat, pulling me from my thoughts. "Could you help me lift this bed, young master?"

Lucas perked up. "The young master doesn't need to. I can help you with that."

"No, no, no. That's far too heavy for you," I waved him off quickly. Heartless, it would be, after everything he'd said. He might not have wanted pity, but his words had stirred it.

"It's not too heavy. You'd be surprised how much I can lift. They make me fetch water from the foot of the hi—"

"Shut up now, Lucas."

I joined Leofric, and together we shifted the bed toward the far wall. The frame creaked as though it might splinter, but we managed. That left a wide space near the window, where light spilled in across the stone floor. Dust motes swirled in the beams, drifting lazily like specks of gold.

Leofric placed the table and chair there so I could read by the sunlight. The legs wobbled, but it would do. I thought I might need to have a shelf built, but Lucas managed to fetch an old rack from the chapel. Dusty, uneven, and smelling faintly of candle wax, but sturdy enough to hold Clifford's books.

By mid-afternoon, the room was mine. Not as grand as my chamber back at my father's house, but one I could call my own. I already had plans: a carpet for the bare floor, tapestries for the walls, maybe an armor stand and a rack for a sword. Anything to make the place less like a drafty cell and more like a young lord's study. The stones sweated with damp in the corners, and a winter wind would no doubt whistle through the cracks, but it was mine.

"Anything more I can do for you, Master Devon?" Leofric asked, lingering by the door. His bulk filled the frame, his scarred face unreadable.

"Thank you, Leofric. We're done here," I replied, not turning from the desk, eyes fixed on the view beyond the window. From here, I could see the fields stretching beyond the walls, rough patches of green and brown that looked deceptively calm.

His footsteps retreated down the hall. Then a thought struck me. "Wait!"

He stopped, brow furrowed. "Sir?"

I met his gaze. "How good are you with the sword, Leofric?"

A grin split his scarred face, slow and wolfish. "Very good, I'd say, young master. Master Edmund might be the better fighter overall, but with the sword? Aye, I'd best him."

I leaned forward, my voice sharpening. "How much would it cost me, for you to teach me swordsmanship?"