A week went by without much happening. It was surprising but welcome. Most of my days were spent in the workshop, where I was learning the basics of crafting. I was still working primarily with wood, but today would mark my introduction to metalworking. It was a significant step up, given the increased material costs, difficulty, and risk. They needed to make sure someone was trustworthy and had mastered the basics before allowing them anywhere near the smithing tools.

Unfortunately for me, word had spread about my lack of natural talent. Tom had been instructed to keep me on the basic woodworking projects for longer than usual. Apparently, I had set records for the slowest first attempts at every piece of work I touched, and they were understandably reluctant to let me near anything that could permanently go wrong. Mistakes in smithing didn't just waste resources, they could cause serious injuries. They weren't just worried about the metal; they were worried about me hurting myself. Which was a bit of a shame because that wasn't exactly likely with my powers.

Each night, I pushed the limits of my abilities. I broke bones and healed them in a constant, grueling cycle until every drop of energy was drained from me. It was slow, painful progress, but I couldn't think of a better way to experiment with my powers. By now, I was fairly confident that, given enough energy, I could heal any broken bone with ease.

One pattern I had noticed was that the more I actively focused on channelling my magic, the faster my energy seemed to deplete. I wasn't entirely sure why, but I chalked it up to something similar to manually controlling your breathing—an action that is normally automatic, but becomes clumsy when you think about it too much. It seemed my powers were more efficient when I trusted my instincts rather than consciously forcing them.

I figured that, like any skill, proper practice would eventually refine my ability and improve my efficiency. I didn't know how I would measure up against true power users yet, but one thing was certain: it was far better to learn in private, fumbling and failing behind closed doors, than to struggle in front of an audience like I did every day in the workshop.

When it came to crafting, it was frustrating getting constantly bantered about my lack of skills. I developed a real chip on my shoulder because of it. I felt an overwhelming need to prove them all wrong, to show that I wasn't inept. It wasn't just stubbornness. Something about being considered the worst triggered a fierce competitive spirit inside me. If I had been merely mediocre, even just on the lower end of average, I might have accepted it. But being labelled the absolute worst lit a fire under me that I couldn't ignore.

Every day started the same. I would make something barely passable, with a time so bad it caused laughter to erupt across the workshop. Then, I would repeat the process, refining my technique again and again until my time went from abysmal to at least acceptable. This cycle repeated daily. I think Tom and the others assumed that was where it would end and that I would simply reach "good enough" and stay there. What they didn't realise was that I wasn't content with that. I didn't just want to stop being the worst. I wanted to be the best.

It became a private vow. I would work harder, stay later, and push myself further than anyone else until no one could laugh at my skill again.

During all this, I kept my mouth shut about my encounter with Amir. He hadn't made any overt moves since that day, and I wasn't eager to stir the pot. My concern was that even asking about him might be seen as aggression. Given that he clearly had informants I wasn't aware of, he could easily find out if I was prying into his affairs. I decided to stay silent and hope he lost interest in me.

That morning started like the others. I had breakfast with the lads from the workshop, headed down to the floor, and promptly set a new slowest-time record. Today's humiliating task was making hooks. I was informed that hooks were what everyone started with when learning metalwork because they were supposedly easy. The simplicity didn't stop me from setting another record for the worst performance.

We were in the smithy section of the workshop, and to my misfortune, an entirely new group of people got to witness my lack of talent firsthand.

"I thought Warlocks were supposed to be magic," someone shouted from the back.

"He looks cursed to me!" another jeered.

"Yeah, yeah," I called back without looking up. "Get your laughs in now. We'll see how funny you find it once I get some practice under my belt."

"Practice?" came another voice. "At the rate you're going, you'll only be making three hooks a day!"

There was laughter all around.

"You'll need a week just to get a day's work done," someone else added.

Then, a deep voice shouted above the others, full of a simple, blunt cruelty. "Yeah! HA! HA! You're slow and stupid!" I glanced up to see a big oaf of a man pointing at me, clearly looking around for approval.

The mood shifted slightly. It seemed even the crowd thought that was a bit much. The laughter died down, and a man I didn't recognize stepped forward. He clapped the big guy on the shoulder and said, "That's right, Pete. Why don't we leave the new lad alone and you come help me move some of these crates?"

Later, I would learn that the man was called Roach and he had unofficially taken on the role of Pete's minder.

The story about them was well-known around the workshop. Apparently, Pete and Roach were from the same street back in the real world. They had grown up together, their families close friends. One day, Pete, a giant of a man, had seen some guards harassing Roach's younger cousins. Without hesitation, he intervened. Unfortunately, Pete didn't do half measures. In the scuffle, he broke a guard's neck and was immediately marked for arrest. Roach, filled with guilt for not being there to protect his own family, deliberately got himself thrown into prison soon after. He wanted to be there to watch Pete's back. Now, they were inseparable.

Pete's clumsy attempt at humour had sucked the fun out of the crowd, and they drifted back to their stations. I kept my focus on my hook. I was used to working under scrutiny now. Over the past week, I'd become something of a workshop attraction. People took bets on how long it would take me to finish whatever task I was assigned. A few had even accused me of faking it, which was oddly amusing. I wasn't sure if they thought I was trying to swindle them out of betting money or simply trying to avoid work, but either way, it was a ridiculous idea.

If anything, the opposite was true. I was working harder than most of them put together.

The truth was, there was nothing fake about my initial incompetence. I simply had to work through it, chipping away at my own limitations, piece by painful piece.

The smithy work was more demanding than the carpentry had been. Metal didn't forgive the way wood did. If you bent a hook the wrong way or overheated it, the whole piece could be ruined. You couldn't simply patch over mistakes. You had to start again from scratch. That made every failure sting more sharply, and every small success feel more valuable.

Privacy was a rare luxury in this place, and the only real taste of it I found was in my cell at night. I was increasingly grateful for my assigned cell. Being next to Amir was a hazard, sure, but having Ol' Billy as a neighbour was a blessing. He was becoming something of a mentor to me, always offering quiet hints and tips about prison life. I found myself looking up to him more with each passing day. The guards treated him with a rare kind of respect during their rounds, and none of the prisoners gossiped about him behind his back. Billy was a man who had figured out how to survive this life, and that was something I desperately wanted to emulate.

To get there, I knew I would need to earn respect. That thought was on my mind as I hammered away at the hook I was currently working on, letting my focus slip for just a moment.

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"Ouch!" I yelped as the hammer caught my thumb squarely. I wasn't even sure how I managed it, considering I was using tongs and wearing gloves, but I knew instantly that I'd mashed it. I could feel the bone crushed under the force of my swing. Instinctively, I dropped the hammer and yanked off the glove, cradling my throbbing thumb and immediately feeding mana into it.

The shout caught people's attention, and before I could properly hide it, Tom was already rushing over.

"Let's see it, lad. Hopefully it's not a bad one," he said, reaching out to gently pry my hands apart as a small crowd gathered.

"Don't worry, I just got a fright," I told him with a forced smile, doing my best to keep my thumb hidden. It was already knitting itself back together under the flow of my magic, but I needed to keep curious eyes from noticing anything strange.

"Nonsense, lad. I saw it. Ya hit it dead on. Come on, let's have a look. It'll be alright, don't worry," Tom insisted, concern clear on his face as he carefully pulled my hands apart.

He frowned, turning my thumb this way and that, squeezing it gently at first, then a little harder when he found no reaction. Finally, I managed to slip my hand back with a sheepish grin.

"Thanks, Tom, but honestly, it was just a fright. I think I felt the vibration a little too much and panicked," I said, hoping to play it off.

"The freshie's feeling phantom blows!" someone shouted from another workstation.

"Won't be able to get out of work with that one, trust me. I've tried," H called out from a few stations over, drawing a ripple of laughter from the rest of the crew.

Tom lingered a moment longer, still looking puzzled. "That hammer must've been right next to your thumb. I'd have sworn blind it nailed ya."

I chuckled at his unintentional pun, trying to steer him off the trail. "Good one," I said as I pulled my hand back fully. "Sorry for scaring you. I just let my mind wander."

"No bother, it happens. But try to stay focused, lad. Next time, ya might lose a finger. Seen enough accidents in here to last me a lifetime," he said, giving me a stern look.

"I'll be careful. Thanks, Tom."

The healing had drained a fair bit of my energy, enough to leave me feeling a little lightheaded, but nothing I couldn't handle. I knew I had to be more cautious from now on. If the injury had been more visible, or if someone had seen the healing happen in real-time, it would've been much harder to explain away.

Despite Tom shooting me the occasional furtive glance for the rest of the shift, he didn't press the issue. I managed to get through the rest of the day without any more incidents.

At lunch, the lads gave me a good ribbing about it. H regaled us with the time he had faked an injury to get a day off, only for the guards to discover his hand was completely fine once they pulled off his glove. He still got his day off, but unfortunately, it was spent in solitary confinement.

All in all, it wasn't great for my reputation. I'd been daydreaming about gaining respect, and now people thought I was the guy who got spooked by his own hammer. I told myself it would be a slow process. Billy hadn't earned his respect overnight; neither would I. It would take time, patience, and a few bruised egos along the way.

As the shift wound down, Tom helped me pack the leftover materials into boxes. It had become a routine for us over the past week. Together, we hauled everything to logistics to get it checked and logged.

There were usually two or three different people who manned the counter there. Today, it was Handsy who happened to be my favourite of the bunch. He had an air about him, like all of the logistics guys did, but there was something a little more approachable about him compared to the others.

"Only fifteen?" he said with a raised eyebrow as he flipped through the sheet. "I was expecting more from you, Warlock. Your output's been decent so far. For a freshie, anyway."

"Had a scare with my thumb. Decided to play it safe today," I replied, scratching the back of my head awkwardly.

Handsy nodded like it was nothing he hadn't seen before. "Happens to all of us eventually. Don't let it get into your head, lad. Besides, you gotta keep your numbers up if you want people to look the other way about those slow starts." He shot me a wink, and Tom let out a bark of laughter.

I could feel my ears burning from embarrassment. I was used to the lads ribbing me by now, but it felt different coming from someone who had authority.

"Anyway," Handsy continued, stamping my sheet. "Fifteen hooks from five blocks is within expectations. No need to set the guards on you. I'll let you get off."

"Cheers, Handsy. See ya later," Tom said, leading the way out as I gave a quick wave.

We stepped back into the noise and bustle of the workshop floor, but a part of me still felt light with relief. Another day survived. Another step closer to getting better.

I was quiet at dinner, and I think the others chalked it up to me being worn out from a long day. In truth, it was because I'd had an idea while talking to Handsy. His comment about the block-to-hook ratio had sparked something. It made me realise that the quantity of metal wasn't actually being measured with any real precision. Other than a cursory glance, there was no strict check on the thickness or length of the finished hooks. Each block of metal was handed over to us to be heated, then separated into five parts to be smithed into hooks.

If I could skim a small amount from the edges while keeping the hooks close enough to their standard size, I could start building a stockpile of metal. I didn't yet have a clear plan for what I would do with it, but that wasn't important. I had no doubt an idea would come to me in time. Even if I just sold the metal to the right people, it would be worth the effort. In all likelihood, though, I would try to make my own weapons.

There was no confirmation that One Eye wanted me to make weapons for him, nor had I decided whether I would if he asked. Still, there was no denying the value weapons held inside a prison. That train of thought naturally led me to consider who else might already be involved in that trade. My idea might have felt clever, but I doubted I was the first to think of it. There was a good chance someone else was already skimming from the workshop, crafting weapons in secret, and selling them. If I was going to move forward, I needed to find out who they were, and do so fast.

As I ate, I glanced around the table at the lads, thinking about how I could gather the information without giving myself away. They were good enough company, but I wasn't convinced they were the sort of people I could trust with this. My read on them was that they preferred to keep their heads down. Sure, they were criminals like everyone else in here, but they didn't seem the type to rock the boat unless they absolutely had to. And what I was planning? It would make waves, without a doubt.

What I needed was an information broker. Someone in the know who could tell me what rocks I might be kicking over, and who might be buried under them. But finding one without drawing attention would be tricky. I racked my brain for options and came up with three possibilities.

The first was One Eye himself. He was undoubtedly a player here, and he'd probably be interested in helping me get started. If only to make sure I worked for him. It wasn't a comforting thought. For one thing, the reason behind his nickname wasn't exactly reassuring. If the rumours were true, he wasn't above claiming a man's eye as a trophy. The idea of getting close to someone like that, someone who might wake up one morning and decide my eyesight needed "adjusting," didn't exactly appeal to me. Of course, reputations in prison were often exaggerated. I couldn't say for sure how he treated his own people, at least outside of that one brief conversation, so I wasn't ready to completely rule him out either.

The next option was Amir. He had hinted at being involved in smuggling and made it clear I should approach him before treading on his turf. He probably already had a network in place and could likely move anything I produced, if I chose to work with him. The problem was, I doubted any arrangement with Amir would be remotely fair. That, and there was the not-so-small matter of our existing tension. Our last encounter had left me with the impression that Amir was the kind of man who could flip on you at a moment's notice. It didn't bode well for a business partner. If I was honest, Amir wasn't even a real option. The man rubbed me the wrong way. He had that smug, self-satisfied vibe that made me want to act out purely out of spite. If I heard one day that something bad had happened to him, I had no doubt I'd feel a small, shameful spike of satisfaction.

That left Old Billy.

Of everyone I'd met so far, Billy seemed the most trustworthy. He had never once given me reason to doubt him. If anything, he'd gone out of his way to help me adjust, offering advice when he didn't have to. More than that, I got the sense that he was genuinely looking out for me. I believed that if I approached him about this, even if he didn't approve, he wouldn't run to the guards or spread it around.

Billy was connected. That much was clear. And not just in the way that men like One Eye or Amir were connected. His influence was quieter, older, woven deep into the fabric of prison life. I had no doubt he knew who the players were when it came to contraband and weapon-making. If I was lucky, he might even be able to tell me about others who had tried similar schemes, as well as what had happened to them.

I chewed slowly, thinking it through as I watched my tablemates bicker and joke amongst themselves.

No matter which way I looked at it, Billy was my best shot.

Still, I knew better than to rush in. Timing and approach would be everything. A bad conversation could end with me buried in a pit somewhere under the exercise yard, or worse, put under the guards' radar permanently.

First, I needed to build my case. Plan my words. Figure out exactly how to present my idea in a way that didn't make me sound like an idiot or a liability.

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