.

“How long did you last this time?” Noid asked Rafe.

“No more than five seconds,” he commented, still pushing the piston in the furnace to increase the heat.

“You'll have to keep on trying it out during your journey. You cannot depend on that skill, especially after you leave the trial. You do not have the resources to have a skill stay active indefinitely.”

“I know, I know,” Rafe said, watching the the metal that would turn into his sword heat up more and more.

He'd spent a week practicing, listening to Noid's lectures in preparation for a journey, a journey to hone his skills, hone himself. He'd thought officially becoming Noid's apprentice meant direct lessons, but no, Noid apparently knew his limits, and he was not teacher material.

The suggestion that he turn off his mental shield skill every once in a while was a good one, Rafe thought sometimes, but mostly it was painful. He didn't know what all the skill protected him from, but he was clearly too dependent on it. It would be impossible to support the skill with his meager resources outside the trial, because, according to Noid, his stamina was laughable and he didn't have mana. Out side the trial, he'd have to start dipping into his own life force to support the skill, and unlike health points, life force was a more permanent loss.

It was strange, Rafe thought, the way he was taking to his new reality. Mostly he just didn't think about it. Skills, concepts, systems, magic. It was all very confusing, all very real. And he had people he cared about here. He still didn't know what to think of all of them, of Jonathan, of Celene, Orlandir.

He wrenched his mind from that road, instead focusing on the red hot metal of his future as he transferred it to the anvil.

Bang, bang, bang, he hit, stopping every three hits to check he'd made no blunders. There was a rhythm to it. It was distracting. It was also necessary. He had decided he'd leave the kingdom of Grayward for a few years, to get his feelings straight. It was another reason he'd agreed to practice turning off his mental protection. He also needed to learn to control his other skills even though he couldn't access the system.

He'd need them when he started collecting insights on his journey.

“Insights are seeds, the building blocks for your concept,” Noid had lectured. “Insight into sharpness comes in mind, for a sword concept. An insight into, say heaviness, for a heavy hitter like me, although I wouldn't recommend such an insight for you.”

Noid helped him with his sword making too, telling him how important insight into metal, into building his tool, would be when he advanced his concept to the next level. Of course to advance his concept, he'd have to find it first. He'd have to develop insights, cultivate them until they were perfect, then turn them into a concept worthy of its name.

His friend, Orlandir, had cultivated an insight of dominion. He had advanced far enough that he had already developed a concept ability, a concept domain. His sword could cut anything in a given area. That was the secret to mastery. Gaining a concept ability, like sword intent or sword aura which enabled masters to launch a projection of their swords. A domain was rather high level, and hearing Orlandir had stumbled into such an ability had solidified his impression of his friend. Orlandir had been a genius.

Still, without guidance, Orlandir, and half the masters in the trial world had skipped a lot of steps in their development, limiting their concepts to the one ability, limiting their growth. Before the system, so many talented people wasted their potential on small back water planets.

“I thought you hated the system?” Rafe couldn't help but ask him the day Noid had praised it.

“I don't hate the system,” Noid told him, rolling his eyes. “I didn't have the system in my day, so I didn't train with it. I merely don't want you to rely on it too much. In the end, the system is a tool, and you'll have to use it to finish this path. It will make your ascension easier, especially after you've had to make do without it's spoon feeding in the beginning.”

Rafe had shrugged, taking the explanation in stride. It was a rare occasion when Noid was this loquacious, and he still had many questions.

Bang, bang, bang, the sound of metal continued for hours. With a hiss, he cooled the metal off, testing it with a small hammer. It was solid, no hollow throughout it's length. He tested the edge. It was regular, at the very least. But the process was just starting.

He had to smooth it, beautify it, then wett it. He worked through the night. In the morning, he tested it's edge again. His forefinger came away wet, red. He brought the wood he'd shaped to be it's hilt. And then he was banging again, only with a medium sized hammer, fastening the new hilt to the blade. Then he clothed it, wrapping the hilt in a pattern of crisscrossing white cloth. He wiped his blade down for an hour, just looking into it's smooth, veined surface. He sheathed it and slept.

When he woke, Noid was standing over his cot, the rest of the room totally empty. The forge, the anvil, the table, Noid's own bed, everything had disappeared like it had never existed. Noid held a satchel out to him. There was no fan fare. He'd only received instruction for a week, and only a fraction of the questions he'd had had been answered.

“Are you sure you want to stay this far from them?” Noid asked, not for the first time.

“Yes, I need to sort my head out.”

“Alright then,” Noid said with a nod.

“When will I see you again?”

“To answer all your other questions? When the trial ends. This avatar will leave this trial imminently.”

“And how will the trial end?”

“I've never had a trial taker reach this far before. When the trial was first made though, it was determined that the trial will end after the trial taker deemed they'd had enough. I don't know with you, with that skill of yours, perhaps it will end after you've drained my soul remnant of all it's accumulated energy. We'll just have to see.”

Rafe didn't understand, but he walked anyway. With his sword sheathed at his hip, a satchel slung over his shoulder, and no idea were he was going, a swordsman went to discover his soul.

****

“The wanderer approaches,” one of Gaoshom’s attendants spoke.

The wanderer, as they'd taken to calling the boy who'd appeared on their island almost two years past. Gaoshom had been anticipating the visit, if only because it was a rare occasion when one saw a practitioner of all four major sword schools at once, and one who was claimed to be pushing the bounds of the advanced tier at that. It would be a good day for a spar, a good day to guide a promising swordsman. And maybe learn from him too.

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He didn't stop his own work even when the boy came though, and he felt the the boy’s interest , and he welcomed it. He continued to slash at the wood in his possession, waiting for the boy's question.

“I have heard about master Gaoshom's famous carvings of wood, they are more impressive than I was led to believe.”

“Truly? You flatter me, young master. This is not but an old man's little hobby. To pass the time.”

“I find that hard to believe,” the boy commented.

“Oh? Enlighten me.”

“You are more famed for your raw bru…strength,” the boy restrained himself at the last minute. “If I had to guess, you're making a bid for grand mastery by trying to incorporate control into your technique.”

He was about to say brutality, Gaoshom knew, but the boy had corrected himself at the end and that was all that mattered.

“And what do you think of my attempt?”

The boy sat down behind him, his attentiveness not feigned. It was refreshing to see.

“It's an interesting way to seek enlightenment, and even if the design of my sword may make it harder to pursue such artistic expression, I would like to try it.”

Gaoshom didn't answer for a time, instead focusing on the final stretch. Like an experienced painter he moved his hands, working his wrists in small precise movements. It was hard to carve shapes with such unwieldy tools as swords, but after decades of practice, Gaoshom believed himself quite the artist. He could feel the boy's rapt attention, eyes wide as saucers, body tense in his seated position. Gaoshom allowed himself a private grin as he upped his speed. He could make it much more of a show.

With a great sword, and with his latest carving already in the general shape of a sitting man. He moved his arms much faster, his sword blurring, his concentration ramping to the max, and the curving coming to life. He curved the face, the wide eyes he could sense with his settled spirit, the little sword at the boy's hip, and his large, once white robes and sandals, his crossed legs. Only two minutes later Gaoshom stood panting over the boy he'd just carved.

“A gift to commemorate our sharing of insights,” he said as he gave the boy the carving.

The boy accepted it with an open mouth. He seemed to be lost for words.

“This island is a lot more generous than most of the other lands I've visited over the last decades. The elves shot me out of their forest before I could challenge their masters, although I had good practice cutting down their arrows and spells, and the dwarves only like to compete with those physically strong. The temple of light masters wanted light aspected treasures to show me their techniques. But here, everyone just accepts my challenges.”

“Decades? I take it you made it to the demon continent, then?”

“The haven of all wandering warriors. There I exchanged pointers with all manner of weapon masters. Even a grandmaster of the axe once. That did not go well.”

“A grandmaster? And yet I've had not a tale of you winning a single fight of hundreds you've had on our island?”

“I've come to realise that I learn more from my failures than successes. When I finally find my truth and become a master, I'll have lost a million fights, almost died a million times. The experience is more important than a simple win.”

“You aim for grand mastery and beyond?”

“I do,” the boy answered with a nod.

“Grand ambitions, grand ambitions!” Gaoshom declared, quite pleased. “Has your sword journey been fruitful, then? Are you tired of tempering yourself yet? Are you weary?”

The boy smiled, a tired smile, but answered nonetheless. “I don't get tired. I can only move forward.”

Gaoshom sensed he'd come close to something with the boy's last statement. It was obvious the boy didn't want to talk about it though. And everyone had their secrets. Well, the boy had somehow taken decades of time in pursuit of the sword, traveling further than Gaoshom had back in the day. He deserved his respect, if anything. Gaoshom stood, and the boy stood with him, hands on hilts.

Through unspoken agreement, they walked out of Gaoshom's little shed, his sanctuary, to the sparring compound dead centre of Gaoshom's complex. The apprentices stopped their training, leaving the yard free.

They stood equidistant from each other, eyes studying, body's loose in a pantomime of cool relaxation. They were anything but relaxed. At least Gaoshom was. His heart drummed in his ear, his hand was shaking, but the firmness of his great sword supported him.

The boy moved one foot forward, bending his body in a crouched stance. He'd be making the first move. Gaoshom tensed his lower body muscles in readiness. The boy took one step with his trailing leg, and then he was charging, a streak of white running towards him. Gaoshom launched himself skyward, the boy's blade thrust forward and found nothing but air.

Gaoshom charged his opening move, holding his great sword over head with both hands. The boy, fast as was advertised crouched even lower than before, the tip of his sword touching the earth. Gaoshom would have avoided this with any other opponent, but he decided to start with a standard earth shattering technique, augmented with his aura of hardness and strength.

He wanted to test the boy, before he started to show him his more finessed techniques. How would the boy respond to brute strength? The correct answer should have been with quality, but then again, Gaoshom had more quality than the boy. A simple attack from a master had more quality than the most beautiful strike of a peak advanced warrior.

The boy had a response though. Quantity. With his legendary speed, a barrage of tiny blade after images met Gaoshom's attack. They were all crushed, but they bought the boy the seconds he needed to get out of the attack radius. And he was on Gaoshom in a heartbeat, a swing Gaoshom had to use all his warrior's spirit to block. And then his spirit met the boy's, and they were…equal? Huh? The boy had not been kidding about traversing three continents. Maybe he'd even faced a real war once or twice, come close to dying.

Gaoshom projected his sword, pushing the boy's attack back. He couldn't get his guard up in time, but he didn't need to. His defenses could not be penetrated that easily. With his growing insights into control, he'd learned to control his sword projections like they were autonomous.

The boy flipped and fell back a few steps. He wore a frown like he was thinking of doing something, but then he sighed, changed his leading hand. Gaoshom frowned a moment. Had the boy been using his non dominant hand as the leading hand in the beginning?

He didn't have time to think. The boy was on him in a minute. Gaoshom's old bones were warming up, his muscles loosening. He managed to intercept one of the boy's swings with his own blade, their swords clanging together in a beautiful sound of steel on steel. The boy's blade bent around his own, and Gaoshom had to imbue his own body with his sword aura. His own battle intent becoming sharp enough it drew blood from the boy's leading arm. The boy flipped in retreat, not wasting time to get into a stance.

Gaoshom laughed. The boy's sword had slithered past his guard like a snake. Well, Gaoshom defending was a bit of an anomaly, and it was time to show this boy why. He had finished warming up.

He could tell that his own charge was faster than the boy's, faster even than the boy could follow given how his eyes widened at Gaoshom's sudden appearance. He did manage to get his sword out in time to block, but he was still sent skidding on the sandy ground like a ragdoll. He was light, small, built for speed. Gaoshom would show him why strength was the better build. He was there in an instant, standing over the boy with his blade raised. Only the boy wasn't just lying like he was supposed to be. He'd corrected, getting to his feet in an already crouched stance.

Gaoshom's blade descended, the boy's blade ascended together with his body. When they met Gaoshom pushed the boy downward, crushing him. He realised it moments later, that the boy had angled his blade in such a way that as Gaoshom pushed him downwards, he pushed him inwards too, into his guard. Gaoshom stepped back out of instinct, the upswing passing a few inches in front of his nose.

He jumped back, crouched in his own stance, and stared unblinkingly at his opponent. The boy, breathing hard now, stared him down too. The rest of the courtyard stood silent, watching, awed. The world stilled, waited, held it's breath.

Gaoshom didn't know who moved first, but then they were both at the centre, blades soaring. Steel met steel, ringing, sparks flying. Gaoshom pushed his opponent back, but the boy was back before he knew it.

They fought for nine hours. Gaoshom had not had such a glorious battle in years.

****

Rafe sighed as he returned to his room at a local inn. The sword keeper's island had always been slated to be the last place he visited before returning to the continent, to the Graycastle kingdom. He was tired, weary, and he was annoyed.

Annoyed at himself for running, for not having the courage to face the whirling emotions in his head. He should be in his forties by now, having seen more of this world than he had of his earth. It was a real world, with people he would call real. They were not some lifeless non player characters or whatever. Or, if they had ever been that, they'd grown, evolved, become something. Noid didn't seem to know how exactly his own trial worked, so Rafe would have to talk to him about it when they met.

Still, that was a more distant problem. The more immediate being, his two little sisters should be pushing their thirties by now. They'd been about eight when he'd last seen them. Did they still remember him, did Jonathan, Celene? Were they married by now? And how was Maria? Was he still considered a Wilde?

These questions only ever bothered him at times like this, when he turned his mental protections off. He could do it for almost five hours now, after almost twenty years. The pain became unbearable after that long, both emotional and semi physical. He saw thing's too, like those two alien women in that cave in that strange dungeon.

Their heads were misshapen, and at times they'd undulate, and their bodies would bend and elongate and slither. Unnatural, they looked, like demons or something, although that was rude to real demons who did exist. Maybe he should have said ghosts? But what if ghosts did exist? Rafe wouldn't be surprised, with this weird new reality.

At times he saw his cousin, Helena. She was in a room with his mom, his dad, his aunt and his famous sister. It was a strange vision, all things considered. There was a monster gate somewhere in a great desert. He saw men of brown skin with thick black hair, shooting bullets and explosive rounds. They were in cars, fighting while retreating.

With a groan, Rafe had his mental defense skill back up. He fell back in a sweating mess. This time though, the thoughts of his guilt for running away from the Wildes did not abate. Because he had made his decision. He'd gone through all the masters on this island. While he enjoyed most of the fights, he hadn't fought then seriously. Most of the time he fought with his left hand in the lead, trying his hand at developing a skill for ambidexterity.

He had a skill for dashing, for charging, but he never used it in his duels. He also had a skill that could augment his blows at the moment of impact. He thought he'd developed that one to make up for the lack of power his speed based approach leant to his fighting style. Rafe had decided to develop a skill for physical fitness, to work on his endurance and stamina, but also his speed, and to a lesser extent, his strength. Learning to use skills, even without the system, was good practice and …

With a sigh, Rafe decided to stop distracting himself. Somehow, the trial was going to end. He'd tried not to, but he'd died fifteen times on his journey through the demon continent. He knew from Noid's information that his deaths sucked power from the trial to resurrect him.