“The speed at which you cycle is your greatest detriment,” Elder Joran began, his voice echoing through the deserted training hall. Tunde watched as his master picked up a stick—a long, slim, frail thing—and held it aloft.
“Cycling speed is all that matters to an initiate. As you climb the ranks, you’ll find it a great boon to whatever path you decide to take,” Joran continued. “Imagine this stick is your body. Now, observe with your sight.”
Tunde had explained his Ethra sight to the elder, who had beamed with satisfaction, mentioning how it would make his teaching easier. Granted permission to use his Ethra sight, Tunde had watched in awe as the Ethra circulated within elder Joran’s body at a breakneck speed, even at rest.
“Thanks to your, ah, friend,” the elder said as he raised the stick, “you now know about the three forms with which a ranker can express Ethra. List them out for me.”
“Domain, imbuement, and projection,” Tunde replied promptly.
“Good. Now, while I’m sure you’re aware that initiates barely have the Ethra to perform any of these methods, they can still train their hearts and Ethra lines within their bodies to replicate such processes, even if the results aren’t as potent,” Joran explained. Tunde watched as a thin line of silver-grey Ethra entered the stick, the Ethra in the elder’s body moving like forced water into the slender wood.
“This is imbuement,” Joran said, swinging the stick lazily through the air. It left a cracking sound, then a pop, and an explosion of sound tore through the air. “The stick is your body, and my hand is your heart,” the elder intoned.
“From what I can feel of your body, you’re strong. Whatever they used in developing your body was effective, so effective, in fact, that I’m pretty sure it can take the backlash of what I just taught you,” Joran said.
“The beauty of being an initiate is that everyone underestimates you, and rightly so. The best you can do is one suicidal attack, and that’s it,” he chuckled. “But what if you could do more? What if we shape your body around imbuement? Because let’s be frank, for some reason, I have the feeling you’ll be bad at weapons,” the elder said.
“I fought with a blade in the wastelands, killed a disciple or two,” Tunde said.
“Okay, from now on, no more mention of the wastelands. That was simply the outer regions, not even the true wastelands,” Joran ordered. “If you faced the true wastelanders—the wandering rankers who have honed themselves to pure martial perfection—you’d be minced meat. Even we would need to call in the imperials.”
That was a wake-up call for Tunde, and he nodded as Joran continued. “Imbuement and a lesser form of projection will be your best techniques going forward, at least until you reach the rank of adept and decide if you want to attain a bestowment or follow whatever weird Ethra affinity you have.”
“Bestowment?” Tunde asked.
“Just some little event where rankers seek to fuse another affinity to theirs in an attempt to obtain a deadly concept to shape their fighting style around. Ignore it,” Joran said dismissively.
With that case closed, Tunde spent the next few hours learning the cycling forms for imbuement and projection, his body twisting as the elder smacked him around with the imbued stick. He pushed his Ethra heart farther than he had ever done, following the elder’s teachings. It was akin to compressing his heart more and more and stockpiling Ethra all over his body. Not only did it make him heavier and dizzy, but it almost blanked him out.
By the time he was done, he could barely move, but the stick had cracked in two, and Tunde was panting softly. Elder Joran threw the books at him. “Read the first one while you recuperate. Swallow a healing pill and keep cycling,” the elder ordered before disappearing in a blur of speed.
Tunde found himself alone in the hall, the eerie quiet soothing to him as he gathered his thoughts. His arms felt like lead, his mind sluggish, but the moment he swallowed the healing pill—this one with a sharp citric bite that made him wince—he felt his body gradually loosen up, and he gave a relieved sigh.
The first book was about the history of the continent of Bloodfire, the two empires that ruled over it, as well as the powerful clans that carved out their territories. He was lost in it while consciously pushing his cycling along the same route Joran had instructed. It took visible effort at times to maintain it, but soon enough, he learned to tune out the occasional throb as his heart worked overtime. He had no idea of time passing until he felt the presence of the elder beside him, appearing just as quietly as he had left. Joran nodded.
“Rest, eat. We continue when I see fit,” he said.
Tunde simply nodded, dropping the book as he cut off the cycling.
“No, you continue cycling. In fact, you will continue until it’s second nature to you,” Joran commanded.
Tunde swallowed and nodded. “What most rankers don’t understand is that initiate rank is the stage in which a ranker can mold the best foundations for their bodies—not disciple rank,” Joran said.
“You want better coordination? Do it while you aren’t bothered with weaving slightly more complex techniques around a battlefield. Push your body to the limit and break it. It will allow your body to adapt to receiving hits from rankers more powerful than you. Something for you to think on,” the elder finished.
A few minutes later, Tunde was on his feet, refreshed, his thirst quenched as he stared down elder Joran, who produced another stick.
“Again,” he said.
They began the process of Joran swinging lazily, imbuing the stick with Ethra, and Tunde attempting to imbue his body to the point where he neither felt the hit of the stick nor did it leave a mark. Speed and accuracy played a vital role as every dodge, every move he made was noted and reacted to by Joran. He paid for mistakes in painful welts on his body that spasmed with every move, his Ethra sight doing its best to catch up to the flow of Ethra within the stick.
The whole day was spent there, pushing his heart until he could barely stand, resting, and then continuing the same training. Sometimes the elder disappeared, leaving him to resume his footsteps and cycling. By the end of the day, even as the elder bid him goodbye and he trudged along the path towards the petal street, Tunde could feel his heart pounding to the cycling rhythm of imbuement.
*************************
Elder Joran folded his hands behind him in his customary manner, a smile playing on his lips as he watched Tunde’s receding form. “He picks things up quickly, don’t you think?” he mused, seemingly addressing the winds.
The veiled form of elder Moros emerged, floating above Joran. “A shadow path,” Moros commented, his voice as smooth as silk.
Joran shrugged nonchalantly. “It will have its ups and downs, but nothing I can’t work with,” he replied.
Moros’s smirk was self-satisfied, his eyes glinting. “That speaks a lot about your chosen student’s character, don’t you think?” he said, his tone dripping with sarcasm.
“Or perhaps it speaks to the bloodline he was born into,” Joran countered, his voice calm. He paused, his demeanor shifting. “What did you do?” he asked, his expression darkening with suspicion.
Moros’s smirk widened. “I have the blessings of the lord,” he said smugly.
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“If they lay a hand on him—” Joran began, his voice low and dangerous.
“You will do nothing, Joran. The clan will not stoop to interfere in the squabbles of initiates,” Moros interrupted, his tone icy.
Joran’s voice was soft but filled with steel. “You step on my honor.”
“The lord sees things differently,” Moros retorted. “He approves of the disciple; she has some talent. But this initiate, on the other hand...” Moros trailed off, his meaning clear. “You should have thought twice before taking an unknown as your student. Now, the lord has to deal with the families’ protests.”
“None of the offspring from those families were worth my time,” Joran replied, his voice sharp.
“Careful there, Joran. You’re still an outer elder,” Moros warned, his expression turning thunderous.
“And you think the solution was to send a bunch of initiates after a weakened student who has spent the whole day training?” Joran asked, his voice filled with incredulity.
Moros snorted dismissively. “You call that nonsense we teach the clan workers training? It’s clear to everyone that you’re grooming him to be some sort of slave or underling.”
Joran shook his head, his patience wearing thin. “I do not have time for this,” he said, making to leave.
An aura settled upon him, a heavy presence that locked his limbs in place. Joran winced, turning to Moros, who watched him with a satisfied smile.
“I told you, they are watching,” Moros said, his voice triumphant.
Joran felt the weight of the aura pressing down on him, the unmistakable mark of a High Lord’s power. The patriarch of the clan was watching.
*************************
Tunde moved at a leisurely pace, a book slung across his shoulder in a pouch he had purchased. The evening air was filled with chatter from the numerous people on the street, and the sweet, enticing aroma of various fried and cooked foods wafted from the stands, drawing his attention. Though he knew the Red Blossom House would serve meals that evening, he was curious about the local delicacies and thought it a good excuse to indulge and acclimate himself to this new environment.
As he walked, he felt a prickle of unease, a sensation he had come to associate with his danger sense. It was a skill he had honed during his training sessions with elder Joran. While he didn’t sense any immediate threat, he knew it was best to stay vigilant, especially after elder Joran’s public proclamation of his status as a student. He purchased two paper boxes of deep-fried meat—he didn’t know what it was, but it smelled delicious.
Despite the prickling in his senses, Tunde remained calm, cycling his Ethra as he moved. He noticed the streets and corners were becoming increasingly sparse, the people seemingly warned away. Ahead, he saw a bubble of Ethra energy, invisible to the naked eye but clear as day through his Ethra sight. His curiosity piqued, Tunde took a step forward, empowering his body as he dashed into the bubble, hoping to evade whatever was pursuing him.
No sooner had he entered the bubble than something screamed past him, exploding the cobblestones at his feet and kicking up a cloud of dust. Tunde rolled away, his body hardening instinctively as he came to a halt. He surveyed his surroundings, three initiates forming a circle around him, their weapons drawn. He took a few deep breaths, feeling the strain of his training earlier that day. Elder Joran had forbidden him from using any more healing pills, claiming his body needed time to rest.
One of the initiates wielded a serrated blade, another a spear, and the third held a pair of knives. Tunde glanced around with his Ethra eyes, noting the presence of two disciples in the distance. They weren’t interfering, likely aware of the situation or perhaps there to ensure no one else intervened. Either way, Tunde realized he was on his own.
“Greetings, fellow initiates,” he began, his voice calm and measured. “I believe this is a mistake.”
“Indeed, it is,” the initiate with the serrated blade sneered. “A mere wastelander rising to the position of a student of an elder? Better there are none than you.”
“My apologies, but shouldn’t you take this up with the elder?” Tunde asked, trying to diffuse the situation.
The initiate with the spear spat on the ground in disgust. “With you gone, perhaps the great elder will see his efforts are wasted on you,” he said.
Tunde sighed, cracking his neck as he prepared for what was to come. “You know, I’m tired of being viewed as a weakling. Sure, I may not have your backgrounds or backing, but I fought my way to this point,” he said, his expression turning cold and blank. “Perhaps I’ve been too calm, but I killed my way through bandits to get here. What are a few initiates compared to that?”
The initiates bristled at his words, their weapons glinting in the fading light as they prepared to attack.
He saw the hesitation in their eyes and seized his chance, shooting forward to catch them off guard. Every move mattered now, and with his Ethra sight highlighting the weak spots in their bodies, Tunde went to work. He first targeted the spear wielder, who swung his weapon instead of thrusting it. Made of wood with a metal spearhead, the spear channeled Ethra toward the tip, poised to cut or pierce.
Tunde grabbed the shaft, shattering it in his grip, then swiftly stabbed the upper part into the initiate’s shoulder, capitalizing on the lapse in the opponent's Ethra imbuement. The initiate screamed in pain as Tunde used him as a shield to block a slash from the serrated blade user. Blood sprayed from the ugly gash left in the spear user’s shoulder.
Tunde pushed back, watching as the knife-wielding initiate weaved his blades with lightning speed, just barely perceivable with his Ethra sight. Tunde twisted out of the way, the knives thudding into the ground where he had stood moments before. He surged forward, closing the distance between himself and the knife user. Caught off guard, the knife user’s eyes widened as he attempted to retract his blades.
Tunde rolled across the ground, the knives flying harmlessly overhead, and then delivered a crunching punch to the initiate’s kneecap, breaking the bone. The initiate screamed in pain as Tunde again used the wounded body to deflect an attack from the serrated blade user, whose weapon became lodged in the knife user’s shoulder.
Both of the wounded initiates writhed on the ground, leaving Tunde facing the last opponent. The serrated blade user glared at him, his blade coated with Ethra, radiating a lethal sharpness. They locked eyes, each assessing the other. Tunde maintained a cold, unreadable expression, suppressing the familiar bile rising in his throat at the sight of the wounded initiates.
The blade user charged, unleashing a burst of Ethra from his weapon. Sharp fragments scattered in an explosive wave, but Tunde braced himself, feeling the shards pierce his skin before his hardened Ethra shield stopped them. Dodging the main strike aimed at his shoulder, he grabbed the blade user’s arm.
The opponent reacted by coating his arm in the same sharp Ethra, cutting into Tunde’s palm. Gritting his teeth, Tunde crushed the opponent’s arm, ignoring the blood dripping from his own hand. His manacle began to absorb the Ethra from the blade user, who dropped to his knees, screaming in agony.
Tunde raised his fist, ready to deliver a finishing blow when two figures landed on either side of him—disciples of the clan. One, a tall, broad-shouldered man wearing gauntlets, seized Tunde’s fist.
“By order of the clan elders, you have won. Desist now, or face the wrath of the clan,” he said, his voice steady and authoritative.
“They attacked me first,” Tunde protested, his voice edged with frustration.
The disciple nodded, his green eyes meeting Tunde’s. “And yet you’ve shown them their weakness. Now, desist.”
Feeling the pressure in the disciple’s grip, Tunde knew better than to argue further. He unclenched his fist and stepped back. The disciple released him and then effortlessly lifted the blade user, tossing him towards the other disciple—a woman with light yellow eyes and a flower in her hair. She knelt beside the initiates, her hands glowing with a soft yellow Ethra as she began healing them.
As the bubble of Ethra that had isolated them burst, the sounds of the street flooded back in. Tunde realized that a crowd had gathered, their eyes fixed on him. This had been a test, he realized, a lesson from elder Joran in vigilance and the realities of being a clan member.
Gripping the leather pouch that held his books tightly, Tunde ignored the murmurs and stares, making his way back to Petal Street in silence.
Elder Joran turned to Moros, his expression a mix of amusement and satisfaction as he basked in Moros’s evident rage. Turning towards the distant jade mountain, Joran bowed.
“As you have seen, great patriarch,” Joran began, his voice clear and confident, “the child is nothing short of a marvel. I hereby request a duel of honor between my initiate and the chosen disciple of elder Moros.”
Moros bristled. “What madness is this?” he snapped.
Joran raised a hand to silence him. “Not now, Moros,” he said. “The surge will start in a month or two, as the great patriarch himself has stated. I propose this duel to be held one month from now, here in this hall.”
“You think you can train that boy to reach disciple rank in a month?” Moros asked, his tone dripping with skepticism.
Joran smiled, unfazed. “You sent three of the top twenty initiates after him, ranks eighteen, seventeen, and sixteen if I recall correctly. And yet, they were nothing to him. Where you see waste, I see potential—ruthless potential.”
Moros sneered, “That depends on whether the great patriarch accepts this foolish challenge.”
A ripple in the air heralded the arrival of a powerful presence—Lord Alaric. Moros immediately fell to his knees, his head bowed low.
“The patriarch has spoken. We cannot allow rivalry this close to the surge,” Alaric declared, his voice resonating with authority. “However, there will be a rift opening soon, a prelude to the surge itself, which may contain lord-grade essence fruits and tier-four creatures. This is an opportunity for adepts to ascend to the rank of lord.”
Joran bowed lower; his expression respectful. “Hear me, for these are the words of the patriarch: regardless of the ranks of both chosen students, the duel will take place one month from now. The winner will grant their master the privilege to enter the rift when it opens.”
Alaric’s gaze swept over the two elders. “I look forward to this duel,” he said before his presence faded, leaving the chamber.
Joran straightened, a satisfied smile playing on his lips. “Well, hasn’t this gotten interesting?” he said, turning to a fuming Moros.