“Alright, enough!” Elder Wroth shouted. “There’s a stream behind those trees. Go drink some water, wash up, then come back here.”
Hunter almost fainted from relief. For the last hour or so he was running on pure willpower and the extra Stamina regeneration his Out of Pure Spite trait afforded him. His legs were like two dead logs, numb and stiff. By his reckoning, they’d more or less run a marathon. Even Yuma looked exhausted.
They went and washed up in the stream, all four of them. Inago gave Hunter a weak smile, but other than that, nobody had any energy to talk.
“Gather up,” Wroth shouted again, not two minutes later. “Put your clothes back on, then come back here and sit in a circle.”
That’s what they did. All six of them, the Aspirants, Elder Wroth, and Fawkes, sat in a circle around the totem pole at the center of the sacred training grounds.
“Do you know why you did what you just did?” Wroth started, looking at each of the Aspirants in turn. “Do you know why you ran for hours, half naked, exposed to the sun and the wind?”
Hunter and Fawkes exchanged looks. He had a few choice replies to that question, now that he’d caught his breath, but he opted not to voice them.
“What you just did,” Wroth went on, “is the heart and soul of the Path of the White Cloud. Our strength does not come from raw power alone, but from our unwavering endurance and the relentless spirit that resides within us.”
He turned to Inago, who was hanging from each word.
“You know how to hunt, yes?”
“Yes, Elder,” Inago nodded with enthusiasm.
“Our ancestors chased their prey across the vast landscapes of this land, not because they were the fastest, but because they could run the longest. They would pursue tirelessly until their quarry faltered, weakened by the very endurance that defines us. We outlast. We endure. We pursue with a tenacity that no other creature can match. While others rely on sheer speed or brute force, we prevail through perseverance.”
That had been humanity’s evolutionary advantage, Hunter thought. They jogged things to death. They didn’t have fur or scales or claws or venom. Humans had the ability to perspire and gravity on their side, being bipeds. They simply ran after their prey at a moderate pace until they completely exhausted them, chucking the occasional sharpened rock for good measure. If that was what White Cloud was all about, Hunter could get behind that.
“The Path of the White Cloud is built upon this principle,”
Elder Wroth continued. “Endurance is our greatest weapon. It is not enough to strike hard. You must also strike true. You must be the one to strike last. In battle, see, it is not always the strongest who survives, but the one who can outlast the struggle, who can push through pain and exhaustion when others fall. This endurance is what shapes us, hones us into warriors worthy of our ancestors.”
He turned to Hunter, which was probably a very deliberate choice.
“You will face trials that will test your limits, pushing you to the brink of collapse. Your muscles will ache, your breath will burn, and your spirit will be tested. But it is in these moments of suffering that your true strength will be revealed. You must embrace the pain! Hold it close to your heart! Welcome it! It is a sign that you are growing stronger, that you are forging yourself into a weapon of unparalleled endurance!”
Next he turned to Tayen, who was studying the Elder with an expression Hunter found unreadable.
“Remember, the White Cloud is ever-moving, never stationary, a symbol of constant progress and relentless pursuit. To follow this path is to commit to an unending journey of self-improvement and perseverance. You are not just training your bodies; you are training your minds and spirits to be unyielding, to never give up, no matter the odds.”
Last, he turned to Yuma.
“So grit your teeth, Aspirants. Steel your hearts. Prepare yourselves. The path ahead is long and arduous, but it is a path that will lead you to greatness. Prove to me, to your ancestors, and to yourselves that you are worthy of the name you bear. Each of you has the potential to become a living testament to our heritage. To stand as warriors who can endure any hardship, any challenge, any adversary. This is your legacy, your birthright. Embrace it with every fiber of your being. Make your ancestors proud!”
As far as rousing speeches went, that wasn’t a bad one. Hunter had to give to him; Wroth was quite the big ham, but he could talk as well as he could presumably brandish a spear. The others seemed to think so too. Yuma and Tayen were both looking solemn. Inago was hanging from the Elder’s every word. Even Fawkes was eyeing him, looking less detached than she lately used to.
“Come, now,” he went on as he sat on the ground cross-legged. “Sit with me. Join me in meditation. Elder Fawkes, join us too, if you may.”
She did. All six of them sat in a circle around the totem pole at the center of the sacred training grounds. Fyodor joined them too. Yuma and Tayen were still casting sidelong glances at the russet-furred direwolf with a mixture of distrust and incredulity. Wroth didn’t seem to mind his presence, though, so nobody said anything.
"Close your eyes,” the Elder said when everyone had settled down, his voice a deep, resonating rumble. "Breathe. Feel the air fill your lungs, the life flowing through you. Now, let it go. Slow and steady."
Hunter followed his instructions and steadied his breathing. Peeking through a half-closed eye, he saw the rest of the Aspirants do the same, their chest rising and falling in unison.
"Focus on your center," Wroth continued, his voice softer now. "Feel the strength in your core, the fire in your belly. This is the source of your power, the wellspring of your spirit. Nurture it. Let it grow."
This narrative has been unlawfully taken from Royal Road. If you see it on Amazon, please report it.
Hunter, initially skeptical, gradually found himself drawn into the rhythm of the exercise. His furrowed brow relaxed, and his shoulders, tense from the morning's events, began to ease. He focused on the rise and fall of his chest, the steady inhalation and exhalation, finding a surprising sense of calm in the simple act of breathing.
A notification appeared in the HUD near the edge of his vision, almost spoiling his concentration.
"Good," Wroth rumbled, a hint of approval in his voice. "Now, imagine a flame flickering within you, small but bright. It is the spark of your spirit, your connection to the land and all its creatures."
He paused, allowing the image to take hold in their minds.
"Feed that flame with each breath. Feel it grow stronger, warmer. Let it illuminate your inner darkness, cleanse your doubts and fears. This is the first step on your path."
They sat there concentrating on their breathing until the sun was in its zenith and Hunter’s Meditation Skill had reached 8. He’d also gained a bunch of ranks in his Athletics and Toughness Skills earlier on. The Blessing of the Aspirants he’d gained from the Place of Power was really accelerating the rate at which his Skills improved - and he’d only been training for a few hours. He couldn’t wait to see what wonders a few days or weeks could do. Hell, he could hardly stay put thinking about what other Skills and Abilities he could train and cultivate.
A bit after noon, Daeran, the alderman’s right hand man arrived. He was accompanied by the same middle-aged woman who’d been cheering for Inago earlier in the morning - his mother. She was carrying a large basket. He, on the other hand, was lugging a leather-wrapped pack as long as he was tall.
“Hile, Elders!”, the woman said and waved, beaming. “Lunch for our Aspirants!”
Hunter could see the resemblance. That was definitely where Inago got his penchant for child-like enthusiasm from.
“Elder Wroth,” Daeran nodded, setting his pack down and wiping the sweat from his brow with the back of his hand. “May the spirits guide your path and bless your days. We brought what you asked for.”
“Hile! Welcome, welcome,” Elder Wroth said, rising to his feet and patting himself down. “Aspirants, at ease. Fill your bellies. You’ll need your strength.”
Onatah, Inago’s mother, proved to be as sweet a woman as Hunter had ever met. She had brought a small feast with her – mostly leftovers from the previous night, as well as berries, flatbreads, and salted mutton. Hunter, Inago, Yuma, and Tayen attacked it with gusto. Wroth and Fawkes ate their lunch separately as the Elder and Daeran talked among themselves, and Fawkes pretended not to pay attention.
“What is this made of?” Hunter asked, stuffing his mouth with flatbread. It had a nutty, earthy taste, with just a hint of subtle sweetness.
“Acorn flour,” said Onatah with a smile. “You’ve never had any before, sai? It’s Inago’s favorite.”
Inago smiled and nodded between bites, confirming.
“I didn’t even know you could make flour with acorns,” Hunter said.
“What do you make flour with where you’re from?”
“Uh… Grains? Wheat, corn, that kind of thing.”
“Why don’t you tell us where you’re from, by the by?” Yuma interjected, not bothering to look at Hunter.
Onatah and Inago exchanged a worried glance. Tayen, on the other hand, raised an eyebrow.
“I guess there shouldn’t be any secrets between us,” said Hunter, doing his best not to sound defensive. “Some of you know already. I’m what you’d call a Transient. I’m from another world altogether.”
The only one who looked surprised to hear that was Tayen, who gave him a long, appraising look.
“Oh! Isn’t that just wonderful?” said Inago’s mother, trying way too hard to sound cheerful.
“It’s alright, miss Onatah.”
“Is it, though?” Yuma went on. “I know at least five other Brennai braves worthy of being Aspirants. Yet they’re back in their village twiddling their thumbs, while you’re here on these sacred grounds, too weak to even make it through the first day. Why is that, Transient?”
Hunter had a few choice words for the alderman’s son, but decided to bite his tongue.
“I did not ask for this,”he said instead. “If you find my presence here disagreeable, take it up with Elder Wroth.”
That earned him a glare.
“Oh, worry not. I will. If you don’t decide to drop out on your own until then, that is.”
***
After they finished eating and Daeran and Onatah left, Elder Wroth gathered the Aspirants in a circle for another meditation session.
“Settle yourselves and find your center. Breathe. Proper breathing will restore your strength. It will even help with your digestion.”
They sat there for an hour. Hunter found meditating on a full stomach surprisingly hard. The pleasant heat of the afternoon sun got him so drowsy he almost fell asleep a couple of times. Elder Wroth must have noticed somehow, because every time he cleared his throat loud enough to get Hunter jolted wide awake.
“Alright, you’ve had enough rest,” Wroth finally said, jumping to his fit with a burst of energy and flexibility of a much younger man. “It’s time we tested your mettle a bit further.”
He walked over to the leather-wrapped pack Daeran had brought, unwrapped it, and produced five polearms. They were glaives similar to Hunter’s, though of more mundane craftsmanship. Their blades were made of dull-looking iron, their edges unsharpened. Training weapons.
“These,” he said as he handed a glaive to each of the Aspirants, keeping the last one for himself, “will be your weapons. They are called glaives. They are, as you may know, the White Cloud’s preferred weapon.”
Hunter exchanges glances with Fawkes. He couldn’t believe his good fortune. His less-than-great shape was already proving to be enough of a handicap. Having to learn to use a new kind of weapon from scratch would make things even worse.
"A glaive," Elder Wroth went on, hefting the seven-foot weapon with casual ease, "is a warrior's best friend. It's versatile, powerful, and can keep a horde of enemies at bay. Its balance and reach allow for both offense and defense. It can be a dancer's blade, but also a butcher's cleaver. It can sever limbs, crush skulls, and even trip a charging boar if you know how to use it right."
He handed his glaive to Fawkes and took a step back, as if inviting her to speak. She took it, though not looking overly eager to contribute.
"A glaive is a tool," she said, tracing the curve of the weapon’s blade with a gloved fingertip. “It is not a symbol of status or a plaything for duels. It’s a practical weapon built for versatility. For brutal efficiency. I have seen a glaive cut down a charging armiger in full plate, sever the head of a troll, and even hold back a rampaging manticora.”
She handed the glaive back to Elder Wroth, who continued his lesson.
"For those aspiring to follow the Path of the White Cloud, the glaive is more than just a weapon. It's an extension of their body, their will, a conduit for their spirit. So let me see how well you can wield it."
Elder Wroth let his gaze travel from one Aspirant to the next, his lips slowly splitting into a gleeful toothy grin.
“You,” his eyes settled on Hunter. “A sparring match. You will face-”
Yuma tightened his grip on his weapon and took a step forward, eager to settle the score with Hunter.
“No, no, not you,” Wroth dismissed him with a wave. “You. Tayen.”
Impassive, the young woman adjusted her grip on her glaive, walked a few paces away to make some space, and fell into a fighting position. Hunter followed, hefting his own glaive. Last time he’d checked, he had 16 ranks in Polearm Mastery, and another 19 in Close Combat. He’d faced low-dwellers, low-ogres, and a spider the size of a small african elephant. He’d faced Mother, for god’s sake, and It That Whispers. How tough of an opponent could a single Brennai young woman with a big stick be?
Tough, as he soon found out.
Very tough.