The next couple of days went by like a whirlwind. Hunter spent most of the mornings meditating and cycling his Essence, making the contents of the snowglobe spin like a pocket-sized blizzard. Inago, Yuma, and Tayen also kept trying to learn to cycle, although, as far as Hunter could tell, to middling success.

“This is the hardest part,” Fawkes kept reminding them. “This part, you have to figure out for yourself. Once you’ve got it down, it will flow like water down a stream. Have patience.”

Not that she was a beacon of patience herself. Hunter had lost count of the times she’d erupted, cursing the old Lodgeman whenever she hit a wall trying to crack the cipher in his logbook. He supposed he should be frustrated, too. Every day Fawkes failed to decipher it was one more day his wreck of a hand stayed a numb, aching mess. Still, he found he didn’t mind as much as he thought he would. Maybe it was all the hours spent meditating, but he felt like these days were… good days.

Happy days, even.

He still caught the occasional dirty look from Yuma, of course, but it didn’t bother him. Even among the other Aspirants, he was by far the worst at cycling his Essence. They’d all had their turns with the snowglobe. Inago wasn’t half bad, and neither was Tayen. They both managed to make the flakes inside swirl, though they still had trouble keeping up their concentration for long. Yuma, on the other hand, could barely make them move.

“Piece of crap,” he swore under his breath at some point, giving up after a solid quarter hour of trying – and failing – to make the snowflakes move. Wroth, who was sharpening a blade besides the two other meditating Aspirants, shot him a warning glance, but said nothing. Fawkes, however, wasn’t as forgiving.

“This piece of crap,” she said without looking up from her notes, “is older and more valuable than half your village. You should feel honored to get the opportunity to train with it.”

“This is not training,” Yuma fumed. “It’s a waste of time.”

“More of mine than yours, believe you me.” She sighed and turned to Hunter, who already had the basics of cycling nailed down, even without the snowglobe. “Hunter. Come here a moment.”

Hunter, who had taken a break from his meditation to give Fyodor a few affectionate scratches behind the ears, reluctantly got to his feet.

“Sit down facing Yuma.”

The two men traded wary stares, each sizing the other up with the same hint of distaste.

“Now, please.”

Hunter lowered himself to the ground directly in front of Yuma, crossing his legs into a meditation pose, his knees nearly touching the other Aspirant’s. The closeness was stifling; Yuma sat rigid, jaw clenched, his discomfort plain. Hunter wasn’t any more at ease. The tension between them was thick enough to cut with a knife.

“Yes, yes, I know,” said Fawkes, exasperated. “You’d rather be trying to murder each other with pointy sticks. Pay attention now. Both of you, put your hands on the cycling globe.”

With a huff of irritation, Yuma extended the globe toward Hunter. They both placed their hands on its cool surface, careful to avoid any accidental contact.

“Here’s what I want you to do. Hunter, start cycling. Slow and steady, no showing off. Yuma, just pay attention to the Essence in the globe. Don’t try to steer it. Just follow along.”

“Ah. Got it.”

HunterHe gave a quick nod and got to cycling. He closed his eyes and slipped into a deep meditative state.

What they were about to do reminded Hunter of how his dad first taught him to cycle – cycle, as in, ride a bike. It was one of the fondest memories he had of him.

Hunter – well, Alex – had been around six or seven. He’d been trying to learn to ride his mother’s old ten-speed, but to no avail. It was still too big for him. One Friday afternoon, his dad came home from work on Friday afternoon with a grin and a tandem bicycle strapped to the back of his truck. He’d borrowed it from a coworker just for the weekend.

They’d started off slowly, his dad in the front seat, Alex in the back, legs barely reaching the pedals. His dad kept the pace steady, occasionally shouting words of encouragement over his shoulder.

At first, Alex only felt the weight of his dad’s pedaling pulling him along, the bike gliding easily beneath them. But soon, his dad’s feet lightened, and Alex could feel the slight resistance in the pedals, urging his own legs to push and keep up.

“Just keep pedaling,” his dad had told him.

With each rotation, Alex’s legs found the rhythm, his muscles starting to sync with the bike’s movement. His dad gradually let his own effort fade, leaving Alex to carry the momentum. He couldn’t steer from the back, couldn’t guide their path, but he was keeping them going, each push of his legs giving him a small thrill of control.

To his credit, it didn’t take Yuma long to catch on, too. He let Hunter take control of the flow of the Essence contained in the globe and just tried to follow along, match his rhythm. Then, as Hunter gradually loosened his grip, Yuma started to slowly take over.

Of course, cycling Essence was a bit more complicated than riding a tandem bicycle. As far as Hunter could tell, each person’s Essence had its own rhythm, its own frequency. Matching efforts with Yuma was no simple feat. It took intense focus and concentration. And even so, they slipped, overcorrected, and almost lost their concentration a few times before they took the hang of it.

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They went on for a bit, passing control of the flow to each other every couple of minutes. At some point, Hunter opened his eyes, stopped cycling, and took his hands off the snowglobe altogether. They’d done it. Yuma was cycling his Essence, making the snowflakes in the globe dance all on his own.

“Well done,” said Fawkes. “See? it wasn’t so hard, now, was it?”

Yuma stopped cycling, opened his eyes, and met Hunter’s gaze, still uncomfortably close. He gave the slightest nod in place of thanks. Hunter nodded back, satisfied. Coming from Yuma, even that nod spoke volumes.

“Why didn’t we try that sooner?” Hunter asked Fawkes a bit later. They were alone, out of earshot. Wroth had taken the other Aspirants to the other side of the Training Grounds for weapons drills.

“Because it’s a bad practice for beginners,” Fawkes replied, pausing her pen mid-note. “It can lead to forming bad habits.”

A ghost of a wry smile flickered on her face. There was more to it than that.

“...And?” Hunter asked, raising an eyebrow.

“And it’s also kind of a taboo in áeld tradition, if you care about such things. Typically only practiced between the most intimate of lovers.”

Hunter shot her a half-irritated, dirty look, and she stifled a laugh.

“Very mature, Fawkes. Enjoying yourself?”

“A bit, yes.”

He shook his head, rolled his eyes.

“Come on, it’s not as if you talked us into giving each other a tuggy or anything.”

“You only say that because you’re not áeld. Cycling in tandem is considered just as intimate, if not more.”

“Yeah, well, it’s as you said. Good thing I’m not áeld. Yuma’s definitely not my type.”

“I once played that same joke on Reiner, too, you know. With this exact same cycling globe.”

She glanced toward the horizon, her smile fading, the weight of memory settling over her. Reiner’s loss was still too fresh.

“How did he take it?”

“Oh, he was delighted. He spent the better part of a week teasing the other Aspirant – who was a full-blooded, nobleborn áeld, mind you. Professing his undying love and all. He drove the poor lad mad.”

“Sounds like a fun guy, Reiner.”

“He was.”

“Think I should do the same to Yuma, too?” Hunter joked, but his joke fell flat as a pancake. The mood had changed.

“Well, back to it,” Fawkes said with a frown, eyeing the logbook open on her knees. “This thrice-damned tangle the old fool left behind isn’t about to unravel itself.”

“I’ll pop out for a couple of hours, then,” Hunter said. “Take care of some business elsewhere. You okay with that?”

“Yes, yes, sure. Just be back come afternoon.”

“Will do.”

That business elsewhere was the other part of his daily routine. Mornings, he trained with Fawkes, Wroth, and the other Aspirants. He’d log off before noon, head to the Happy Motel’s courtyard for some stretching, bodyweight exercises, and a quick run. After a shower and an early lunch, he’d shoot the breeze with Carpenter or whoever was in the cafeteria, then log back in—this time going straight to his Shard. There, he’d spend another hour sparring with Mort, studying the martial techniques of the old masters.

They’d made a lot of progress – so much, in fact, that Alex had asked Carpenter for a new batch of books and manuals. She’d passed the request on to Grimm, who was happy to oblige. This time, he’d sent a collection of ancient Chinese works to Alex’s Shard, including the Wujing Zongyao, or the Complete Essentials for the Military Classics – a military compendium nearly a thousand years old.

Hunter found that one fascinating, if a bit off-topic for his current pursuits. Sure, it had references to a weapon called the guandao, a Chinese polearm somewhat comparable to the glaive. But it was also a treasure trove of knowledge on a wide range of martial subjects – from naval warfare and catapults to formulas for incendiaries and explosives, and even instructions on how to build a freaking flamethrower.

“Think I could whip up a poison smoke bomb to toss in Yuma’s tent while he’s sleeping, Mort?” he asked the bartender, glancing up from the book during a quick break from sparring.”

“Technically speaking, sir, it would not be impossible. You lack any relevant Skills or Abilities, but given the right tools and ingredients, you might be able to create something passable. However, I must point out that the difference between ‘could’ and ‘should’ is, in this case, rather substantial.”

“Relax, I’m joking. Though it doesn’t hurt to keep my options open, does it?”

“Theoretically speaking, sir… No, it does not. Though, again, the difference between theory and practice in this case is considerable.”

“Killjoy.”

“A burden I bear with pride, sir,” Mort replied dutifully.

“Not to mention, an improbable amount of dignity.

“Thank you for your kind words, sir. Would you like another round of sparring?”

“A quick one,” Hunter closed the book and got to his feet. “I promised Fawkes to be back by afternoon.”

“Very well, sir.”

They picked up their training glaives and took their places at the center of the big room, where Mortimer had removed most of the tables and chairs to make room for an impromptu sparring ring.

At first, it used to strike Hunter funny to cross weapons with Mortimer, what with his crisp white shirt, well-fitted vest, and pleated trousers. Not anymore. Despite his subtly detached professionalism – or maybe because of it – Mort had proven to be a formidable sparring partner. The man was unflappable, his poker face perfectly unreadable. Compared to, say, Yuma’s mid-bout frowns and grunts and groans, facing Mort’s coolness seemed almost jarring.

Hunter’s game face and fighting style had evolved, too. The White Cloud style of glaivesmanship Elder Wroth practiced and taught was fluid, fast, and loose, a dance on the edge of instinct and improvisation. The way Hunter understood it, it was as much a practice of self-discovery as a means to defeat an enemy, unbound by the rigid codes of duels or true, ‘civilized’ warfare.

In contrast, the Italian Masters taught one thing above all else; different ways to cut down German, French, Spanish, and Swiss mercenaries with ruthless efficiency. Their techniques were almost chess-like in their brutality, each move a calculated feint or deadly counter designed to trap an opponent in a fatal mistake before they even saw it coming.

Hunter found he liked that approach much more. Sparring against Mort felt as much a battle of wits as of brawn or skill. He used to dread the idea of having to spar against the likes of Yuma. Now he couldn’t wait to see how the techniques he’d studied would stack up against the White Cloud Aspirants’ innocent naïveté.

Just as importantly, he couldn’t wait to see how his System would quantify his evolving fighting style and mastery of his chosen weapon. Training in his Shard didn’t directly count towards the progression of his Skills and Abilities. Still, he’d improved by leaps and bounds since he started studying and sparring with Mort. That had to count for something.

“Soon”, he promised himself, stepping into the sparring circle and settling into a guard position.

Soon.