“My sister told me that I shouldn’t think when wielding a sword. Thinking, she said, means you’ve slacked in practice,” Vyn exclaimed as he swatted off Sunday’s sword. “A swordsman must act. Build instincts. They should trust their body above all. Trust the practice and the muscle memory. That’s why—”

He ducked a swing that threatened to take off his head, then continued.

“That’s why she beat me up so much. Know what’s coming, she said. Feel the pain it brings. Remembered it. Make your body remember it. Hundreds of times. Thousands. It is in failure that we learn how to achieve success, and only failure can allow us to grow. To not fail, she said, is to not try. She beat me up a couple of times a day, trying to turn me into a swordmaster. I was never as good as her, but I tried.”

Sunday grunted in response. It had been a peaceful few weeks. Too peaceful. He had finally found some time to spar with Vyn, as he had wished to do so long ago. It was a strange thing that had confused his friend the first few times. Sunday had become something close to a swordmaster all of a sudden. But the more they sparred, the clearer it became that there was something wrong with his skill.

His arms moved as if the muscles knew what they were doing, and yet at the same time, they didn’t allow for smooth movement. It was choppy and unpracticed, lacking grace. Even undeath flesh, it seemed, needed to get used to certain patterns to function well. It was much less susceptible to injuries, and if such occurred, they didn’t matter much, but one had to build up to skill, not have it appear overnight.

There was also a glaring lack of cooperation coming from the feet, which somehow completely sabotaged the strange skill of the hands. Two sets of limbs, only one working with the brain, both trying their best.

Sunday was frustrated. He had been frustrated every day since they started the sparrings. It was all simply unexplainable. His strength made it difficult to fight Vyn without accidentally breaking his wrist or cutting him, but control was also important. Thankfully his moths healed fractured wrists and ribs quickly. Vyn even seemed glad for the experience like the mad man he was.

To fight someone strong, he had said, is the best way to grow and learn how to handle overwhelming odds. During practice, the guy became a different sort altogether. He was still ready to talk and joke around, but stories of his time with his sister were prevailing most of the time. His skill with the sword was also something to behold. Despite the physical differences, Vyn was managing to hold his own more often than not by virtue of sheer skill.

“Kick him!” Kallus screamed from the top of the fence. Both ignored him. The wight had taken to playing the role of an audience and greatly enjoyed when harm came upon one of the two – mostly Vyn. Despite all of his training, Sunday had the clear advantage when it came to strength and speed, mostly due to his Fable’s Strength talent. It was getting ridiculous, not that he was one to complain.

“Your style is strange and I can’t say I’ve seen it before,” Vyn said as he took a break. A human’s stamina was not unlimited, and while Sunday used moths to reinvigorate him, he still needed breathers. Still, it was like training on steroids because of the spell. “If you manage to untangle the mess and actually understand what you can do on a deeper level, you might turn out better with the sword than me.”

There was some bitterness in the words.

“And how long to reach the level of your sister?” Sunday asked.

Vyn shrugged. “Few hundred years.”

Sounds like he’s confident in her. Didn’t she abandon him?

“She had a talent. Not for swords, but for learning tools. The sword is a tool when you think about it. The first few times it took her a week to match the skill of most sword instructors that accepted students around Blumwin. It took her much longer to build the strength and flexibility of her body though. But the skill? Even with how strong you are, you wouldn’t have stood a chance. I sometimes wondered whether she was human, like me.”

“Halline was a wonder,” Kallus said, having moved on a stone near them. The wight enjoyed stories of Vyn’s sister. It was probably part of the reason he stuck around so much. He had refused to learn the sword along with Sunday, claiming that such barbaric means were below a hero like him.

Sunday had an inkling that he was starting to notice the movements of the wight better. It was like he melted in the air, ignoring space and time, and appeared wherever he pleased. It was oddly reminiscent of what Chaos Step had done during his mock duel with Sotu.

They were using the yard of their new brewery for practice. The Baron had come through, giving them a large plot of land just on the outside of Blumwin, very close to the lake. It almost bordered the walls of the city and held a few large stone buildings that served well for the operations of the budding business venture. Most of the Empty Manor kids had already moved, and brewing a ‘better’ product was underway.

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Sunday was spending quite a bit of his time practicing with the sword, his spells, and infusing barrels full of acidic wine with his moths. The first few batches were going to the Baron, who had been gracious enough to send payment in advance, which went a long way to motivate Sunday’s crew. Safie was acting more and more as a manager of sorts, making sure no one slacked or betrayed the trust put in them. Her ambition was serving her well in that, but she hadn’t neglected to hint at her desire to be more. Koberic didn’t seem to have issues with that, as he was less ambitious and more shut in himself. Some of the kids had decided to stay in the Empty Manor, but its distance from the city was trouble.

Things were moving along nicely. The one thing he regretted was not visiting the black market, but there would be more opportunities for that. He hadn’t seen Elora since his visit to the Arcanum, and she hadn’t come to find him either. It probably had to do with the City Council and whatever role her mother played in it. Politics had never been Sunday’s strong suit, and it was not something he regretted.

“I’m still dying to know how you learned to wield a sword like that if it’s not a talent or a spell. There’s something very strange about it.” Vyn, while using a ladle to scoop some water from a barrel nearby and pour it on his face. The question had been repeated a few times, and each time Sunday didn’t know what to say.

“Are there spells that do that?” Sunday asked.

“Sure there are!” Kallus replied instead of Vyn. The wight was acting oddly normal, at least by Kallus standards, lately. “There was a mage that frequented the Rat. He was an old guy, smelled of lake mud and only drank the cheapest stuff. He was stuck on the cusp of becoming an Adept and I highly suspected he had given up on it. He had this spell he called Dancing Lights. It summoned a bunch of illusory girls, big enough to stand in the palm. They would dance like visions from heaven when there was music, taking their clothes off very slowly, and he said that after years of bonding with the spell its abilities had transferred to him, allowing him the same. Tell you what, the sight of that ancient jiggly man dancing a seductive number on top of a shoddy table almost made me ask Master to end me. But damn it if he was not good at it. Still, it was too much for my soft, fragile, aesthetically appreciative heart. That spell was something else though.”

Vyn laughed, while Sunday fell deep in thought. Phantasmal Fall was doing something similar, but only when Sunday buffed himself with the Berserk Moon. Was it affecting the bond, making Phantasmal Fall think he was stronger than he was, or that the bond was stronger? Could the spell even think or sense such changes? Something about the buff was affecting its performance.

Sunday had tried recreating the spell's ability without the buff, but it had not achieved anything. Meditation, practice of the arts, talking to the spell and trying to convince it… all was worthless.

Spells were too complicated. Even now that he had tried quite a few different ones, and had more than he could handle, he hardly understood what they were or what they represented.

The Fearful Skewer was resting in Mera’s habitat once again. Sunday had changed it for a spell he had wished to use many times, but never had the chance – Repel Dirt. It was much more powerful than it had been when he had first tried it out, and he had two more of it. They were safely left in a small pond in the underground cavern of the spell-fused. And so was his new Messenger spell. There was little need for it at the moment, but he saw how it could be very useful soon.

With a smile, he reached for Repel Dirt and cast it. It was a ripple with him at the center that cleansed his clothes, skin, the grass he was stepping on, the air he was breathing, and even Vyn who was now drinking from a ladle. It left the water in the barrel crystal clear, the wood almost like new, and the skin smooth and clean. Riya had enjoyed it quite a bit the few times she had come by.

Talking with her was somewhat awkward, but Sunday didn’t really dwell on it. Things would come together, one way or another.

Vyn was also used to Spell by now and appreciated it very much. His sister had instilled in him the importance of daily cleaning, but Vyn didn’t seem that fond of showers. Something about a girl peeping on him leaving him traumatized. Sunday was tuning out conversations of women nowadays. And there were many with both Kallus and Vyn involved.

“I should probably go to the Arcanum soon, see how things are. I’ve been neglecting them for a while,” Sunday said. He had a lot of things he wanted to get from there, but staying away had done wonders for him. The simple life was good, but he was already tired of sword practice. The few weeks had made him improve, but what he had learned and what he could do if he simply left his arms move as they wished were worlds apart. Just as Vyn had said, thinking ruined it all.

“I have a better idea!” Kallus said. He didn’t like Repel Dirt, so he had to shout the words from the distant stump he had moved to without anyone noticing. “It’s time you use your powers for good!

Sunday considered the wight with raised eyebrows. Kallus was sometimes annoying, but he was not stupid. It was almost like he knew what Sunday had spoken with Savia about. As if he knew that he was planning to implement the next step of his plan in the coming days as well. Perhaps giving credit to the creepy wight so soon was a mistake, but Sunday decided to entertain him.

“What do you have in mind?” he asked.

The wight stepped closer, almost like a normal person would step closer, only adding an unneeded amount of flair and drama. Kallus liked his dramatic pauses. Sometimes. He never seemed to stick to one thing.

“We go beat up some thugs! I have the masks all figured out!”

Then he stood there, smiling, while Sunday stifled a frown. Then, with a similarly conspirative tone and a few dramatic and pointed checks of the perimeter, he spoke.

“How about, we do something even better than that?”

Fable’s Strength was a great thing, and growing it further was the shortest path to power Sunday knew of. It was time for the city of Blumwin to whisper his name around the hearths at night, and tell tales of his good heart.