Chapter 123 - Metamorphosis

Mistress Amelia held two straight blades in either hand, their tips ominously pointing to the ground, mirroring the heavy stillness of the air around her. In a fluid, almost serpentine motion, she raised both swords, the gleam of the polished metal catching the hall's light.

Her eyes, fierce and unyielding, locked onto the mannequin with a predator's intent. Vern, however, watched it with more than just his eyes. The moment her arms coiled behind her like a spring, the stress lines grew brighter as the fulcrums arranged in a very specific arrangement.

With a sudden burst of energy, she lunged forward, her left foot leading into a slide that closed the gap between her and the metal hunk in a heartbeat.

He perceived the fulcrums of her body moving in a three-dimensional space augmented by the stress lines all around them. And as her arms came descending like a guillotine, the lines of her arms turned from bright to dark—signifying an imminent release of tension—

Clangg!!

Two deep slashes on the armored thing expanded into massive cuts that chopped the whole thing into three neat parts.

Her movements were like a dance, and Vern saw it in full glory as those lines forming the shape of her body recovered to their default states in a smooth shift of gradients. She wasn't doing any of that actively. Her innate movements were so perfect that this property emerged independently.

He studied the form, the states, the angles, and the changes over time, jotting them down on the paper whenever necessary to make the links in his stupid brain.

Scratching his head at one of the sub-sections of the maneuver, he asked, "Hmm, Mistress, I can't seem to get this right."

She walked over and looked at his notes, somehow understanding what he was getting at. Pointing at the 4th diagram, she said, "Hmm, it's not about the specificity of the movement here. I get that you're trying to replicate the exact form, but where possible, try to understand the why behind each movement."

"For this one…"

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Tch-Tching

Vern split Duality into two singularities—a name he'd decided on—and pointed their tips downward. He recalled the arrangement of fulcrums of her body and slipped into exactly that stance. It was complicated because he had to mentally rotate them to match how he was standing.

However, static stances were useless in real combat. It was how one quickly adapted and reacted to changes that mattered. That was where seams started to show in his arrangement learning approach.

For static stances, he just had to replicate the three-dimensional arrangement of the fulcrums. However, for myriad maneuvers that Mistress had demonstrated, another dimension was added to the mix—Time. With each little movement, the fulcrums moved to new positions, and stress lines changed their shades.

He could memorize the static state of fulcrums and stress lines, but trying to cram all the continuously changing variables' states was a fool's errand. "Yet, that's exactly how everyone learns to fight." Mistress had said.

She definitely had a point. Most people brute-forced these moves and attack patterns into their muscle memory, spending days upon days or even years on the task. And there was nothing wrong with it.

However, Vern didn't want to give up on his unique method so quickly. So he settled on a compromise—a balance. He had gotten the idea from how he'd ended the training on his first day. Transitioning from one stance to the other.

Vern looked back up at Mistress. A dozen bloody tendrils shot out of her back as she controlled them with the precision of a master, using them to pick up mundane objects. His heart still lurched every time he saw her in this state, but this was how she trained her new powers.

None of it was aimed at him, and she wasn't using even a tenth of her full strength, but despite all that, a primal terror arose from within the depth of his very being every time they first emerged out of her.

Standing in an idle stance that perfectly mirrored Mistress's from back then. He first started by destabilizing the edge of his singularities, gripping them harder to reduce the vibration coursing through them.

Purple glow bathed him for an instant before dimming as he imagined the position of fulcrums and shades of stress lines for when she had raised both the blades above her.

Unfortunately, he couldn't keep the edges destabilized for long as the blades soon recovered on their own, and he didn't have enough mental capacity to juggle these exhausting tasks simultaneously.

Hopefully, it'll get better, he thought, focusing back on the new cloud of points he'd imagined.

Now that he had two possible states—the current one and the next one—in his mind, he just had to transition between these two. Exactly like one would between two stances.

Hahh, he breathed out and prepared himself. A part of him wished to close his eyes for concentration, but Mistress said that was a terrible habit.

So, with his eyes wide open, he thought, Idle to…Rise. With a speed that couldn't match his thoughts, he manipulated the fulcrums of his arms and upper body to shoot toward the Risen stance.

Tch. It wasn't perfect. He overshot a little but now wasn't the time to stop. This was just the start.

Rise to Coil.

Not waiting for the last movement to finish all the way, he adopted his body to match this next state and flexed his muscles. Coiling his upper body like a spring, he connected this surge to end the next stage of fulcrums and stress lines.

Coil to Lunge.

He streamlined his body a tad and loaded his legs for a pounce, his perception of himself looking an exact mirror of what it did for Mistress.

Lunge to Dash.

Thump! His body rushed through the air towards Mistress. Two of the ten or so tendrils held gleaming swords in a cross-guard, their blades reinforced by a bloody haze.

Dash to Strike.

He lashed out his arms, an exact replica of what she had done.

Clang!

The crimson tendrils didn't even flinch, but the swords visibly bent, signifying the insane amount of strength he conjured by simply following the maneuver's intricacies closely.

Triumphant, Vern smiled and continued, Strike to Recover

With a simple tap of his leg, he retreated.

Panting, he allowed the tip of singularities to rest gently on the ground. Each attempt, each maneuver... I feel them slowly becoming a part of me, he gasped, seeking approval in Mistress Amelia's inscrutable gaze.

However, her expression was buried beneath the layers covering her face, and soon, she spoke with a matter-of-fact tone, "It was barely above an utter failure. Your movements are too mechanical. It's as if you're a puppet dancing to the strings controlled by a fumbling child."

Vern flinched. Ooof…I thought I did well there. He dipped his head and ran through his movements mentally, and quickly realized the stark difference between her version of the maneuver and his own. As much as he tried to make the motions fluent, he was just moving through checkpoints.

He snapped into those points, but everything else didn't flow too well. Is this not the right balance, then? Should I focus more on the feel and flow of the movement?

Vern sighed, "Then what do you suggest I do, Mistress?"

The moment he finished those words, an oppressive aura suddenly enveloped him, and his instincts screamed at him to hide, "Frustration is a luxury, Vern. Focus!"

He snapped back and stood straighter as she continued, "Even though it won't make the cut in its current state, this learning method of yours has great potential. Stop double-guessing yourself and work harder. Remember that practice isn't your enemy. What you're doing doesn't have to be mutually exclusive with typical methods. They should work in tandem."

That one sentence sent his mind into a whirlwind of thoughts, and he quickly realized how he'd been subconsciously trying to find loopholes and methods to sidestep the usual tactics. And he'd be damned to not know that it was foolish. Standing on the shoulders of giants was how the world moved forward.

Reinventing the wheel was for those with unlimited time.

"Get started." came her sharp command, "NOW!"

Grabbing the singularities, he merged them into one with a clang and shouted, "YES, MISTRESS!"

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Once...Twice…Thrice…A dozen...A hundred...A thousand? He lost count on the very first day as he repeated the simple movements with a maddening fervor. However, it was far from a mindless repetition.

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The fulcrums and stress lines were like an artist's muse, allowing him to adjust the painting at every step of the way.

Mistress was showing him no mercy, and he loved it. Heck, he needed it. When he repeatedly messed up attack patterns, she didn't hesitate to take the chance and knock him into the dirt.

She walked a fine line between being understanding and strict. She corrected genuine mistakes but made sure to punish the repetitions.

Vern studied, mimicked, fought, resisted, got smacked, and then got smacked again before getting thrashed even harder until he finally managed to dislocate his shoulder and had to revisit the plague doctor, only to come back stronger the day after and get fucked once more.

On the fourth morning, she decided to change the pace a little.

"Now that you have a basic understanding of footwork, combat stances, and offensive and defensive maneuvers, it's time for you to start incorporating your Visions into combat. Better to start early than graft them on later."

Vern, still sore from yesterday's grueling session, instantly snapped to attention.

"However, before we can get to that, we need to talk about battle instincts."

He pulled out his notepad and began writing the key points as usual.

Mistress simply rolled her eyes and continued, "Combat against intelligent opponents is more than just about who has more flashy skills or bigger weapons. It's as many parts of psychological warfare as it's a physical one. Outmaneuvering and outthinking your opponent often proves more lethal than brute force."

Vern picked up the speed, and Mistress added, "Manipulating the battlefield, diverting the enemy's attention at the right moment, disrupting their moves, finding flaws in their defense—all are examples of this."

"I've fought about twenty or so Observers in these past couple weeks, and they're generally most effective in this department."

That makes sense. Very few Visions were about raw power or strength. Most of them bent the reality in odd ways to shift the tide in one's advantage.

"So this begs the question, what can your Visions do to put you in these advantageous situations?" Then she turned around. "Take some time and think it through. I can show you some examples that depend on burning the Old Blood, and help you refine what you can perform. But you'll still have to figure out the possibilities by yourself."

Vern nodded solemnly, "That would be great help. Thanks, as usual, Mistress."

"Mhm…"

He watched her perform a myriad of little things, and it was nothing short of eye-opening how those negligible alterations could completely disrupt the flow of the battle and change its course.

Once she stopped and busied herself, Vern stood in a corner to try and dig out the petty potential of his Visions.

According to his understanding of his own viewpoint, his Visions were best at manipulating the 'structure' or 'composition' of objects with a tad of 'force' aspect that had begun to bleed in ever since he could see the stress lines.

Back in the mirror realm, he'd used the battlefield to his advantage to a great extent, and now the question was whether he could find a more general way of doing so because most battles weren't fought in knee-deep water.

Hmm, in terms of the battlefield, I'll almost always have access to ground and air. When he followed that train of thought to its logical conclusion, he realized that his viewpoint was ripe for little tricks. Simple instability at the right place at the right time could work wonders.

He jotted down every dumb idea he had and soon ran them through Mistress—demonstrating them to the best of his abilities. Some failed, but many were doable.

She further shortened the list to a mere few because of the impracticality of others. When she elaborated on the ones still around, he quickly found himself dumbfounded by his lack of creativity.

"Alright, time to practice these."

Vern nodded and stood square, quite a bit pumped to see how it would go. However, she suddenly stopped and stared at him with narrowed eyes.

Vern fidgeted and quickly realized the mistake—his hands were empty. Reaching back to the sheathe, he pulled out Duality with a Shwingg.

His arms weren't going to get any kind of rest, it seemed.

She then grudgingly turned her eyes away and commanded, "Show me what you got."

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.

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Not willing to waste even a second of Mistress's precious time, he completely cut down on all unnecessary activities—including socialization with his peers. Even though she spent most of that time practicing her own techniques, mere off-hand remarks from her had proved more than enough to save him days of trial and error.

Even while eating, he cycled through the myriad offensive moves she'd demanded him to learn, mentally simulating their optimizations in his unique method of learning. What helped him stay on track was the variety of problems at hand.

It wasn't just about jumpstarting his muscle memory to become a better fighter but also learning new and creative ways to integrate his Visions and Perception into his every move. Unsurprisingly, he was having a far easier time working with Visions than physical combat.

One evening, his body gave out somewhere along the line, so when he got back up after midnight, he didn't bother going back to his room. Yet, he was surprised to find he wasn't alone in the training hall. Mistress was there, tirelessly following one of her enigmatic routines. It was as if she never slept.

No matter if it was early in the morning or deep through the night, she never much left that hall. Heck, he didn't see her go out even for food. And whenever he brought her snacks, she always politely refused. He was curious, but it didn't seem right to ask for some reason.

In this blend of day and night, exhaustion and rejuvenation, learning and failing, his sense of time blurred, anchored in this training hall, leaving room for nothing but his training.

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Thump!

Mistress stood, a network of crimson tendrils unfurling from her back like a macabre crown, each coalescing a crimson blade that gleamed with a lethal promise. With a casual flick of her wrist, she launched a barrage of bloody projectiles towards Vern.

Slice! Swipe! Swish!

Vern waited all the way until the last moment, embodying the tenet of his Viewpoint as he suddenly burst into movement.

He weaved through the onslaught with grace, his movements fluid and assured. The purple glow around his blades now pulsated in sync with his thoughts, a visual echo of his efficient use of destabilization.

Each slice through the air met its target precisely, disintegrating the bloody arrows into harmless mist before they grazed his skin.

"Better," Mistress's voice cut through the silence, a note of approval in her tone that was far rarer than he could have hoped. Almost as rare as his Master back in Nvoria.

Vern's response was a nod, his focus unbroken. The barrage intensified, the projectiles coming faster, some curving in unpredictable arcs designed to test his limits.

Yet, he stood unyielding, his singularities weaving a protective dance around him, their edges a blur of destabilizing energy.

Minutes stretched on, the air thick with the tension of this one-sided assault.

But where once fatigue might have claimed him, Vern's resolve now burned brighter. His arms screamed, and his lungs caught on figurative fire, but he held on.

The rhythm of his movements hadn't become second nature just yet, but he was leagues above the fumbling fool that moved worse than a puppet.

"Your strikes have improved," she said, her gaze assessing. "But strikes are only one aspect of control. Remember, true mastery lies in knowing what to control and when to do it."

Suddenly, the assault ceased. Mistress's tendrils retracted, save for one that she extended towards him in beckoning.

"Be that the enemy, battlefield, yourself, or reality itself."

Vern absorbed her words, understanding that each step forward was a step towards a horizon that never receded, inviting him to chase it.

"Show me again," she commanded, "the transition from defense to offense. Use what you've learned."

Thump! Vern's stance shifted, the idle position he once mirrored now imbued with a dynamic tension. He visualized the path ahead, the fulcrums of his body not a rigid state but a soft cloud that allowed for room to breathe for some of them.

Idle to…Rise. His body responded, the transition seamless, a testament to the countless hours of repetition and refinement. His singularities, now extensions of his intent, prepared to strike.

Rise to Coil. He didn't wait for completion—or hitting the checkpoint; the momentum carried him forward, his muscles coiling in anticipation.

Coil to Lunge. A deliberate streamline of his body, every muscle aligned for the pounce.

Lunge to Dash. His advance was a blur, closing the distance with a speed that matched his determination.

Dash to Strike. The singularities lashed out, not just mirroring Mistress's technique but adding his own flair, a twist in the trajectory that spoke of his unique unaderstanding.

Clang!!

The contact was met not with resistance but a sharp chorus of metal as the reinforced blades held within those tendrils were sent flying in the air—leaving nothing but incomplete stumps behind.

Strike to Recover. He fell back, but not as a retreat. It was a reset, a preparation for the next step in their endless dance of learning and mastery.

Panting, Vern allowed himself a moment to reflect. The movements, once disjointed in his mind, now flowed like force in a well-oiled engine.

Mistress nodded, her expression hidden behind that fabric. "You've come far, Vern. Farther than I anticipated."

Those words sent a wave of relief pulsing through his body, followed by his knees buckling from the lack of energy, and he fell back without any care.

Hahh- Hahh- he breathed large mouthfuls of air as he closed his eyes and discarded his perception, not keen at all on using any of his senses. Yet, his mind continued to whirl—analyzing, dissecting the changes he'd made throughout these sessions of madness.

His largest leap of improvement in this visualization technique came from finding a better balance of rigidity. One issue with mimicking Mistress was that it didn't account for the difference between both bodies.

To remedy that, he'd slowly figured out which nodes could have a greater margin of error and didn't need to be mirrored perfectly. Then, from there, he had spent a big chunk of the time figuring this out for each sub-state in the fifty or so maneuvers she'd demanded him to learn.

He wasn't this good with most of them, but that's what one practiced for. What was funnier was that he didn't even need to follow the mental nodes for most of these moves anymore. His muscle memory had long since kicked in.

Now, it helped him overcome the flaws or pick up new movements. I guess that's for the best anyway. This unique visualization method wasn't meant as a combat art but more of a learning aid.

"Let's end early today." Those words suddenly jolted him back up, and he stared at her in intense puzzlement.

She shook her head and replied, "It's been a week, Vern"

What? When…? Fuck!

It was…over? Already? How? "But Mistress, I've barely figured out how to incorporate my Visions into the combat style. I need at least another month. No, maybe just another week? How am I supposed to—"

She raised her hand, and Vern instantly shut up. Sliding her arm into the coat, she sighed, "The city needs us, Vern. I have spent enough time with my new powers. If I don't use them for a good cause right about now, it might be a little too late for many."

He opened his mouth to say something but didn't know where to start. She was right.

She walked through the wreckage that was the training hall, cutting a graceful yet deadly figure as she added, "The plague's getting worse, and one of the teams in the ruin has met an accident. I suppose the Vigil needs you, too. We can't just stay cooped up in here."

Walking past his sorry ass, she added, "Rest well, Vern. I look forward to watching you fight tomorrow."

The mere mention of the fight sent his blood pumping again, and the despondency at having to stop progressing at this speed faded away a bit.

Well, Master Osric had also spent a big chunk of time with Lucian, almost as if to compete with Mistress, and had proposed a 'friendly' dual on Luician's behalf.

A confident smile blossomed on his face, and he declared, "I have no plans to let you down, Mistress."

When she was about to exit the door, she sighed, "Be warned that Lucian has already subjugated the first infusion of old blood. As much as I want you to win, you should temper your expectations and know when to back down. Your combat prowess may not be enough to overcome the raw strength that comes with the old blood."

Vern didn't speak unnecessarily and just nodded. He would let his actions do the talking.

"Goodnight, Mistress Amelia. Thank you very much for this last week. I wish there were some way for me to show my gratitude."

She walked out and left words in the air in a tone barely above a whisper, "Just do your best for the city. That's all the thanks I need."

Slam.