Chapter 93 - Training (Stability Haze)
But then he suddenly had an even better idea.
Wait. What if…
Vern improvised at the speed of light and augmented the dots in his sight with a haze around Mistress's body, its shade signifying the stability of the stance. He was hoping to make use of the new Insights that just blossomed in his Thought space.
So when the haze that he conjured around the dots turned darker as she transitioned from one stance to the other, a surge of excitement washed over him. It turning darker signified that she wasn't stable when going from one stance to the other, which was obviously the case.
But the moment she stopped and settled into a proper stance, the haze turned bright white while she verbally explained the intricacies of that particular stance.
Listening to her attentively, he studied the dots and haze with a singular focus. Soon, he could even differentiate which stance was better in stability compared to the others, but as Mistress said, it was all a trade-off. If one stance had worse stability, it made for better mobility.
He even pulled out his notepad and pen, drawing diagrams and writing notes to better internalize the stances. Mistress was first confused by his antics but ignored him soon after.
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Seconds turned into minutes, and before he knew it, the mesmerizing dance came to an end.
She then looked him in the eye and said, "It's your turn."
Vern nodded solemnly, snapping the notepad shut before throwing it to the side. All the point structures of different stances were now imprinted in his memory—something he didn't really trust. So, it was time to etch it into his muscle memory instead.
His brain, now in awe of her teaching skills and further muddled by the comprehensive trance, asked dumbly, "Can I first try them out in front of a mirror?"
She shrugged her shoulders, not seeming to care one way or the other. He picked up the blunt longsword and stood in front of the mirror. He looked at the posture of his reflection with disgust. It was outright horrific compared to Mistress.
So he closed his eyes but unveiled his perception, discarding everything but his own fulcrums and the sword.
Soon, however, he realized how stupid he had been to come and stand in front of a mirror. He could 'feel' where each of the dots representing his joint was. He didn't need to 'see' it, and his perception didn't really 'reflect' from the mirror anyway.
Shaking his head, he recalled the diagrams of each stance and moved his body to match them as closely as possible. The dots representing his joints aligned one after another, and the dark haze around them, signifying the overall stability of his pose, turned brighter.
Then, he focused on individual points and nudged the equivalent body parts in directions that caused the haze to grow whiter. Neck a little leaned back, three joints of central spine a little straighter, elbows farther stretched and feet turned a bit more inwards.
The haze around him lightened with every little adjustment, and he soon found a nice equilibrium.
Now, moving even a little seemed to cause the haze to grow shadowy. It shouldn't happen in this stance, though. This one was called Ox Guard and was supposed to be the most stable one. So, the haze should be as close to white as possible.
That's when he felt a subtle touch on his elbow, pushing it higher. The stability actually became darker with this movement, but this was only the start. A nudge came on his wrist, rotating it a little further.
He maintained his rigid posture, only letting those gentle prods shift the joints in that area. Each change fluctuated the haze around him, and before it could settle came a dozen more subtle changes, including a touch on his back, a sliding force on his feet, and a push of fingers on his chin.
When the touches finally stopped, he felt it. The haze was the brightest it had ever been, and he did his best to engrave this state of joints into his muscle memory, trying to get a feel for every body part.
"Okay, stop," came Mistress's voice, and he opened his eyes. She stood right next to him, critically judging his figure in the mirror.
Vern stood tall, his sword raised to the side of his head, its point menacingly aimed towards himself in the mirror. His leading hand was positioned near the hilt, just under his eye line, while his other hand gripped right above the curved grips near the back of his head.
He looked…intimidating.
Making eye contact with his figure in the mirror, she said, "That took you three minutes," a menacing edge in her voice.
"Break stance."
Vern relaxed his grip and rested the sword on the ground. His arms were feeling a little sore already. It wasn't too heavy, but three minutes in that posture weren't great for his wrists.
But before his forearms could even stop throbbing, she commanded, "Take stance. You have ten seconds this time."
Ignoring his almost screaming arms, he closed his eyes and focused on the positioning of the points. He didn't have much luxury for trial and error this time around, so he scrambled to align everything the way it was a moment ago.
The haze around him quickly fluctuated before settling on a bright white, and he locked all his joints in position, knowing he couldn't do better in the allotted time.
Two hands ran along different parts of his body, nudging them to better positions almost instantly. He couldn't even fathom how her hands moved so fast, much less with this much precision.
In another few seconds, he was back in perfect stance.
"Break stance."
He did.
"Take stance, eight seconds."
He rushed again, a little better and faster than last time—finding an equilibrium in only six seconds. She fixed a few things still, and he tried to engrave each of them in his body.
"Break stance."
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"Take stance, five seconds."
"…four seconds."
"…three seconds."
"…two seconds."
"Two seconds."
"Two seconds."
"Two seconds."
"Two seconds."
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"Break stance."
Vern huffed, gasping for breath. His arms screamed at him while his heart raced as if it was on fire. Then came Mistress's voice, "Three minutes. Grab some water and go rest."
He nodded, not frustrated in the least bit. This was heaven. He had never had such a great teacher in his life. Not even Master back in Nvoria had such a dynamic method of tutoring.
She explained things in analogies that made perfect sense. She adapted to his pace but still compelled him to push harder at every step. It was bliss.
He had met great Fundamentalists who would rank amongst the most knowledgeable in the world, yet they were some of the worst teachers in existence. A random professor in some institute could explain theories better than them.
Experience and skill were almost never proportional to one's ability to impart that knowledge unto others. Yet, in this case, she seemed to have all three.
Walking over to the bench, he placed the blunt sword next to him and massaged his forearms. He wasn't very keen on using Stability Inducement if he didn't need it. Not when the whole point of training was to extract the body's potential.
How was he going to get better if he kept using shortcuts and never let his body exhaust itself?
Chugging the water from a flask, he reflected on the session up until now. Something of note was that he hadn't really used a vision during the training. It was just the passive use of his eyes to isolate a singular concept and streamline his learning based on that.
He wondered if he could use his Visions to 'stabilize' his posture and envision his body into a more stable stance. But he discarded that thought as soon as it came to his mind. He wanted to build muscle memory, not make extra work for himself.
He wouldn't have the time or mind in an actual fight to correct his stances every step of the way. That would be a pathetic way of fighting. It might be worth looking into once he had all the basics down, but it would only be detrimental for now.
Mistress stood in the corner, her blonde hair a little more ruffled than before and her eyes distant, not really focused on anything. He wondered what was on her mind.
She was quite…complicated. He recalled she mentioned that she wanted to retire, but there was also that blood-crazed look in her eyes every time she talked about fighting or advancing further.
Weren't these two ideas contradictory?
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He shook his head, and his eyes fell on the small case peeking from his coat pocket. Within it was the first infusion of Old blood. He wondered what exactly this Bloodborne Subjugation Art was.
What exactly did those Fundamentalists do to 'subjugate' the bloodborne disease within the Old Blood? What did they mean by different tiers of infusions?
His personal understanding of human anatomy was quite minimal. Diseases, cures, and blood were not even in the same vein as his field of research. Still, everything originated from the Insight Sphere, so he could surely find a common ground if he tried hard enough.
Trying and failing to come up with any legible working theory behind the subjugation art for now, he let it be and switched the arm he was massaging.
Soon came the voice, "Take stance. Longpoint Guard this time, fifty seconds."
Vern took a deep breath, grabbed the sword, and stood up. Walking over to the mirror again, he closed his eyes and focused. Longpoint guard was all about a more open approach.
The nodes representing his hands and wrist stretched directly in front of him, the tip of the sword aimed at the chest of an imaginary opponent. His feet were spaced comfortably apart, one leading slightly, offering a balance between mobility and stability.
This one was far simpler. The first trial and error adjustments barely took him half a minute, and Mistress only had to nudge him a couple times before it was perfect.
"Break stance."
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"Take stance, five seconds."
He did it in four, except for the fact that she still had to correct a bunch of things.
"…Three seconds."
"…Two seconds."
"…Two seconds."
She never really went below that number.
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"Rest."
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"Take stance. High guard."
"…Five seconds."
"…Three seconds."
"…Two seconds."
"Rest. Two minutes."
"Take stance. High guard."
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"Take stance. Fool's guard."
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"Take stance. Tail guard."
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Every session for the particular guard became shorter and shorter, and he even adapted to one of them almost perfectly in a mere ten tries.
Mistress paced along the room, Duality hanging from her fingers that looped into that curved grip at the bottom.
She spoke without a hint of a hurry, "Next is to transition from one stance to the other. Idea is to keep unnecessary movements to the minimum," and she swung that longsword around until it was back in her hands, firmly secured in a long point guard.
Vern Observed her with his eyes as well as his perception, and she changed from a long point to an Ox guard stance in a very efficient motion. It was like watching a well-oiled machine going from one phase to another.
Not waiting for her to tell him, he stood right next to her and began mimicking her every motion. He didn't even need to look to his right. He just focused on how those floating points evolved and moved around.
But that wasn't all. Anytime he wasn't doing it right, the difference in the shade of haze around himself and Mistress' allowed him to realize it almost instantly, and he corrected those mistakes.
It was simple. Make the movements in a way that smoothly shifts the haze of stability from one pattern to another.
It was simple. Until she upped the ante, transitioning faster and faster.
It was almost like a mesmerizing dance where Vern was an eager yet untrained apprentice trying to match steps with the master. Each movement she made was fluid and assured, oozing with an innate grace.
Vern, in contrast, tried his best and remained diligent but lacked her finesse and rhythm. His steps were hesitant, often a beat behind as he tried to mirror the intricate footwork and swift movements.
She soon included other stances in the mix. From High guard to Roof guard. Fool's guard to Tail Guard. Ox guard to Plow guard.
Mistress Amelia continued to lead the dance without missing a single beat. Each transition was seamless, her mastery over the forms evident in the way she flowed from one guard to the next with elegance and precision. The dance of swords became more complex, more demanding, yet she made it look almost effortless.
Then came three in a cycle.
Vern struggled to keep up, his movements less graceful, more mechanical. The haze around him fluctuated wildly with each transition, signaling his faltering alignment with the fluid patterns. But he persisted, driven by a growing understanding and an unwavering focus.
Then, four at a time.
As they cycled through the guards, Vern's movements began to smoothen, his timing improved, and the haze around him stabilized, mirroring Mistress Amelia's consistency. He was no longer just mimicking; he was learning, adapting, and evolving.
Then all stances at the same time.
The dance reached its crescendo when they seamlessly integrated all the stances in a continuous flow. Now moving with more confidence, Vern found himself not just following but anticipating the next move, the gap in their expertise narrowing with each synchronized step.
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After who knew how long, the constellation of Mistress Amelia came to a smooth halt, and his body almost couldn't stop the momentum it had to shift into the next anticipated stance.
He opened his eyes to find Mistress's gaze upon him, her eyebrows slightly furrowed, a faint crease on her forehead, and lips faintly downturned. Not sure what that meant, he stared back in anticipation.
She said one word, "Rest."
Yet, that one simple word seemed to shatter all his concentration, and he felt the weight of his mortal body boring down on him.
His perception dissolved, and his head throbbed, the veins around his eyes pulsing rapidly. Sweat covered him from head to toe while every joint screamed in agony. His arms were red from the exertion, and his wrist felt weak.
Using the sword as support, he barely managed to keep himself from tumbling down. Taking deep breaths in huge mouthfuls, he made his way towards the wall and plopped down on the ground without a care for his image.
Resting his head on the wall, he took huge gulps of water from the flask. He had to revitalize for the next session as soon as possible.
The stances were done…
His eyes snapped shut on their own, but he kept wondering.
what…
His heart slowed, and it was hard to think, but he tried.
what… is…
His grip relaxed, and all noises disappeared.
what… is… next?
And the world turned black.