CHAPTER EIGHT: TIDES OF ENDURANCE

Chronifer had often wondered, as many modern humans from Earth did, how people survived before the advent of smartphones and other entertainment mediums. His current life provided an unflinching answer to that question.

There was no time to be bored.

Before dawn’s first light, he was already awake, immersed in an unrelenting regimen of exercises dictated by Dante's foul jeers and ciphers' quiet expectations. His mornings ended with laps around the Montcroix-Wythe mansion – a sprawling, four-winged structure of dark wood, its vastness making even basic cardio an exhausting feat. Only after this endurance test came a short break for food. Then, as if the universe conspired to remind him of its cruelty, his real training began.

His days were consumed by Cipher’s ruthless lessons in The Dance of Mirrors, a combat style that seemed as much philosophy as technique. Each session pulling him and Nyte in different directions, Nyte training was in the sword style: Deaths Gambit, Cipher had described it as the creation of Dante – better known as Cowardicelore – a deranged mercenary whose twisted brilliance had forged a style as ruthless as its creator. Chronifer tried not to think of the boy pulling deeper Into himself, he had never been a extrovert or a talker but he was withering

I had really hoped we could be friends. I just hope he doesn't break now though.

Cipher’s expectations were crushing, his methods calculated to break lesser wills. He began with the most grueling introduction imaginable: drills. Hundreds of strikes – vertical, horizontal, diagonal, thrusts, and shadow parries – every single day. The count steadily grew until it reached a staggering thousand repetitions for each.

“To master the complex, you must first master the basics to their core,” Cipher had said.

Initially, Chronifer had believed the strikes were simply to build muscle memory. It wasn’t until Cipher introduced the concept of Hearing the Song that he understood the deeper purpose. It was preparation for reflecting or rather the core on which it all stood.

Cipher explained the idea with his blend of philosophy and brutality, his love for the style ever present. “Every style has a rhythm, a flow – its song. If you can’t hear it, you can’t survive it, and you won't be able to flow with it”

The first step was to observe and replicate rhythm. Cipher demonstrated a simple, steady sequence: a vertical slash followed by a lateral sweep, ending in a thrust. Chronifer’s task was to repeat it perfectly, not just once, but until his body understood it instinctively.

The task seemed simple at first, but Cipher’s standards were merciless. “You’re not listening, Son,” he said chillingly calmly after Chronifer’s first attempt. “Think of this as music. You hum a song and you do not know a word of its lyrics, or emotion it carries but still you can capture its rhythm. Do not think deeply. not yet, just feel the style and reflect it.”

At first, Chronifer was frustrated. His body ached, his muscles screamed, and his mind wavered under the constant critique. Yet, slowly, painfully, he began to see what Cipher meant. Each style carried a rhythm, a pattern that guided its movements like a song. By the end of the first month, he could identify those rhythms, though mimicking them was still a struggle, it was like moving to a tone not yet established or understood, the words carried by it not yet known, the emotion conveyed yet still blurry.

Cipher’s praise was rare, but when it came, it was genuine. One evening, after Chronifer had flawlessly mirrored a sequence Cipher demonstrated, his father gave a rare nod of approval, and a soft encouraging smile growing more present through their training. “Good. You’re hearing it now. That’s the first step. Remember, though – the song isn’t yours yet. Hearing isn’t the same as mastering, you're yet to understand it, how to use the rhythm or what lays beyond and underneath it”

Chronifer’s progress wasn’t limited to observation. Cipher demanded application. He introduced sparring sessions where Chronifer had to “hear” Cipher’s rhythm and react accordingly by reflecting. The results were… disastrous.

Cipher moved like a predator, his strikes fluid yet unpredictable. Every attack carried a rhythm that Chronifer struggled to grasp, let alone counter. By the end of the first session, Chronifer lay bruised and humiliated on the training floor. Cipher offered no sympathy.

“Failure is the beginning of learning,” he said simply. “Get up, Son.”

And so, the cycle repeated: drills, sparring, failure, reflection. With each repetition, Chronifer grew sharper. He began to anticipate Cipher’s movements, catching glimpses of his repeating and inconsistent tone in the rhythm of his attacks. It was far from perfect, happening more inconsistently than not, but it was progress, all of these had to be accomplished while using the same rhythm or style as Cipher.

One day, after weeks of grueling practice, Cipher stopped mid-session and regarded Chronifer with an unreadable expression. “You’ve heard the song–hence reflection. Good. Now we distort it.”

Distortion, as Cipher explained it, was the art of disrupting an opponent’s rhythm without losing one’s own. Chronifer had remembered thinking about how complicated the style had sounded when Cipher had described Distortion as "Altering your opponent’s movements for tactical advantage" now he knew his father had been simplifying it.

“It wasn’t enough to hear the song – you had to bend it to your will.” Cipher had explained

Cipher’s lessons shifted focus. Now, sparring sessions weren’t just about survival; they were about manipulation. Cipher would execute a sequence, and Chronifer’s task was to interrupt the flow by Chronifer distorting the rhythm–Cipher changing the style he uses for every bit of ground Chronifer gained. A misplaced strike, a feint, or even a poorly timed movement could be enough to throw Cipher’s rhythm off balance.

The difficulty was maddening. Cipher’s rhythm felt unshakable, reflecting its rhythm, a chore. Adding distortion makes it seem like trying to break the tide. Yet, as weeks turned into a month, Chronifer began to find cracks. A subtle misstep here, an unexpected feint there—small victories that earned him fleeting praise, all the while using the same style and rhythm as Cipher, Chronifer had seen it like trying to beat a master at his game, but he was making progress at it.

All the while he felt a new understanding blossoming.

Chronifer still felt like there were layers to the style he was missing. If it were to be described as a song, there was the rhythm and flow which he had designated as the hum, and then there were the lyrics–which he was close to understanding. then the other layers of instrument and then there was the emotion and message the song was sending. He felt like he was only seeing the peak of the iceberg but he tried not to lose sight of that peak.

The lyrics which Chronifer was close to conquering were the flaws and vulnerabilities of a style he had come to realise.

“You’re learning,” Cipher said one evening after Chronifer managed to distort the rhythm of a sparring sequence. “Barely. But you’re learning.”

The drills intensified. Cipher introduced increasingly complex rhythms, changing his style, forcing Chronifer to adapt on the fly. He pushed Chronifer beyond exhaustion, often without warning. “An enemy won’t wait for you to catch your breath,” Cipher reminded him.

Despite the pain, Chronifer could feel himself improving. His movements grew sharper, his mind quicker. He could anticipate Cipher’s attacks with increasing accuracy, and his distortions became more deliberate, more effective, and his ability to feel the rhythm and flow, although still slow compared to Cipher movements, was getting better.

He had also come to the realisation that distortions worked best when they weren't just an altered reflection of the opponent but also a mix of other styles he had experienced from Cipher.

Slowly through hours and days of brutal sparing he had come to slowly begin to feel the lyrics, he could now find flaws and vulnerabilities although, inconsistently and dependent on the style Cipher was using.

One evening, after a particularly brutal sparring session, Cipher called a halt. “You’ve done well,” he said, his voice carrying a rare note of approval. “You’ve passed the second mastery. You’re not perfect, but you’re close enough.”

The words sent a jolt of pride through Chronifer’s exhausted body. For the first time since beginning his training, he felt like he was truly getting somewhere.

But Cipher wasn’t finished. “You’re on the edge of mastery, son. Don’t let it go to your head. The third mastery isn’t about hearing or distorting, it’s about, well a lot of things, but I'll say this, it about Sharpening the Mind and Expanding Knowledge”

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As Cipher’s words sank in, Chronifer felt a strange mix of pride and dread. He was finally making progress, but the path ahead promised to be even more grueling.

Chronifer would love to attest his perseverance through the foreign art of battle styles to his iron will but the truth was far more simple, it was all thanks to his mother Slora, she had packed him fat with knowledge about battle styles and he had even been able to recognise some familiar styles and counter them more easily due to his reads.

But his real Solace were the strolls he and his mother took round the mansion, when the sun was a crown above the horizon. And his time spent with her in the study and library alike reading books, she was also mostly the one who carried him to his room when he dozed off, although he had to admit he had just as much knowledge as teas and families to stare clear of their women

So as his training session with his father was reaching its end there were two things Chronifer was looking forward to. His mother cooking, he hoped since Dante did cook at times, the food tasting like death and sadness. And also the strolls.

“Focus, Son,” Cipher said as he and Chronifer moved fluidly through the forms of one of Cipher’s most practiced styles. His voice was calm yet sharp, each word deliberate. “The third rank is about consolidating your progress. You’ve learned the flow of multiple styles, but you’ve failed to grasp their core.” He paused, correcting himself. “Except, of course, those you’ve studied in depth, due to your books.”

Chronifer allowed a small smile to tug at his lips, recalling the rare moment when his father had shown surprise. It had been subtle, a slight raise of both eyebrows, but Chronifer knew that was as much shock as Cipher would ever reveal.

“This mastery is simple in concept but difficult to achieve,” Cipher continued. “You’ve learned to flow with rhythm–reflecting it, and to alter it. Now, you must master the skills that made those feats possible…” His voice trailed off, his sharp gaze cutting through the momentary silence. Chronifer understood without further prompting.

“My observational skills,” he said. Cipher nodded, gesturing for him to continue. “My instincts, speed, flow, flexibility, and the ability to reflect other styles, even if only at a surface level.”

“Brilliant as always, my son. All correct. The last point is especially crucial,” Cipher replied, his tone steady but edged with approval. “You’ve been reflecting the rhythm of styles, yes, but only at a shallow level. You’ve relied on instincts and raw skill to carry you this far. Against a truly refined style, those same strengths will lead to your downfall.”

Chronifer’s faint smile faded, his expression turning serious. Cipher stepped closer, his voice dropping into a more deliberate cadence. “Take this to heart: never use the Dance of Mirrors until you’ve reached Mastery Four, or at the very least, the latter stages of Mastery Three.”

He let the words linger before continuing. “This phase is about preparing you for higher-level opponents. Through sparring with me, you will build your understanding. Your task is to uncover the core of each style I show you. Learn it. Understand it. Then store it away, nestled firmly within your mind as though it were a library, a repository.”

Cipher’s voice sharpened, carrying an edge of urgency. “This mastery is not just about reflection or distortion. It’s about collecting knowledge, honing your skills, and preparing for the layers of complexity within every style you’ll encounter. The foundation you build now will determine your survival later.”

He stepped back into a ready stance, his golden eyes narrowing. “Mastery Three allows you to anticipate and counter styles. At this level, you’ll only catch glimpses close to a style’s core –its intent– but that is enough. You’ll start to recognize stances and see fragments of an opponent’s arsenal. That awareness, even in pieces, is where you need to be to wield this art with any measure of safety.”

Cipher’s movements became precise, deliberate, as he demonstrated a stance. “Now, show me what you’ve learned. This time, don’t just follow the rhythm, seek its purpose. Feel its pulse. And most importantly, uncover what lies beneath.”

Chronifer had high expectations, he could almost imagine himself reflecting opponent’s moves before they made it, using their styles against them and crushing their foundations and using distortions to attack them with fury. He could almost see it, if he learned further he would be able to move more fluidly, flowing with the rhythm, seeing flaws and vulnerabilities, understanding and predicting stances and moves, even seeing intent.

Chronifer pushed forward, learning the stances of the style his father showed him, he could see them helping him with his distortions.

However Chronifer couldn't see the frown growing on his fathers face.

The day’s training had drawn to a close, and Chronifer was looking forward to his walk with his mother when he stumbled upon a scene he hadn’t anticipated.

“Get up, lad,” Dante growled, his voice carrying a restrained edge.

Nyte lay sprawled on the ground, staring blankly at the darkening sky. But his eyes, those lifeless, empty eyes Chronifer had grown used to, were now aligned with something primal: pain, anger, and defiance. Chronifer’s pulse quickened. Damn it, I saw this coming. He rushed toward them.

“Get. Up,” Dante repeated, his tone brooking no argument.

For the first time in months, Nyte spoke, and his voice carried a weight Chronifer hadn’t expected. Raw. Exhausted. Shaking.

“No… no, no, no. I don’t want this!” Nyte’s hands rose shakily to his face, trying to smother the tears that spilled over. His words were broken, halting, but as they poured out, his body moved, dragging him to his knees. “I didn’t ask for this life. I didn’t ask to be born. I didn’t ask to be a slave of the Dygan Syndicate. And I didn’t ask to be taken by you!”

The last words tore out of him like a scream. His body quaked, his shoulders heaving as he fought the tidal wave of emotion. “I want to be free, even just once. I want to be lazy. I want to live my life my way. Or better yet—just end it! Throw me away! I… I—” His words choked off into silence as he collapsed inward, wracked with sobs that seemed to bleed from his very soul.

Chronifer stood frozen, shaken. He saw himself in Nyte, he had always seen a shadow of himself in the boy. But now he realized he hadn’t understood him at all.

“Get up, lad,” Dante commanded again, his voice a hammer striking steel.

But Nyte didn’t move.

“No! Just kill me like you killed them! What do I even live for? Not for myself!” Nyte’s roar was hoarse, steady, and hollow, the cry of someone stripped bare of hope.

“This, boy, this is life,” Dante snapped, his voice dark and cutting. “To another man, speaking to me like that would have cost him his tongue, and I’d have pissed on the bloody stump. But you? You bark about freedom like a whipped dog. So tell me, then: what do you want? What’s this great, noble goal that makes you so different from the rest of us? Speak.”

Nyte recoiled, his face twisting in disgust –disgust with Dante, with the world, and with himself. His voice came low, trembling but determined. “Give me a cutlass and a plot of land. I’d farm it. I’d live a normal life. That’s all I want.”

Chronifer’s stomach tightened. He pitied the boy, but he couldn’t understand Dante’s methods – or his cruelty. His parents, watching from a distance, remained silent.

Dante’s laugh exploded, a harsh, mocking sound that reverberated like a whip crack. He clutched his stomach as he doubled over, his laughter slowly dying into a cruel sneer.

“A farm?” Dante spat the word like a curse. His face twisted in fury. “Every day, I stand here teaching you a style I’ve forged through battles that nearly killed me, and this is how you repay me? Spit in my face, why don’t you?” His voice dropped, simmering with quiet rage. “Do I enslave you by giving you strength? Do I bind you in chains by making a man out of you? Do I shackle your pitiful existence by giving it purpose?”

Nyte’s voice cut in, sharp and desperate. “I don’t care about power!”

“Then you don’t care about life,” Dante snarled. His tone was cold now, final. “You’d rather waste away. Is that it?”

“I want to live. I want to…” Nyte’s voice cracked, his defiance faltering. “I want to rest. I want to sleep, just once without nightmares. I want to eat until I’m fat, walk free with no chains, no marks, no seals. I want to be lazy. I want to be free.”

Dante stepped closer, his presence looming. His voice dropped, low and dangerous. “Then you want power, lad. Power to rest. Power to eat your fill. Power to walk free without someone branding your back. You think power is just about fighting?” He leaned in, his words like a dagger to the gut. “It’s not. Power is the right to be left the hell alone. Without it, you’re nothing. A punching bag. Trash. A toy for others to play with.”

Nyte stared at him, his face pale, streaked with tears and snot.

Dante straightened, the anger leaving his voice, replaced by a chilling calm. “Strength, boy, is the only way you’ll ever have peace. And if you don’t want peace…” He turned and walked away, his voice lingering like a shadow. “Then you don’t want to live.”

Chronifer watched as Nyte crumbled, his body folding in on itself as he sobbed into the dirt. His mind raced, calculating.

What should I do?

After a beat, Chronifer stepped forward.

Chronifer crouched beside Nyte, the boy’s sobs muffled by the dirt. For a moment, he just watched, waiting for the storm to pass. Then, in a low, steady voice, he spoke.

“You want to quit? Fine. No one here can stop you. But if you give up now, you’ll never get that farm. That peace you’re begging for? You’ll die before you see it.”

Nyte didn’t look up, his voice raw. “What do you know about it? You’re not a slave. You don’t get it.”

“You’re right,” Chronifer said. “I don’t. But I know what it’s like to be trapped, to feel like nothing you do matters.” He paused, softening his tone. “I’m offering you a deal. We go through this together. I’ll watch your back when it’s too much, but you don’t get to quit. You stay in the fight. One step at a time.”

Nyte’s shoulders stilled, and for a moment, Chronifer thought he’d gotten through. But when the boy finally turned to him, his eyes were empty again.

“No,” Nyte whispered. “I can’t do this. I don’t want to.” He turned away, curling into himself.

Chronifer’s jaw tightened, frustration and pity warring within him. He stood, brushing the dirt off his hands. “Then stay down,” he said coldly. “But don’t expect the world to stop kicking you while you’re there.”

Without another word, he walked away, leaving Nyte behind in the gathering dark.