CHAPTER SEVEN: WHERE DOES THE LIMIT LAY
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Chronifer had known, after finishing the book A Tree Within, that everything was not as it seemed. The idea that a tree was growing within his soul might have been laughable, a fragment of some fever dream, if not for the face he saw every morning in the mirror. He still had trouble calling it his own. Though the kid was more good looking than he ever did at that age and looking at his parents, he could just tell the kid would grow into a more refined and attractive man than he used to be, it felt... alien. And yet, it made the book’s claims harder to dismiss.
The book had provided him with crucial insights into a part of his status screen:
Rank:
Seedling
Branches:
[Locked]
[Locked]
[Locked]
[Locked]
Leaves:
N/A
Vines:
N/A
He knew, at least, that his rank as a seedling would change when he turned sixteen. At that point, his essence would begin to flow safely through his Soul Tree, reducing the risk of flesh defilement, a term that unsettled him more than he cared to admit. However, A Tree Within had been the smallest and least detailed of the books he'd read, leaving him with more questions than answers.
What was clear was that his status, for now, was supposed to be restricted, he had no doubts his reincarnation had changed that fact. He suspected this was the reason his parents hadn’t asked many questions about it yet, probably assuming that, as a seedling, he was unremarkable. Safe.
Still, the book had shed some light on the broader mechanics of his Soul Tree. Branches, it explained, were affinities, powerful links to multiversal laws that existed on every level. Leaves acted as nexuses of control, focused on those affinities. But vines? Vines were a mystery the book had left unresolved. No matter how many times he re-read that section, their significance remained frustratingly obscure.
Five days into his training, however, one part of the book lingered in his thoughts, etched into his memory:
"A body with a Soul Tree is more than its base race. Its limits stretch far beyond the ordinary. I suggest you reach that limit."
So with that sentence ever lingering on the edges of his mind, Chronifer decided, insanity seemed to be needed to become what he sought to be.
“Who the fuck told you little wastrels that you're done?” Dante barked, his gravelly voice the narrator of all Chronifers nightmares. It sent chills down his spine.
The nameless boy now named Nyte by Dante was already on the ground in position for more push-ups before Chronifer.
“The lordlings seem to have problems following orders.” He laughed, a ugly thing. “We'll fix that.”
“Give us another fifty push-ups.” Quietly from the side came Ciphers voice sounding like an angel but preaching a gospel of sorrow.
Chronifer obeyed though he was loath to do so, knowing this was him joining in on Nytes training, his training hadn't begun, like his father had called it the first day, “stretches”. Cursing himself, Chronifer pushed himself up and reclined back down and then up again.
His mind was dark like the days still young and unclear.
“Done.” Dante said. The mist clung to the ground like a shroud, muffling their grunts and the dull thuds of their collapsing bodies.
Chronifer had only gotten three hours of sleep, his body was still aching for the intensity of the workout from the past day, he had no doubt that he would have damaged a muscle or two if he had been back on earth, but now he was tired, extremely so but that was it. If challenged he could still go.
Like he could hear his heretical thoughts Dante conformed.
“Lads these days, I bet my grandmother would be stronger than you little farts.” He taunted, kicking both of them. “Up! Up! You know what's next, give me one-fifty pull-ups.”
Chronifer and Nyte were off to catch the low hanging branches of the hunting trees, Nyte reached the tree before Chronifer and was already pulling himself up by the time Chronifer reached him, Chronifer began. Nearing the end of the sets his arms were trembling like a rope fraying at the edges, but he gritted his teeth at a glance at the boy, Nyte, who had dropped to the ground.
By the time Dante announced the leg exercises, Chronifer's body felt like lead. Yet, there was no stopping – squats, lunges, jumps – all marked by Dante's relentless jeers and Cipher’s quiet, unyielding demands. Every moment dragged on, each movement feeling like a climb up an endless hill.
When Dante hounded them through their final sets, collapse wasn’t an option. Before they could even think to stop, he had them running laps around the mansion. The dark wooden structure loomed in the misty pre-dawn light, its stillness a stark contrast to Dante’s hoarse voice. His insults were vivid and overly detailed, targeting their stamina, determination, and even their lineage.
"Faster, Nyte! Chronifer! I’ve seen corpses move with more grace!” Dante barked.
The ordeal was far from over. After what felt like hours, they were granted a thirty-minute break. It was just enough time to eat and brace themselves for the next punishment. Both boys slumped into stillness. Nyte’s portions were notably larger than Chronifer’s, but he wasn’t touching them. Instead, Nyte sat near the dark wooden structure of the mansion, the shadows cast by its walls seeming to mirror his emotions.
Chronifer’s arms were so strained that holding his spoon felt like trying to lift a boulder. He fought to keep it steady, forcing himself to eat despite the ache. But Nyte? Nyte wasn’t even trying.
“Aren’t you going to eat?” Chronifer asked, raising an eyebrow. His own arms trembled as he struggled to grip his spoon, the strain from the morning exercises making even eating a challenge. Still, his body had already begun acclimating to the pain, but the dread of what came next hung over him like a death sentence.
Nyte shook his head, his exhaustion palpable. But as Chronifer’s eyes lingered, the boy finally picked up his spoon. His hand trembled violently, the muscles twitching as if they’d forgotten how to obey. With great effort, he managed to bring food to his lips.
Chronifer felt a pang of concern. I hope he’ll be fine. Chronifer watched him, concern flickering beneath his otherwise composed demeanour. Nyte, though never social, had grown eerily silent since the training began. His gaze, once cautious and guarded, had dulled into something distant, like a shadow of himself remained to endure the exercises.
Occasionally, Nyte would mumble something under his breath, fragments of words about sleep and simpler labour. The weight of the boy’s exhaustion was palpable, and it scared Chronifer. When he’d first spoken to Nyte, the other boy had seemed weathered, but now it was as though he was unravelling entirely. His prior tiredness had been a mental weight, but now it extended to every fibre of his being. Nyte’s will wasn’t breaking, it was disintegrating, like a sandcastle eroded by relentless waves.
“Nyte! Time’s up. You know the drill,” Dante barked from a distance.
Chronifer’s stomach churned as he watched Nyte rise, his movements sluggish yet obedient. The boy’s back was bent under the weight of something intangible, and as he walked away, Chronifer’s lips parted, ready to speak.
A familiar, low voice interrupted him.
“The boy will be fine,” Cipher said, his tone a quiet reassurance. “Dante is no fool. Now come.”
Chronifer hesitated, casting one last worried glance toward Nyte. He didn’t entirely believe his father’s words, but he knew better than to argue. With a reluctant nod, he followed, acutely aware that, despite his adult mind, he couldn’t yet claim maturity in this world.
As they walked, Cipher broke the silence, his tone calm but commanding.
The narrative has been taken without permission. Report any sightings.
“The Dance of Mirrors–our family’s fighting style–is unlike what most people think it is. Many believe it to be a sword style.” He paused, glancing at Chronifer with sharp eyes. “They are wrong. It is an art of the mind above all else.”
Chronifer smiled, a little embarrassed, sensing his father’s awareness of his curiosity.
“I... didn’t know we even had a family style,” he admitted. Until now, Cipher had only drilled him on reaction and prediction exercises – intense workouts that left no room for formal techniques. It had culminated in choosing a weapon, with Chronifer finally settling on straight jian after countless trials.
“Well, now you do.” Cipher gave a small, knowing smile. “Today, we begin the real training. But before you can learn the Dance, you must understand it.”
Cipher spun a dagger in his hand, its blade whistling sharply through the air. His movements were fluid yet precise, perfectly matching Chronifer’s own speed – a deliberate display. Chronifer instinctively stepped back, his heart racing. He nearly tripped, but his reflexes saved him at the last moment.
He grinned, pride gleaming in his eyes. At least my reflexes are intact.
“Acceptable, but not good enough,” Cipher said with a hint of disapproval. “When I’m done with you, son, you won’t just be good enough. You’ll be more than exceptional. You’ll be the best, someone even perfectionists envy.”
Chronifer’s shame flickered briefly before being replaced by anticipation. He was hooked.
“So... what’s the style about?” he asked, curiosity sparking.
Cipher’s gaze grew serious. “The Dance of Mirrors is not just a sword style, Chronifer. It’s a philosophy. No two members of the Montcroix-Wythe family share the same vision of it. I’ll teach you the foundation, but the interpretation, your Dance, will be yours to create.”
Cipher didn’t step back, nor did he appear to move. Yet, impossibly, he was suddenly several feet away. Chronifer’s breath caught. How...?
“Come at me,” Cipher commanded, tossing a black dagger through the air. Chronifer sidestepped, letting the blade fall to the grass before retrieving it. Cipher shook his head, a faint smirk playing on his lips.
Chronifer lunged forward, knowing full well he couldn’t hurt his father. His strike, a vertical slash – was clean and precise. Cipher’s response was unnervingly perfect, catching the blade’s edge with his own dagger, mirroring Chronifer’s movement as if they were reflections in a mirror.
Chronifer stumbled back, shocked. Cipher mirrored his retreat, copying every detail down to the positioning of his feet.
“The first foundational mechanic and philosophy of the Dance,” Cipher said, his tone level, “is Reflection. Observe and mimic your opponent.”
“Again.”
Chronifer dashed forward, his footfalls muted on the grass. He struck wide, a horizontal slash aimed at his father’s side. This time, Cipher’s response came as a curved strike, sending Chronifer’s dagger spinning into the air. Before he could process the movement, he had already fallen to the ground.
“Did you see it?” Cipher asked, his tone as indifferent as if he were discussing the weather.
Chronifer pushed himself up, shaking his head. “No.”
“Again,” Cipher commanded.
Chronifer attacked once more, this time focusing entirely on his father’s movements. When Cipher’s blade clashed with his, it twisted – just slightly – but enough to redirect Chronifer’s strike entirely.
This time, he noticed. “You twisted my strike,” Chronifer said, awe creeping into his voice. “It’s like a fractured mirror, similar, but off just enough to change everything.”
Cipher’s lips curled into a satisfied smile. “Exactly. That’s the second foundational mechanic and philosophy of the Dance: Distortion. Alter your opponent’s movements for tactical advantage. Reflection is only the beginning. The real power lies in what you do with the reflection.”
He gestured for Chronifer to attack again. “Now, come.”
Chronifer launched into a series of strikes, wide slashes, thrusts, feints, testing every angle he could. Each time, Cipher countered with subtle shifts, until finally, after over twenty exchanges, Chronifer paused, realisation dawned on him.
“You’re exploiting my moves,” Chronifer said slowly. “Turning my strength into a weakness.”
He was a little shocked at his own savvy regarding fighting moves so far but he supposed it was unavoidable seeing his mental shelf of books he’d read.
Cipher nodded, lowering his blade and sitting cross-legged on the ground. “Correct. The third foundational mechanic and philosophy: Destruction. You reflect and distort, and in doing so, you uncover both your opponent’s strengths and their weaknesses. Then, you attack the foundation of that strength, collapsing it entirely.”
Chronifer stood, processing everything his father had said. The ideas were profound, intricate, and, most of all, overwhelming.
“Speak,” Cipher said, sensing his hesitation.
Chronifer hesitated but spoke his mind. “I get it. I understand the theory, but... it sounds impossible to use in an actual fight. It’s so... complicated.”
“I see your worries, but end them. What seems insurmountable now becomes possible with time and effort,” Cipher said, his voice steady and reassuring as he dismissed Chronifer’s doubts with a calm wave of his hand. “Reflection, distortion, and destruction, these are the marrow of the style. But remember this: with the Dance of Mirrors, your greatest weapons will always be your mind and body.”
Chronifer nodded, intrigue flickering in his golden eyes.
“The Dance of Mirrors,” Cipher continued, “has no starting stances, no rigid forms to follow. Instead, it teaches you to see, to listen, and to process. It is a repository of countless styles, each one faced, studied, and conquered. To master it is to become an artist, weaving together the rhythms of disparate techniques, deconstructing them, and even destroying them. The goal is to become formless.”
Chronifer’s heart skipped a beat at the word, though he masked his reaction with practised calm. His mind, however, was racing, drawn back to the memory of his trait.
Traits:
[Formless]
Your mind, unlike most, is unfettered within its walls, enabling you the adaptability to be without a form and to be of all forms. Your mind can bear it, and you can be anything, will be everything. Your lineage has prepared for this – be proud. Hail thy hand of death, Montcroix-Wythe.
Beware, for defilement still lingers.
So this was its purpose.
“Father,” Chronifer began cautiously, skepticism tingling his tone, “isn’t this style just… copying and pasting others?”
Cipher’s lips curled into a faint smile, amusement glimmering in his gaze. “So it is,” he said, throwing Chronifer off balance for a moment before continuing with a soft laugh. “And yet, it is so much more. At its foundation, it may seem like mimicry, but as you advance, it transforms. The Dance evolves, becoming something entirely unique to its wielder.”
“Really?” Chronifer asked, leaning forward slightly, his curiosity piqued.
Cipher’s expression grew thoughtful, his tone turning almost contemplative. “If the three foundational mechanics: reflection, distortion, and destruction, are the marrow, then the four principles are the bones, organs, and muscles of the style. Without them, the Dance remains lifeless, a shadow of what it is meant to be.”
“What are they?” Chronifer pressed, his voice betraying his eagerness. As he spoke, he realised how bright the day had become. At some point, the morning mist had burned away, leaving the world bathed in clear sunlight.
Cipher rose smoothly, brushing specks of grass from his hands, and stepped closer to his son. His hand came to rest lightly on Chronifer’s shoulder, his faint smile softening into something almost paternal. The sunlight gleamed against his sharp features, lending him an air of quiet authority.
“Calm yourself, son,” he said, organising his thoughts before speaking again. “The Dance of Mirrors is not merely about movement or technique. It is a philosophy, one guided by its four principles. The first of these is ‘Reflections Are Conversations.’”
Chronifer raised an eyebrow, scepticism clear on his face. “Conversations? You’re saying a fight is just... talking with fists?”
Cipher’s smile widened. “Exactly. Every movement of an opponent is a statement, an expression of their intent. A punch, a feint, a step, they all speak volumes about who they are and what they want. The practitioner of the Dance listens and responds. But” he raised a finger, “you do not respond as you receive it. You distort it back sharper, twisted, and layered with echoes of other styles.”
He took a step back, spreading his hands as if framing a larger picture. “Think of it this way: they say, ‘This is my strength.’ You reply, ‘I’ve seen better.’ They ask, ‘Can you keep up?’ You laugh and answer, ‘No, but I can outlast you.’ A true conversation.”
Chronifer nodded slowly, his lips curving into a faint smirk. “Alright, that’s one. What’s next?”
Cipher’s expression turned serious. “The second principle: ‘The Essence Over the Surface.’”
Chronifer’s mind flickered to his mother. So, she had good reason when she forced me to study the sword styles of the Mal’al’atis region...
Cipher’s voice cut into his thoughts. “A shallow imitation is weakness, Chronifer. The Dance demands understanding. Each opponent’s style must be deconstructed to its core, not just its strengths, but its vulnerabilities. To see beyond the surface means grasping the rhythm of their movements, the emotion driving their strikes, the philosophy underpinning their choices.”
He gestured toward the window behind them. “When you fight someone, you don’t just see them; you see their reflection in you. The more you understand their essence, the easier it is to dismantle them.”
Chronifer frowned thoughtfully. “So... it’s not about copying them. It’s about seeing their foundation and making it crumble?”
“Exactly,” Cipher said, a hint of pride in his voice. “That brings us to the third principle: ‘Destruction Through Distortion.’”
He reached for the small mirror hanging on his belt and held it up between them. “The Dance is not about perfectly reflecting someone else. It’s about distorting their image until they cannot recognize themselves. When you reflect an opponent’s technique, you fuse it with fragments of other styles stored within your mind, creating something new, something sharper, something that exposes every flaw in their original.”
Cipher’s voice dropped slightly, his tone weightier. “The goal is not to mirror them but to shatter them. Let them see their imperfections reflected in you.”
Chronifer tilted his head, the weight of the concept settling in. “And the fourth?”
Cipher grinned, flipping the mirror in his hand like a coin. “The fourth and final principle: ‘Multiplicity in Combat.’”
Chronifer blinked. “Sounds... complicated.”
“It is,” Cipher admitted. “The Dance of Mirrors do not simply reflect one opponent. They reflect every opponent you’ve ever faced and every style you’ve ever encountered. This creates an unpredictable, multidimensional form of combat, overwhelming your enemy with movements that feel both familiar and alien. To fight you is to fight themselves, fractured, multiplied, and better than they ever were.”
He stepped closer, holding the mirror up to Chronifer’s face. “The Dance is not just a style, son. It’s a way of seeing the world, of understanding people, of wielding everything you’ve ever learned. And now, it’s your turn to learn it.”