Due to his previous endeavours, after just two weeks of meditating with Alistar by the riverbank Zech had finally managed to nurture a small amount of aura within him. Once he’d accomplished this, the boys had taken it upon themselves to try their hands at sparring, which they ended up doing on most days. They met each evening after dinner at that same spot by the Greyline, meditating side by side for an hour or so before engaging in a heated match of mock combat for at least two more.
Zech had learned the first defensive stance rather easily, but the truly difficult part of mastering a technique was learning to manipulate one’s swordsman’s aura in order to fuse it with their movements. Once this was achieved, the power of the technique would increase significantly. This process took countless repetitions and the utmost patience, not to mention that it was quite taxing on the body. Swordsman’s aura wasn’t an endless source, after all. Once it was exhausted, so too was the user.
According to Tramon, if a swordsman used too much energy they could fall into a comatose state, or, in more serious cases, they could die. Keeping this in mind, the two of them would take breaks quite frequently, pausing to meditate or to fish until they were well rested. Alistar had read several books and scrolls on the art of swordsmanship that detailed different styles as well as reputable warriors and masters of each school, and on some occasions he would bring these writings to share and ponder over with Zech.
“It’s already been over a week and I’ve hardly gotten the hang of the Crown Style’s first stance,” Zech had sighed back when he’d first lain eyes on the reading material that Alistar had brought him. “There’re two other stances in the lowest tier, and then three more in the next one, and three more after that…” Contrary to his tone, his eyes had been alight with fiery determination. “And some stances have more than one technique. Just thinking about it makes my head spin.”
“It’s a lot,” Alistar had agreed. “And that’s only to become a lower practitioner of the adept stratum.”
“It’s hard to believe that all that’s just for the Crown Style.”
“Just think about it. There’re three tiers in the first stratum and four tiers in all of the others, with a total of five stratums. Apparently there are hundreds of other styles, so imagine all the other techniques out there that we might be able to learn one day.”
“Why are you smiling? That’s thousands of hours of work, you know.”
“You say that, but you’re smiling too, aren’t you?” Feet dangling in the cool waters of the Greyline where they’d sat along the riverbank, Alistar had splashed the other boy with a laugh before snatching up his wooden sword, standing with enthusiasm and then taking up the defensive stance that they had just mentioned. “We might as well get back to it, since there’s still so much to do.”
“I won’t go easy on you this time!”
And so they had returned to their painful practice.
Today, as he went through his sword swings within the quiet little clearing, Alistar felt quite happy that he had found someone his age to share in his training.
Zech was very athletic and quick on the uptake, and could be considered on the same level as Alistar despite the fact that the latter’s body had been molded by months of hard labour in Crystellum. The other boy had admitted that, aside from their lessons together, he’d been practicing sword swings with a sturdy branch for at least a few hours each morning over the past two years. After learning this, Alistar couldn’t help but admire his friend’s determination, which in turn helped to boost his own enthusiasm toward achieving his personal goals.
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So far, lessons had been progressing smoothly. Alistar had pretended to have misplaced his practice sword and had been given another one by a grumpy Tramon, which he'd gifted to Zech early on into their practice sessions. These weapons were special in that they were imbued with certain magics that reinforced the wood so that they could handle the powerful blows of more seasoned apprentices. Naturally they were very sturdy, but that also made them more dangerous for beginners like Alistar and Zech. For boys like them to begin sparring right from the start of their training was quite foolhardy, and it came as no surprise that neither were capable of holding back.
Many times they were forced to stop when one would strike the other too hard or too fast. Zech had cried twice early on, but not one time since. Alistar guessed that it was because he himself had yet to cry, despite the heavy pains that they inflicted upon one another. Alistar had been put through much worse back in Crystellum; a few hits here and there weren’t enough to make him shed tears. To be fair, the first time that Zech had cried he had been hit in the side of the face with a poorly aimed, overly enthusiastic slash from Alistar. The boy had been upset but had quickly put it behind him, reasoning that if he couldn’t take the blow of a wooden sword, then how could he expect to become a renowned swordsman that made a living off of walking the line between life and death?
“Hey, Alistar.”
His friend’s voice pulled him from his thoughts. “Yes?”
“We’re all meeting up at The Spot tomorrow to go fishing. You should tag along.”
“I…maybe. I was thinking of visiting Mr. Herst since I didn’t get to see him today.”
Fixing him with a curious stare from where he sat nearby the tree that he’d originally been leaning on, Zech let out a sigh. “He’s not going anywhere, you know. You should come! The girls like it when you’re around, and it’s always more interesting to have another member in the group. You put us at an even twelve, so we can finally live up to the name that everyone calls us.”
“I’ll think about it.”
After practicing with Zech well into the evening, he bid his friend farewell and returned home for a late dinner. Lying in bed later that night, he couldn’t help but contemplate whether or not he should tag along with the others tomorrow.
Sometimes Zech would drag him along to hang out with the rest of the Dozen even if Anice wasn’t around. These instances were terribly awkward for Alistar, who really only spoke to Zech and Corrie, the latter being one of the most reserved people that he had ever met. Perhaps because of this he felt an odd sense of kinship with the boy, whose short, rare sentences always contained a surprising bit of insight and usually cut straight to the point of things. Jaden was fine so long as Alistar was careful with his words, making sure not to say anything that might confuse or upset his brash acquaintance. It was the girls that gave him the most trouble, since he always became flustered whenever they tried to talk to him—an activity which seemed to amuse them, if their half-hidden giggles were any indication—and thus he rarely produced an intelligible response.
The most straining situation took place on a random day back in June when Helen, the taller girl with short, hay-coloured hair, had dropped back to the rear of the group as they were meandering through the market with aimless steps. Everybody had been there, including Anice, who had just emerged from the crowd holding a handful of sugar sticks which she quickly distributed to her friends with a proud smile.
“I paid this time,” she proclaimed, handing Alistar one of the snacks. “The old granny was so happy.”
He thanked her for the gift and then said, “How much did you give her?”
“A silver half-lucet,” she grinned. “I only had the one coin on me.”
Alistar hesitated over telling his cousin that she had overpaid by a substantial amount, enough to have bought countless handfuls of the sugary treats. Seeing how happy she was as she continued to hand out the sugar sticks, he decided to wait until they returned home to remind her to use her numbers the next time she bought something.
“Anne,” said Emely, honest eyes wide as she nudged her shoulder against his cousin’s. “You paid way too much!” She was holding a baby bird that she had found squirming on the side of the street, cupping it with both hands as if it were the most fragile thing in the world.
Anice’s silver eyes went wide with shock. “That granny, she tricked me…” She broke away from the group with purposeful strides, possessed by a crimson temper that matched her long, slightly curled hair.
“You better not be mean to her again!” Emely called, running after Anice. “Just politely ask for it back.”
“I know!”
“Oh, Anne,” sighed Helen, whose expression described her delight at the sweetness of the sugar stick. “This is the third time this week, isn’t it?”