Brian's mouth curved into a subtle, eager smile as the fortified walls of the base emerged. The towering wooden barricade, crowned with sharp spikes, loomed above them.

The snow covered the distant clamor of activity, which reached their ears. The base's gates creaked open, unveiling a bustling yet orderly scene inside.

The scent of burning wood and the faint aroma of stew drifted towards them from the central house, its windows glowing with warm, inviting light. As they entered the compound, Leif's eyes darted around, always on the lookout for herbs in the most unlikely places.

The path to the central house was lined with makeshift traps, cleverly hidden beneath the snow. The wooden walkways creaked under their weight, guiding them past supply sheds stacked high with provisions and small barracks where cadets huddled around crackling fires.

As they neared the house, the imposing structure appeared to grow taller, its slanted, snow-dusted roofs and narrow, amber-lit windows creating an almost out-of-place feel.

“Off to see the chef,” Brian said with a wink. “Catch you later, zero-two.”

"Oi! Zero-six!" Leif waved energetically. "Don't forget to stop by my tent later! I've got some fresh garlic that'll knock your socks off!"

Brian entered the kitchen, a chaotic blend of utility and disorder. It was more a cluttered display of tools and ingredients than a proper culinary workspace. Pots and pans of various sizes hung haphazardly from the ceiling, clanging together with each gust of wind that seeped through the cracks in the wooden walls.

“Hey there, Chef!” Brian grinned as he plopped the boar onto the table. “Brought you a little something for lunch.”

The chef, a formidable figure whose body was a blend of fat and muscle, turned to face him. His broad shoulders and thick arms contrasted sharply with his round belly, and his bushy mustache framed an expression of sternness and warmth.

“Ah, Brian,” the chef greeted with a deep rumble. “Another fine catch. Let’s see what you’ve got here.”

Brian watched as the chef expertly examined the boar, his thick fingers prodding the flesh with practiced ease. Nodding approvingly, the chef turned his sharp gaze back to Brian.

“Good work,” he said. “This will make a fine meal for the camp.”

Brian nodded, his chest swelling with pride. “Thanks, Chef. I hope this keeps everyone’s spirits high and bellies full.”

The chef grunted, already busy with preparations. “It will. Now go!.”

Brian stepped back, taking one last look at the chaotic kitchen before leaving.

‘Yep,’ Brian mused confidently, ‘today is practical fight day.’

He hurried to the left corner of the base, where an opening was set. There, he found his fellow cadets. Though few in number, six cadets were considerable given the rarity of acceptance into the unit.

Aside from the cadets, there were some novice soldiers chosen to serve at the location and help maintain the place.

“Oh! Snagged yerself a real gem there, zero-six?”

Anna had an arresting presence, with vibrant, shoulder-length auburn hair framing her face in soft waves. Her most striking feature was her heterochromatic eyes — one vivid green, the other fiery orange — sparkling with curiosity.

“A real beast of a catch, zero-one,” Brian nodded vigorously.

Brian felt a heavy hand on his shoulder. It was Bjorn, towering and robust for his fifteen years. His well-defined muscles had earned him the nickname “Giant.” Bald with dark brown skin and a thin, scattered beard, Bjorn was a formidable presence.

“Heya, zero-three,” Brian winced slightly, rubbing his sore shoulder.

“Good,” Bjorn grunted in acknowledgment.

He heard a snort. Arryin. Brian didn’t know how to feel or act around him. Since the day that the old man was taken by the church, Arryin held an irreconcilable grudge against Brian and Asdras. To him, they were to blame.

The old military man felt bad for Arryin when he learned that the storyteller was helping his family, so he offered him a chance to join the military. Arryin seized the opportunity and requested to be sent to the unit where he could earn more quickly.

"Quit your whining, zero-four," Zara remarked.

"Keep yapping, witch. See where it gets you," Arryin chuckled darkly.

At sixteen, Zara emanated an aura of icy pragmatism and unyielding resolve. Her sleek, dark hair framed a face of pale, brownish skin, enhancing the stark contrast with her cold, dark eyes that held an almost mesmerizing intensity.

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Zara didn’t reply, but her smile sent shivers down everyone’s spine. There were no official leaders among the cadets, but if there were, Zara was the most likely candidate.

"Ahoy, my cherished comrades," Leif announced with open arms as he strolled into the clearing.

Despite Zara’s intimidating demeanor, it was Leif they truly feared. When they saw the subtenant, they sighed in relief, as even Leif didn’t dare talk about herbs in his presence.

"Quiet!" the subtenant barked.

The subtenant, a middle-aged man with thin, wispy hair barely covering his scalp, had a perpetually stern expression. His lean, almost gaunt frame and sharp, always narrowed eyes conveyed constant annoyance, as if the world persistently failed to meet his exacting standards.

"Today’s exercise is about meaning," he announced, stepping forward and scanning the group with a critical gaze. "Meaning is the basic concept. Concepts are how you define and understand your skills, whether in martial arts or ars energy."

“You,” the subtenant pointed at Brian, "step up and try to hit me!"

“Yes, sir, yes!”

Brian launched himself forward, his fingers rigid like iron spikes aimed at the subtenant’s eyes. Anticipating the attack, the subtenant pivoted with the grace of a dancer, his leg whipping out to slam into Brian’s side. The impact sent Brian sprawling, and the breath knocked from his lungs as he hit the ground hard.

"Meaning," he continued, "is the thought and action behind doing something. If your intention is to attack my eyes, then your body should follow suit. But even then, it lacks true meaning unless you have mindfulness of your intention."

Determined, Brian pushed himself up and resumed his stance. He darted in again, this time his eyes flickering with a calculated feint. His leg snapped out in a side kick, but it was a trick.

The subtenant shifted, and Brian spun on his heel, sweeping low. The ground felt solid under his pivot, but his leg sliced through empty air. Before he could recover, the subtenant’s hands clamped around his ankle, using Brian’s own momentum to hurl him down.

"If you plan to sweep my leg but fake a side kick," he paused as Brian struggled back to his feet, "you need an underlying meaning for that action. Though it's considered the simplest concept in theory because it's foundational, it's actually the hardest because it forms the basis for mastering martial arts and ars energy."

Brian felt his blood surge like a river breaking through a dam, a fiery warmth spreading through his veins as the air coiled around him, whispering the secrets of the wind.

He dashed towards the left side of the subtenant, waiting to catch him off guard. Rolling once to the right and twice to the left, he used his hands to propel himself from the ground with a double kick towards the subtenant’s back.

Smiling, the subtenant used his right elbow to parry the upper leg just before it touched his back. With inhuman speed, he rotated, anchored his elbow on Brian’s heel, and deflected Brian, sending him sprawling into the snow.

“It’s like this with ars energy too,” he began, his voice gravelly monotone. “Your blood acts as the catalyst for ars energy. So, you need to be smart and safe about it. Think of it this way: if you want to deliver a powerful kick using your power, you’ve got to be mindful of your body, blood, and mind.”

Brian’s body ached from the repeated falls, but his determination only grew. He pushed himself up, his breath visible in the cold air.

The subtenant’s gaze never wavered as he watched the cadet. “Again, zero-six. Show me you understand.”

Brian nodded, focusing his energy. He felt the blood rushing through his veins and the power of the wind gathering around him. This time, he envisioned not just the action but the meaning behind it.

He lunged forward, feinting another kick. Instead of following through, he used the momentum to spin and create a gust of wind that propelled him upward. With a sharp twist, he aimed a descending strike at the subtenant.

The subtenant’s eyes widened slightly, a flicker of approval in their depths. He moved to block, but this time Brian anticipated the counter. Using the wind, Brian adjusted mid-air, twisting away from the subtenant’s grasp and landing behind him.

Quickly, Brian aimed a strike at the subtenant’s back. The subtenant, caught off guard, deflected the blow but stumbled slightly, regaining his footing with a scowl.

“Better,” he acknowledged after observing the cadet's attempt and brushing off some snow from his coat. “You’re starting to grasp the concept of meaning. Hold on to that feeling and keep refining it.”

“Yes, sir, yes!” Brian nodded, breathing heavily but feeling a sense of accomplishment.

“Back to fighting,” he said with a curt nod for Brian to resume his stance. “Martial arts are like a dance of intention — every attack, defense, and stance carries meaning. At first, it might seem faint and hollow because it’s driven by basic survival instincts or raw emotions.”

He paused briefly before continuing in his stern tone. “But remember this: it goes beyond just defeating an enemy or protecting yourself. It’s a reflection of who you are and your path in life. It demands self-discipline and an understanding of your own strengths and weaknesses.”

The group watched intently as the subtenant’s fingers deftly slipped into his pocket, retrieving a gleaming knife. The blade caught the light, casting a brief, blinding reflection.

With deliberate precision, he extended his left arm, the fabric of his uniform rustling softly as he pulled up his sleeve, exposing a forearm marked only by veins and sinew.

He slashed at his arm with all his might, the knife whistling through the air. The force behind the movement was palpable, yet his skin remained untouched, unmarred by the blade's edge.

“For example,” he said as he demonstrated with precise movements, “if I intend to slash at myself but not harm myself, I can use all my strength without drawing blood.”

He strode towards a log randomly lying on the ground, its rough bark jagged and weathered. Squatting beside it, he moved with a fluid grace, the knife’s tip barely caressing the wood's surface.

A subtle scratch was all it took — an eerie, high-pitched sound echoed as the log split violently, splintering into countless fragments that flew through the air like shrapnel.

“And if I mean to destroy,” he stood up straight again. “I can do so with just a whisper of strength because I’m channeling my ars energy into my target.”

“Remember,” he emphasized sharply, “your intentions must align with your actions; your actions must carry meaning. Whether in martial arts or using ars energy — it’s the intention behind them that determines the outcome.”

With that final note, the subtenant clapped his hands together sharply to signal the end of class. “It’s lunchtime now,” he announced briskly. “And next week we’ll cover about Eruption. If anyone slacks off until then — well — you’ll learn firsthand what ‘meaning’ means in terms of discipline.”