Zas reached the garden. The moment he entered he sat, eyes fixed on the sheep, watching. The flock drifted around the feed pile—nosing, nibbling—unbothered by his presence. Zas leapt toward the feed and began gathering them; he moved past them with quiet patience, knowing from experience that they would not attack so long as he showed no interest.
Calmly, he corralled them into a single spot and waited slightly behind a low rise until they were all engrossed in eating. Then he crept forward on his toes, selected the smallest mature ram with careful deliberation, seized it quickly, threw it down, and drew his knife. He slit its throat with practiced precision, carried it back to the hut, laid it out, removed a piece of shoulder, minced it, and handed a portion to the old man.
The old man sighed at length, then said in a rough voice, "Very well. You may begin perception training now."
Zas felt a flicker of confusion—and readiness.
They stepped out of the hut; the ground itself seemed altered, as if the sky had redivided the world. The old man grasped a staff and struck upward. The air split above them and shadows seeped from the rifts like vapor bleeding from an open wound.
Zas recoiled, and the old man explained: "This is called perception. Specifically—spiritual perception—when the mind and body reach their utmost union. There are three types, in sum: mental, physical, and spiritual."
He continued in a calm, measured tone: "Mental perception opens you to the essence of being; it deepens your grasp of mystery. Physical perception comes when you learn the boundaries of your body—you can multiply its force, change its size, and at its extreme even shift its location, remove it, or add to it. The mental lets you command yourself and the shell around you—to slow it, speed it, or even attack the shell of another. And the spiritual… no one knows completely."
"Now—try physical perception."
Zas knew something of it. He crouched, coiled his muscles, and waited. He focused on joints, on the tendons of his calf, on the sinew of his thigh—breath, tension, release. Then he launched himself in an enormous leap—fifty meters into the sky—his body and spirit soaring for a fleeting instant.
The old man smiled. "Good. Now do that five thousand times."
"What?!" Zas barked incredulous.
"Oh, and I forgot," the old man said, and snapped his fingers. Instantly Zas felt his body grow leaden. He fell to the ground, gasping, "Ugh—I'm heavy!"
Then Zas understood the bitter truth: this training was not merely about amplifying power; it could dismantle you if you failed to master it. The old man strode away, leaving the lesson unfinished.
Zas strained to rise—his limbs clumsy and sluggish. He reflected on the matter: physical perception—multiplying effect, changing volume, removing, relocating—only comes after repetition, again and again, until focus is absolute. He recalled every defeat, every fight where he'd been bested. He remembered his clash with N… yes—that was it. He remembered his limits; he could not surpass N yet; he had not reached the threshold.
Slowly he forced himself upright, not fully standing but in a crooked, unsteady half-rise. Laughter rippled out of him—long, ugly, edged with madness. "Hahahaha… I'll tell you—I'll end you!" he roared, a name blistering from his lips: "Darvik, you son of—!"
Anger braided with fear and resolve, and the air around him answered the shout with a hollow echo.