The forest was quieter than he had imagined.No howling at night. No footsteps from wild beasts.Only the wind, the creaking of branches, and sometimes… the distant whisper of an unseen river.
Issac had left the village without warning. He hadn't stolen anything, nor fled.He had simply walked away.
He wandered for hours through the woods, with no clear direction—guided only by instinct.His black book clutched to him like a treasure. Or a burden.
He found shelter beneath a natural rock formation, hidden between two wooded hills.A crude refuge, but dry, protected from the wind and prying eyes.There, he built a small camp with whatever he could find.Nothing noble. Nothing heroic.Just a discreet fire, a burlap sack, a few dried roots… and the book.
The first days passed in constant fatigue.He was cold. He was hungry.And above all… he was afraid.
Not of the forest. Not of the beasts.But of what he had begun to discover.
Every morning, he sat cross-legged at the entrance of his hideout.He slowly opened the black book and read the first chapters out loud.Again. And again.
"The body is a channel, not a reservoir.Forcing Energy breaks the vessel.Listening to Energy expands the world."
Phrases that seemed absurd at first.But the more he read them, the more he felt they touched something true, something deep.
He tried meditation. As described in the manual.Slow breathing.Imagining the inside of his body as a river.Listening to his thoughts… and letting them pass.
But his mind refused silence.He thought of the merchant's slap.Of the prince's gaze.Of the princess's gentle smile.He thought of his parents… or at least of their absence.
His thoughts became noise.And the noise smothered everything.
There was nothing to control.He was supposed to feel.But he couldn't.
First month.No progress.Not the slightest vibration. No warmth. No breath.
The book spoke of "natural flows," "points of opening," "unconscious mental barriers."
He tried everything. Postures. Fasting. Silence.Nothing worked.
He began to doubt.Was he different?Broken?Too weak to understand?
Every night, he fell asleep frustrated, stomach empty, heart clenched.And yet, every morning, he tried again.Not out of hope.But because it was the only thing he had.
Second month.One misty morning, he tried a new exercise.
The book spoke of "anchoring through the senses."
He sat on a bare rock, feet in the damp earth.He closed his eyes.And focused not on his body…But on the world.
The rustling of leaves.The distant creak of a branch.The cold wind on his cheek.
And then… something vibrated.A tiny pulse.Like a bubble popping in the dark.
He opened his eyes.But everything looked the same.And yet… he had felt something.
From that day on, he repeated the ritual.Always in the same place.Always at the same time.
One pulse. Then two.Then a trickle.A thread of warmth slowly rising along his arm.
He didn't control it.But he could feel it.
It wasn't stable.He could go three days without feeling anything.And sometimes, a single strong thought — anger, fear — was enough to erase everything.
But he was progressing.Centimeter by centimeter.
Third month.
His body began to change.Not physically.But in sensation.
He felt his breath down to his spine.His heartbeat became sharper.His stomach, once heavy, felt lighter when he entered a focused state.
He tried to imitate the exercises in the book.Channeling a thread of Energy from his belly to his hand.Then to his leg.Then to his neck.
Sometimes, it worked.It felt like his skin was vibrating.As if an invisible force flowed gently beneath his flesh.
But it never lasted.As soon as he thought about it too much… it stopped.
He understood that Energy did not obey commands.It came when he ceased to exist.When the world mattered more than his ego.
He began to write.On an old piece of cloth.
Phrases, sensations, experiences."Pain in the belly = bad posture?""Felt a vibration when I listened to the birds.""Cold makes me more sensitive.""Silence is an ocean."
That month, he had a strange dream.He was lying in the forest.The book floated above him.Thousands of letters spilled from it, circling around his body.
A voice, soft and familiar, whispered:"You are not reading the book.The book is reading you."
He woke up drenched in sweat.The book was still there, closed, beside him.But one of its pages had been turned.He was certain of it.