Silence was no longer simply present — it weighed. Thick. Tangible. As if it were waiting for something. Caelum remained seated for a long time, fingers splayed across the cold stone. Each breath brought back a fragment of control, but no certainty. He didn't feel entirely real. His skin seemed too tight, stretched over muscles that hadn't grown… but had been grafted in their place.
He stood up. Slowly. Carefully. He tested his footing. No collapse. No dizziness.
He rolled one shoulder. Then the other. Tilted his neck. Stretched his spine. Everything responded. Too well.
Movement was no longer just his own. It was smoother, denser — as if he wore an invisible armor, woven beneath the skin, guiding each gesture in silence.
Yet, in the darkness of night, he couldn't observe the changes in his body. He could only feel them — the tightness of his clothes suggested he had grown, and muscles seemed to have appeared where none had been before.
He couldn't see himself, but something could. From within. Had Caelum been able to perceive it, he might have slipped into madness.
In a forgotten corner of his mind, a silhouette stirred.
A nameless being, humanoid in shape, but with flesh covered in eyes — a hundred, perhaps. Some blinked slowly, others remained fixed, frozen in supernatural attention. The thing had just awakened.
"…An influx of energy…" it murmured. But before it could form a coherent thought about the source or location of that surge… it collapsed into an even deeper sleep. And forgot.
Even though Caelum wanted to test his new form, he had absolutely no mental strength left to do so. Even if his mind was deliberately hiding it from him, it seemed his experience with the system had cast a shadow over his psyche — one that might never lift.
He chose to lie down in his bed. And fell asleep instantly.
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In the morning, he hurried to undress so he could examine the changes.
His gaze caught the polished bronze hanging near the door. He stepped closer. And there, he saw.
The reflection didn't lie. His body had changed. He had grown — a solid ten centimeters, at least. His shoulders had broadened, his arms sculpted by muscles he'd never possessed. His complexion, once pale and sickly, now appeared vibrant — almost too healthy to be real. Even his features had sharpened, as if redrawn by an unfamiliar hand.
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He stepped toward his bed, grabbed his page's shirt and trousers… and paused. He raised an eyebrow.
The shirt, once too loose, now barely covered his torso. The fabric pinched under his arms. The sleeves stopped at his forearms. As for the trousers, they barely reached past his knees, stretched tight around his thighs.
He sighed.
Even his boots seemed too small. He managed to squeeze into them, but his toes were cramped. He couldn't go out like this. Not without drawing attention.
Caelum glanced through the arrow slit. Dawn hadn't yet broken. He still had a bit of time.
He left his room, walked along the still-sleeping corridors, and headed toward the service wing. He knew where to find the maids at this hour — between the laundry and the storerooms.
He didn't have to search long. A young woman was pulling a basket of clean linens on a squeaky cart. She looked up as she heard him approach. Her gaze lingered on him, then narrowed slightly.
"You're… new?" she asked, uncertain.
"No. Just… I think I finally grew," Caelum replied with a tired smile.
She stared at him a moment longer, not hostile, but with that polite curiosity and unease reserved for strangers. He saw her searching her memory. In vain.
She nodded slowly. "Wait here."
She disappeared for a moment, then returned with a full set of clothes, wider cut. "This should fit. Try not to tear them — they're nearly new."
"Thank you."
He took the clothes and left without another word. She watched him go, as if something didn't quite add up — but asked no further questions.
He returned to his room and got ready for the training grounds.
He dressed carefully. The new outfit, looser, fit him almost perfectly. Almost. The fabric slid against his skin, but with every movement, he felt the strength within him demanding space. He added an extra layer for caution: an old brown linen tunic, wider, duller. It masked his shoulders, his arms, his chest.
A plain silhouette.
Ordinary.
Nothing worth noticing.
He stepped out.
The corridors were livelier now. A few squires bustled near the stairs. Two servants passed by with buckets, chatting in hushed tones. A sergeant raised his voice at a sleepy page.
Caelum headed toward the courtyard, heart pounding for no clear reason.
But just as he reached the corner of the main hallway, a guard called out:
"Hey, you. Page. No need to rush. Training's been postponed."
Caelum stopped, confused.
"Sorry?"
An officer was approaching from the great gate of the inner courtyard. His tabard bore the seal of the castle garrison. He spoke bluntly, his voice cold and sharp as a well-honed blade.
"Captain Barion left on a mission with six men. Royal order. Return date unknown. Training is suspended until further notice. Regular guards are to increase patrols. Knight Barion informed me that pages and squires are to train on their own."
A murmur spread among the gathered youths. Some wore relieved smiles. Others, already armed, grumbled in frustration. The frustration was even greater among the procrastinating pages and squires who couldn't enjoy this unexpected rest.
Caelum remained impassive. But inside, a tension eased.
No training. No trial. No need, today, to hide what he didn't yet understand himself.
He bowed, turned calmly, and left the courtyard.
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On the way back, his thoughts unfolded with cold clarity.
If he had moved the way he did in the simulation… he would have been exposed.
Pages didn't strike that fast. Didn't move with such stability. Even a seasoned knight would have raised an eyebrow at such apparent mastery. And in this world… anomalies like that were not well received.
Caelum remembered.
People here didn't understand sudden progress. They feared what they couldn't explain. Too fast. Too strong. Too different — and you became suspicious. Even dangerous.
But thanks to Barion, he knew one thing:
The path of the knight could only be walked with talent. That talent was impossible to quantify — children born of two great knights might never reach the rank of pseudo-knight, while a commoner with no noble lineage could rise to the pinnacle of knighthood.
Barion had even told him: "Among the crowd of knights, some possess the ability to master the breathing techniques extremely quickly, even with underdeveloped muscles. Others can increase their physical capacity rapidly through training, even if they can't properly execute the breathing forms. Legend says the crown prince awakened his life seed without ever training."
Caelum held onto that phrase.
If Barion took time to return, then he could train alone. Refine his movements. Adapt his strength. And when the time came to reveal it, his progress would seem… plausible.
He could present himself as someone with average understanding of the training forms, but with excellent physical potential.
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Arriving near the old cellar beneath the staircase — the one no one used because of the smell — Caelum checked his surroundings. No one. Not a sound. He pushed the door open, stepped inside, and closed it behind him.
The air was musty, but calm. The floor was stable. He had space. It was enough.
Form I.
The posture unfolded almost on its own. His body recognized it. More than that — it settled into it with unsettling ease. Every sequence, every breath movement aligned without friction. It was the foundation. The one he had drilled for years in the simulation.
He recalled the exercises he'd practiced just the day before. The form was imperfect, but fortunately, his new physical abilities compensated for the gaps. Gradually, he adjusted his technique and felt a change in his muscles. Suddenly, they hurt much less.
"I see… Even with my enhanced body, if I don't learn to perform the movements properly, it's useless. I'll never reach the next stage. I think in the simulation, my double had the mastery but not the strength — and now, I'm the opposite," he thought.
When he opened his eyes again, twenty minutes had passed. He hadn't flinched. Not a single mistake.
Form I: mastered.
But he didn't stop. He closed his eyes again. And moved on to
Form II – The Silvatic Bridge.
It was immediately different.
He knew what he had to do. In theory. But in reality… he had never practiced it.
The second form wasn't an extension of the first. It was a rupture. Where Form I was rooted in stability, Form II demanded fluidity in effort. It mimicked a bridge suspended between two cliffs — taut, unstable, yet capable of bearing the weight of the world.
The body had to adopt a low, mobile posture:
• Legs bent outward, heels grounded, knees relaxed.
• Pelvis slightly tilted forward, as if suspended by an invisible thread.
• Arms extended diagonally, palms open, fingers spread — not to strike, but to receive.
• The spine had to remain straight, yet alive, able to ripple with the breath.
Breathing became more complex:
• Long inhalations through the nose, held for three seconds in the lower abdomen.
• Controlled exhalations, released silently through the mouth.
• Each cycle had to accompany a micro-adjustment of the center of gravity.
Form II didn't seek brute strength. It sought balance within imbalance. It trained the body to move like a drawn bow — ready to bend, never to break.
Holding this form meant learning to dance with fatigue. To listen to subtle signals. To survive in instability.
He inhaled. Took position. And… everything collapsed.
His weight was misaligned. His breath too high. His arms out of sync with the axis of his ribcage. A silent disaster.
He tried again.
Once. Twice. Five times. Sweat was already pouring. His forehead throbbed. His muscles burned more than they should.
Each attempt ended too soon. Each mistake sent him crashing to the ground.
He rose again, hands clenched on his knees.
He had to hold for thirty minutes.
Thirty minutes for the body to assimilate. Thirty minutes for Form II to become natural. But he couldn't last more than a few minutes without breaking posture.
It was only on the sixth attempt that he finally stabilized the rhythm. His breath anchored. His movements slowed. His mind emptied.
He no longer thought. He felt. Followed internal tensions. Pressure points. Releases.
The minutes ticked by.
Ten.
Then fifteen.
At the sixteenth, his legs began to tremble. At the seventeenth, his back arched slightly — a fatal misalignment. His breath broke.
He collapsed to his knees, soaked, drained, breathless.
He had failed.
But he had progressed.