[SYSTEM NOTIFICATION]
Technique: Sylvanic Breathing
➜ Level increased: 1
➜ Current progress: 56.67%
➜ Mastered forms: I
➜ Form II – progress: 17 minutes out of 30 required
"So the system recognizes tangible progress…" he thought, contemplative. "But why no sword-related skill? And why does my archery mastery remain frozen, despite all the training?"
He frowned.
He had fired dozens of arrows, held postures, endured blows. Yet no notification. No improvement. Nothing.
Maybe something was missing. Maybe the system was waiting for a specific threshold — or intent.
But the moment that thought took shape, a sharp click echoed in his mind. Not in his ears — in his skull, somewhere between the temples. Clean. Mechanical. Like the unlocking of a mechanism he hadn't known existed.
[…Analyzing host's request…]
[…Request executable with host's energy…]
[…Initiating procedure…]
He didn't have time to react.
An invisible pressure slammed down on him — brutal, total. His knees buckled. He collapsed onto the stone floor, gasping, trembling. His body had gone out like a torch deprived of air.
No pain. No scream.
Just… nothing.
A void.
He tried to move his fingers. Nothing. Even his tongue felt heavy in his mouth. His heart still beat, but at a strange rhythm — slowed, like under poison or a powerful anesthetic.
And what disturbed him most was the strangeness of this weakness.
He had just left the posture of Form II. His body should still be coursing with residual warmth, with regenerative breath. But now… he felt hollow. Drained from within.
[…Consciousness state: stable]
[…Partial neural connection established]
[…Analyzing motor circuits linked to identified disciplines…]
The text floated before his half-closed eyes, a pale blue glow at the edge of unconsciousness.
Suddenly, in Caelum's mind, hundreds of memories of sword and archery training from the past weeks surfaced — vivid, conscious.
[…Memory analysis in progress…]
[…System detects host cannot sustain energy consumption… System will shut down all other functions to prevent exhaustion…]
[…System will be unavailable for one full day…]
[…Do you confirm this choice…]
[…System detects host is unable to make a choice… System has chosen on his behalf…]
[…Goodbye…]
The pale blue screen vanished in a mental whisper, like a candle snuffed out in a lightless room.
And then — nothing.
No notifications. No warmth. No system.
Just a body, emptied. Abandoned to gravity and silence.
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Caelum remained on the ground, powerless, without any sense of time. The cold stone beneath his cheek felt distant, almost unfamiliar. His thoughts no longer formed sentences — only fragments. Sounds. Heartbeats.
He had no idea how much time had passed. An hour? Three? An eternity shattered into indistinct moments.
His consciousness drifted somewhere between wakefulness and unconsciousness. And yet, he remained. Lucid. Far from sleep, but unable to rise.
A small part of him was afraid. Another… simply observed.
The system had sacrificed all its functions to perform a single analysis. It had literally shut him down. And now, he was nothing more than a sleeping body, guided by nothing but breath.
And even that felt fragile.
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Later — much later — he felt his fingers twitch slightly. His thumb scraped against the stone. His throat, dry, let out a barely audible rasp. He managed to roll onto his back, slowly, very slowly, like a wounded animal crawling out of a trap.
His breathing was uneven. But it was returning.
He opened his eyes. The cellar ceiling greeted him like a cloudless sky — empty of meaning. No interface. No data. Even his status display, usually so discreet, had vanished.
The silence was absolute.
He was… alone. Truly alone.
It stirred a feeling of fear within him. He realized that if the system disappeared, he would remain nothing more than an ordinary person — someone who could die on any street corner.
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It took him nearly an hour to stand up. Every movement was slow, deliberate. Even lifting his arm required immense effort. He had to lean against the wall, climb onto his knees, and then, in a final burst, stand upright, his back pressed to the stone.
He no longer felt any sense of control. Everything in his body seemed dormant, disconnected from himself.
And he understood one thing, with absolute clarity:
The system would never truly belong to him.
It was a tool, not a helping hand. A cold, logical force, without mercy. Capable of lifting him up — but also of shutting him down if he pushed too far.
He had asked for a truth. The system had shown him the price of the answer.
A feeling of mistrust was beginning to grow within him. It seemed the system could have full access to his life. That could be dangerous, since he didn't know where the system came from.
In his past life, he had read many stories like this. And beyond that, he had witnessed the strength of a knight — and he had no doubt that other forms of power must exist in this world.
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He returned to his room with slow steps, trembling muscles, and clouded senses. No one crossed his path. The castle was still asleep.
Upon entering, he didn't even try to change. He collapsed onto his straw mattress, limbs numb, breath shallow.
One final whisper passed through his mind, like a forgotten echo: "A day without the system. A day laid bare."
Then he sank into a deep sleep. Deep… but dreamless.
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He woke up a few hours later, his body still numb, but his mind clearer. He could feel that both body and spirit had recovered a bit of energy.
He decided to return to the cellar to try and awaken his body using the breathing technique. He wanted to rely on the flow of heat generated by the practice to soothe his aching muscles.
He walked slowly, cautiously, careful not to push himself. Each step reminded him that his balance was still fragile. The system remained silent — no notifications, no presence. But he didn't need it to breathe. Not today.
The cellar was empty, quiet. The air was slightly more humid than the day before, but still calm. He closed the door behind him, removed his tunic, and settled in the center of the room — feet apart, back straight, arms relaxed.
He inhaled slowly. Then exhaled, deeply. And Form I settled naturally into place.
The movement was less fluid than usual. His body lacked responsiveness, his ribcage felt compressed, and his shoulders pulled with each contraction. But he continued.
A second breath. Then another.
Gradually, the warmth returned. Faint. Unstable. But real. He felt it coursing through his body via his bloodstream. Every place the heat passed through diminished it, but he could feel his cells crying out with joy.
His mind grew clearer with each breathing cycle. He felt his blood circulate faster. The painful tension released in small waves. A drop of sweat slid from his temple to his jaw.
He remained like that for long minutes.
Then, naturally, without seeking the limit, he shifted into Form II.
Legs bent. Pelvis tilted. Arms raised, palms open. He adopted the suspended posture — the bow drawn without an arrow, breath held in tension.
The first few minutes were brutal.
His legs were already trembling. His arms refused to stay steady. His breath broke at times, and he had to return to focus again and again. But he held on.
Seven minutes. Ten. Eleven.
He felt the absence of the system, yes. Like a missing eye at his back. Like a voice that would normally whisper: adjust your stance… exhale now… ease the tension here.
But today, that voice was his own.
At the twelfth minute, his vision blurred slightly. He didn't try to go further.
He broke the posture calmly, without collapsing.
And this time… he smiled.
No performance. No level gained.
But a victory.