The cellar had become a sanctuary — not to escape the world, but to face it more fully. It was there, between cold walls and the scent of dust and dry wood, that Caelum came to probe what his body had become. He didn't settle there to meditate, but to push the breath that now governed his training — like an invisible metronome between mastery and collapse.
The ritual had rooted itself in him: Place the hands. Set the pelvis. Align the spine. Close the eyes. Inhale deeply. Hold. Exhale slowly. Maintain the emptiness. And repeat.
Once, his threshold had been clear. One hour — not a minute more. After that, the first internal tremors would appear: legs locking up, heart pounding against his ribs, every muscle fiber screaming its limit.
But that morning, he had already completed twelve minutes of controlled breathing. And yet, a new tension stirred within him — different, more stable. He felt… capable. Not of doing more through sheer will, but because something had changed — quietly, deeply. His muscles, his tendons, his posture — everything felt more solid, more grounded. The system was no longer functioning, and yet his body held better than before.
He chose to continue — not to mechanically complete the remaining forty-eight minutes, but to explore this new state. To see how far he could go without guidance, without a visible limit.
Time gradually lost its meaning. As the breathing cycles flowed, bodily awareness took over. Each inhale seemed to nourish his muscles. Each hold sharpened his focus.
He passed the thirty-minute mark with ease. At forty, fatigue was present — but controlled. Far from overwhelming, it formed a steady resistance he could lean into.
Fifty minutes. Fifty-five.
When he reached the full hour, he waited for the break — the signal that his body would give out. But it never came. His rhythm remained fluid, and even as heat rose in his limbs, it was no longer a barrier. Just another variable to absorb.
At one hour and ten minutes, he felt a slight pull in his lower back, his legs beginning to tremble under the tension — but he held. At one hour and twenty, a dense sweat coated his torso, droplets sliding down his ribs, tracing warm paths across his skin.
He wasn't resisting the effort — he was absorbing it, integrating it, digesting it.
When he finally broke the posture at one hour and thirty, it wasn't from exhaustion. It was a choice.
He opened his eyes slowly. The light in the cellar had barely changed. He took one last breath — deeper than the others — and remained there, motionless, savoring the silence.
Over the course of those seventy-eight minutes of training, he had completed six breathing cycles. He sensed that it wasn't necessary to force his body to hold the full thirty minutes required to push the breathing technique to the next level. Each of the six cycles had been evenly distributed across thirteen minutes of training.
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He stepped out of the cellar a few minutes later, his muscles still numb from the effort, yet charged with a strange energy. He didn't need rest — he needed movement. Breath was only half the path. The other half was steel. Balance, precision, reading the flow of motion — all things he had never truly learned. He was still just an apprentice, compensating for his lack of experience with newfound physical aptitude.
He crossed the lower courtyard in silence, passed the stable — empty at this hour — and reached the outdoor training space behind the forge, where the guards rarely ventured. He drew his training sword, gave it a few spins to loosen his joints, then took his stance. No opponent. Just him, his body, and the memory of forms.
He began slowly, with simple, methodical strikes, chaining together postures and transitions learned in the module. Each movement was paired with precise breathing. He could feel the breath supporting the motion, feeding his muscles at the exact moment of exertion. Everything felt more fluid than before. His blade sliced through the air with newfound sharpness, his footing more stable, more supple. He wasn't forcing anything. He was accompanying the motion, his new physical abilities allowing him to execute movements more easily than before.
He was focused, immersed in a series of sequences, when the distinct crunch of a boot on gravel made him stop. He turned, weapon lowered, ready to sheath it.
A man was approaching. Tall, broad, his chest covered by an old leather brigandine. A short sword hung at his thigh.
Caelum recognized him instantly: Jorund, a veteran of the castle. A man without noble blood, who had replaced it with steel and years of service.
"You handle a training sword well," Jorund said, stopping just at the edge of the training circle. "But real steel doesn't forgive as easily."
Caelum remained silent, weapon still lowered.
Jorund raised an eyebrow slightly. "May I?"
A nod was enough.
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Caelum took his stance, focused, sword raised to shoulder height. He knew this wasn't a game. But he didn't yet grasp just how instructive — and brutal — this fight would be.
Jorund drew his blade slowly. Not for dramatic effect. Simply because he wasn't in a hurry. He had nothing to prove. His steps anchored into the ground with the assurance of someone who had survived duels where one didn't get back up.
The attack came without warning. No ceremonial stance, no prior glance. Just movement. Direct. A perfectly measured slash that forced Caelum to react.
He parried as best he could, caught off guard by the speed of the strike. The impact rang through his arm like a hammer blow. Jorund didn't slow down. He stepped forward, feinted at the thigh, then struck high. Caelum stumbled back, poorly positioned, nearly tripping. His balance was shaky, his footing uncertain. He tried to counterattack, but his strike lacked precision, and Jorund deflected it with unsettling ease.
Then came the first real blow. A sharp, low kick directly to the inside of his front leg. Caelum staggered, pain shooting up to his hip. Before he could correct his stance, Jorund followed up with a diagonal strike that stopped a breath away from his flank.
Caelum understood then. This wasn't a training duel. It was a lesson.
He attempted a sequence: lunge, retreat, then a lateral strike. But his opponent suddenly switched his sword hand mid-exchange — a maneuver so fluid it caught him completely off guard. The next strike came from the left — a zone Caelum still struggled to cover. He raised his weapon too late, and the flat of the blade struck his shoulder.
Jorund stepped back. Not out of breath. Not agitated. Just focused.
"You're too high on your legs. And you're watching your sword. Bad habit."
Caelum winced, stepped back, forced himself to breathe. He tried to refocus. It felt like he was fighting a sea he didn't understand. Every attempt to structure his attack was immediately bypassed — as if Jorund read his body before it moved.
The guard came at him again, fast — almost playfully this time. He struck high, then low, then returned to center with a spinning slash that forced Caelum to cross his arms to block. The impact knocked the breath from him. A second later, Jorund stepped half a pace into his guard and slammed a shoulder into his chest. Caelum lost his air, stumbled back two steps, nearly collapsing.
His whole body screamed. He realized that his speed, strength, endurance — none of it mattered here. Not until he knew where to strike, when, and above all, why.
Still, he tried to continue. Out of pride. He launched a direct attack, this time more aggressive. Jorund stepped back, circled him, and at the precise moment Caelum inhaled for another strike, he extended his leg across and swept the young man to the ground with a perfectly placed trip.
The impact with the packed earth knocked the wind out of him. He tried to rise — but Jorund's blade was already resting gently against his throat.
Not a drop of sweat on the veteran's brow. Just a neutral gaze.
"Done."
He sheathed his sword, then stepped closer. His voice was calm, without irony.
"You move fast. But without intention. You attack just to attack. And most of all, you still believe a fight is won with your arms."
He extended a hand to Caelum, who took it silently.
"You'll learn. You have the potential. But remember this: true strength isn't your breath. It's what you do with the smallest opening. And right now… you don't even see them."
Then he walked away, his steps already turned toward another task, as if nothing that had just happened mattered to him.
Caelum remained there for a moment, breath short, chest heavy, back aching. He had lost. Completely. Not a single hit. Not a single equal exchange.
And yet… it was the first time he understood so clearly just how much he could still grow.