The metal had left his throat, but the humiliation remained lodged deep.
Caelum sat in the dust, breath shallow, arms stretched behind him to support an aching back. In front of him, Jorund calmly sheathed his sword, as serene as a man who had simply finished his patrol. There was no mockery in his movements, no condescension — and that, perhaps, struck Caelum the most. The veteran hadn't come to test him. He had come to show him.
As Jorund prepared to turn away, Caelum slowly straightened, still trembling, and asked — his voice steadier than he'd expected:
"Was that… what you wanted to show me?"
The guard stopped, arms crossed.
"It wasn't about showing you anything. It was so you'd feel it. A strike isn't something you analyze. It's something you live. You could spend a hundred days reading a manual — you'd still never understand what your body does under pressure."
He stepped closer, his shadow half-covering Caelum's tired figure.
"You've got solid footing. You breathe better than some soldiers. But you haven't learned to see yet. As long as you follow the other man's sword instead of reading his hips, his shoulders, his eyes… you'll always be behind."
Caelum lowered his gaze for a moment, trying to contain his frustration. Not at Jorund. At himself.
"I can learn. I want to learn."
A silence settled. Then Jorund nodded slowly.
"Then start by watching. Always watch. Even when you're not fighting. People betray their intentions everywhere — in their hands, in their posture, in their breath. If you can see it before it happens, you've already won half the fight."
He turned to leave, but Caelum called out one last time.
"Could you… come back? Correct me? Just a little?"
A faint smile tugged at the corner of the guard's mouth.
"I'm on duty through the night. And the nights after. But I pass through here sometimes, when the dawn is clear. If you're here… maybe I'll stay a few minutes."
And with no further promise, he walked off toward the inner courtyard, his silhouette upright, fading into the waning light.
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Caelum remained alone for a while, legs folded beneath him, palms flat against the cool earth of the courtyard. The pulsing in his arms had calmed, but not the pounding in his head. Every exchange with Jorund replayed in a loop — the mistakes, the missed openings, the veteran's cruel precision. He had been laid bare — not just in technique, but in his very understanding of combat.
And yet, he felt more grounded than before.
Because this time, he knew where he stood. He had a starting point. A reference. Jorund wasn't a teacher in the formal sense, but he was a presence — a hard line against which Caelum could measure himself. He wouldn't be there every day, or even every week, but he existed. And that was enough.
Then a thought took hold: Since he had found a guide for the sword, he had to become autonomous in everything else. He didn't want to depend on anyone to progress in all domains. He wanted to advance on multiple fronts. And if his swordsmanship would be corrected, then archery would be cultivated in solitude.
His body cried out for rest. His shoulders were heavy, wrists still numb from violent blocks. He felt a stiffness in his left flank, where Jorund's last strike had nearly split his ribs. But the energy — it boiled. It surged through his limbs like a nervous current that refused to fade. He wouldn't sleep. Not yet.
He placed his sword back on the rack in the courtyard, then walked slowly toward the rear of the estate. He knew the place well now: an old, makeshift archery range, half-abandoned. Rough canvas targets, warped by weather, nailed to a dark palisade. The ground was uneven, scattered with sand and wild grass, but sufficient for rudimentary training.
He crouched before the rack, examined the available bows. He chose a small, simple one, made of pale wood. The shortbow didn't offer the power of a war longbow, but it was more manageable — ideal for learning to feel, to correct gestures before learning to pierce armor. The string creaked as he drew it for the first time — coarse and stiff, but still solid. He checked the curvature of the limbs, tested the tension. It would do.
The arrows were uneven — mostly old training shafts, poorly balanced, feathers torn by wind or impact. But he selected a dozen: not too damaged, not perfect. Good enough to learn.
He stepped to the line, facing the central target. Ten paces. Maybe twelve. He didn't need more.
He spread his feet, anchored in the soft earth. Inhaled. Raised the bow.
He didn't shoot right away.
He searched first for alignment — hips, shoulders, shoulder blades. Adjusted the angle of his elbow, bent his rear knee a bit more. Brought the arrow to the string. His fingers were tense, so he exhaled gently. Then, slowly, he drew the string, feeling the pressure rise in his left arm, his back engaging involuntarily.
And he shot.
The arrow flew with a soft, almost timid sound. It struck the target… on the lower left edge. A weak shot, lacking force. He hadn't expected more.
He tried again.
The second arrow flew too high. The third veered right. But already, he understood. He felt how the slightest deviation in his rotation, his breath, the tension in his shoulder blade, caused a shift. The bow didn't forgive imprecision. It didn't lie. It was pure science. And that purity pleased him.
He closed his eyes for a moment. The evening light fell across his face, soft and slanted. He picked up another arrow. Visualized.
Inhale. Draw. Release. Follow the trajectory.
He opened his eyes, aligned, shot.
This time, the arrow struck closer to the center.
He didn't seek to marvel. He repeated. Five arrows. Ten. Fifteen. He retrieved them, tore them from the rough canvas, returned to position. Corrected. Noted sensations mentally — where the string rubbed, where his posture faltered, how his breath disturbed or steadied his aim.
The sky turned a deep orange. He could barely make out the contours of the targets, but he continued. Not out of stubbornness. Out of necessity. He wanted to imprint into his muscles that invisible logic that made an arrow fly straight. He wanted, through repetition, to understand the bow as well as he was beginning to understand his own body.
And he was succeeding. Slowly. But clearly. He felt that even without the system, he had a certain instinct for the bow.
"It seems the advice I get from the system is actually something I feel myself. The system just amplifies it," he thought.
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Then, just as he was about to draw a new arrow, he froze.
A shiver — barely a breath — ran along his scalp. A faint vibration tapped against his left temple, like an invisible insect brushing him from the inside. He blinked, startled, at first thinking it was a cramp, a sign of muscle fatigue.
But the tingling intensified. Fine, precise, strangely familiar.
His arm remained suspended, arrow poised, breath held. The sensation slowly spread toward his jaw, then to his ear. A soft hum, almost like a voice whispering without words. Then…
A pulse. Muted. Clear.
One beat.
Then another.
He closed his eyes just as the electronic sound — muffled, synthetic — triggered in his skull like a memory switched back on.
[System operational. Synchronization in progress.]