The dust of the arena still clung to his boots. Around him, squires laughed and boasted loudly, while pages and spectators slowly dispersed. The sun, already high, warmed the stone tiles and gave the air a heaviness that deepened every breath.
Caelum didn't head for the well or the shade of the arcades. He let his training sword slide against a post and walked away, alone, toward the far end of the courtyard. There, a strip of bare stone between a wall and the stables was flooded with light. No one lingered there—too hot, too empty.
Perfect.
He crouched down, closed his eyes, and placed his hands on his knees. The memory of the breathing forms Barion had shown him before leaving returned clearly: legs rooted, back straight, breath low, centered in the belly.
The heat of the stone was already seeping through his boots. The air smelled of sun-warmed dust and worn leather. He inhaled slowly, swelling his abdomen like a wineskin, holding the air until he felt his ribs expand. Then he exhaled in a long stream, imagining he was releasing all tension with that breath.
At first, his heart beat too fast, still marked by the training. His head buzzed, his shoulders tensed involuntarily. But he repeated the cycle. Again. And again. Until the burn in his lungs turned into a deep warmth.
By the third round, he felt a shift. A new stability in his center of gravity, as if the stone beneath him had finally accepted his weight. His vision behind closed eyelids tinged red-orange, pulsing with the rhythm of his heartbeat.
The sounds of the courtyard seemed distant, muffled. The voices of others were just shadows now. There was only him, the sun on his skin, and that warm core beneath his navel growing with each breath.
He didn't know how long he stayed like that. When he opened his eyes, his muscles were relaxed, but his mind was sharp— as if rest and effort had fused.
Breath, he thought, wasn't just a tool for living. It was an invisible weapon.
And he fully intended to sharpen it.
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Calm had settled into his muscles like warm water. Each inhale now flowed smoothly, each exhale carried a weight he controlled. He opened his eyes, wiped the sweat from his brow, and rose slowly to his feet.
Today, he would push further.
He checked that the courtyard was still empty, then stepped onto the strip of stone—legs apart, heels anchored, back straight. He took a deep breath and assumed the posture of the Sylvan Bridge — the second form.
The first cycles were simple: breath flowed naturally, his arms held their alignment, his pelvis hovered above his stance. The memory of past failures lingered, crouched in the background, but this time… nothing trembled.
Ten minutes passed, then fifteen. At twenty, a new warmth spread through his legs, but it didn't throw him off. His body yielded to the posture like a rope finally accepting tension.
By the twenty-seventh minute, sweat was streaming down his back. His shoulders burned, his heels threatened to lift from the ground. But he held. The thirty minutes passed like a silent victory.
He exhaled slowly, released his stance, and a faint smile stretched across his lips.
Form II: mastered.
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Without hesitation, he adjusted his stance. He knew what came next: The Current Guard.
Form III — The Current Guard
• Front foot turned slightly outward, rear foot anchored straight behind.
• Front knee bent, pelvis tilted, back inclined forward by a breath.
• Front arm extended, palm open at throat level; rear arm folded near the ribs like a wing ready to open.
• The weight is never fixed: it shifts subtly between front and back, mimicking the ebb and flow of a wave.
• Breathing follows this motion: deep inhale when shifting backward, slow exhale when moving forward.
It was a deceptive form. The apparent stability was only a mask; in truth, the body had to remain in constant motion, never breaking the alignment of the spine or the anchoring of the feet.
He took position. The first minute flowed smoothly. By the second, his calves began to burn. By the fourth, his arms grew heavy.
But he held. Each inhale drew an inward step back, each exhale projected energy forward. He found himself slipping into a rhythm—almost a dance.
By the eighth minute, a wave of burning rose from his thighs to his pelvis. His footing wavered. He clenched his teeth. Ten minutes. No more. His legs gave out, and he dropped one knee to the ground.
Sweat dripped from his chin onto the hot stone. His breath, ragged, struggled to return to a calm rhythm. But he smiled.
Ten minutes on the first attempt. Far from the thirty required—but infinitely more than he had ever held before.
[SYSTEM UPDATE – ACTIVE]
Sylvanic Breathing – Level 2
• Mastered Forms: I, II • Current Progress: 33.33% • Form III: 10 minutes / 30 minutes
Additional Effects:
– Slight increase in muscular recovery after prolonged effort
– Improved stability in dynamic posture
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Caelum remained on his knees for a moment, letting his heartbeat slow. His hands trembled slightly—not from weakness, but from that electric tension that follows an honestly earned effort.
The warmth of the sun on his neck contrasted with the mild air entering through his nostrils. Each breath sank deep into his lower abdomen, swelling that space like an invisible forge. As his breathing steadied, he felt the heat accumulate, then flow toward a precise point just below his navel.
He knew exactly what it was.
The life seed.
Barion had explained that this was where everything began—that each cycle of breath had to nourish that dormant core until it awakened. And now, he could feel it clearly: his breath was depositing something there, a fragment of energy, like water poured onto thirsty soil.
The pulse was sharper than before. And in that inner perception beyond sight, he noticed the seed had changed: No longer the size of a grain of rice, it had swelled, taking on the roundness and weight of a wheat kernel. Still tiny… but grown.
A shiver climbed his spine—not from fatigue, but from a new certainty. He opened his eyes. The sun had already begun its descent, shadows stretching across the courtyard.
Picking up his sword, he left the strip of bare stone, breath steady, each step guided by the conviction that something had just begun.
He could have headed to the archery range, but the warmth still pulsing in his lower belly convinced him to stay focused on breathing. The System immediately reminded him of the daily limit: 90 minutes. He had already accumulated 40 minutes that morning. That left him with 50 minutes to use.
And since he had already mastered the first two forms, he would dedicate all that time to the third: The Current Guard. But without rushing—only ten-minute sessions, each followed by five minutes of rest to avoid wearing down his body.
The first of those five rounds began without difficulty. His muscles, still warm from earlier training, quickly fell into rhythm. Five minutes of rest, leaning against the wall, listening to his breath recover—then he resumed.
The second round was more demanding: the heat built up in his thighs and shoulders reminded him how much he had already given today. But his breath held steady. Third round, fourth… each restart pulled a little more energy from him, but the movement became almost instinctive, as if his body and breath were syncing more and more.
The fifth and final round was a true test. His legs trembled, his arms felt twice as heavy—but he held on until the end of the ten minutes before slowly releasing the posture.
He sat on the stone, drenched in sweat. The five additional sessions brought the day's total to 1 hour and 30 minutes—the maximum allowed.
In his lower belly, the heat had concentrated like never before. The life seed, still the size of a wheat kernel, now felt denser, almost compact, as if each breath cycle had compressed and refined his inner energy. No growth in size today… but a clear solidification, one he could feel deep within himself.