The morning air was cold and clear. In the small, deserted courtyard of the east wing, Caelum drew his bow. The string creaked under tension, the scent of oiled wood mingling with the steady breath he exhaled.
He aimed. The moment stretched. The world around him faded.
The arrow left the string with a sharp hiss. A clean impact, slightly left of center. He didn't smile. Mastery didn't come by chance—and today, he had a specific goal.
For a full hour, he repeated the motion. Aim. Shoot. Observe. Adjust. The System's corrections were subtle: a slight imbalance in his left foot's support, excess tension in his right shoulder, a breath released a quarter-second too early. Each detail etched into his muscles, into his memory.
When he lowered his bow, the notification appeared before his eyes:
[Basic Archery]Progress: 12%
Note: Techniques acquired through the System progress faster when practiced methodically.
Caelum stood still for a moment, wiping the sweat that ran down his temple. So the theory was confirmed: what the System provided, he could refine far faster than any skill learned barehanded. A faint smile touched his lips.
He stored the bow, stretched deeply, then returned to his room. Tonight, he would sleep early. The real work would begin tomorrow.
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Mornings were marked by the rumble of Jorund's heavy footsteps. The former sergeant never spoke before the exercises were over, but his gaze cut deeper than any words. In the confined space of the old northern courtyard, he forced Caelum to fight as if the walls were blades ready to slice his back. No retreat, no wide evasions—every movement had to be contained, precise, calculated. A shoulder check, a leg feint, constant pressure—Jorund allowed no wasted breath.
After that came sword training. Pages and squires gathered on the frozen sand of the weapons yard. Metal clashed, the mocking laughter of the younger ones mixing with the grunts of veterans. Caelum absorbed blows, countered, fell, got back up. Day after day, his wrist grew firmer, his footing more solid.
Then came the ninety minutes of Sylvanic Breathing. This time, he practiced only the third form. Absolute instability. Thighs and hips ablaze, back taut as a bowstring, breath forced to dive deep into his belly to nourish the life seed. Each second added tore a tremor from his muscles. Each minute gained consolidated the dense warmth pulsing at the center of his being. He felt he was just one step away from seeing that seed grow again.
Still, he chose not to overstrain himself. He opted for nine sessions of ten minutes each. Gradually, he felt he could extend the effort, but he also clearly sensed that his body wouldn't hold if he pushed too far.
Finally, at dusk, he returned to the bow. A series of precise, measured shots, always accompanied by the System's invisible corrections. Fingers bruised by the string, shoulders tight—but the motion growing ever more fluid.
Five days like this. Five days without a moment wasted.
On the evening of the fifth day, as the sky turned deep red, the notifications began to appear:
[SYSTEM UPDATE – ACTIVE]
[Name: Caelum Velmire]
[Biological Age: 15]
[Soul Age Estimate: 53 years]
[PHYSICAL POWER (Reference: Average adult male = 1.0)]
– Strength: 1.2 ⟶ 1.25
– Agility: 1.4
– Constitution: 1.5
– Dexterity: 1.3 ⟶ 1.35
[SPIRITUAL POWER (Reference: 1.0 at adult maturity)]
– Current Level: 1.31
[Basic Archery]
Mastery: 17%
[Inept Sword Handling]
Mastery: 8%
Caelum closed his eyes, letting out a long breath. He had never felt such balance between his strengths.
Then the horn at the main gate sounded. Deep. Heavy. Conversations in the courtyard fell silent.
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The heavy gates creaked open slowly, as if reluctant to let in whatever stood beyond them.
The procession appeared.
Barion walked at the front. His figure, usually upright like a pillar, seemed slightly hunched. Each step was heavy, almost deliberate, as if walking alone demanded immense effort. His plate armor, battered as though hammered by a blacksmith, bore gashes so deep that Caelum thought he saw, in places, the reddish glint of flesh. Three fresh scars streaked his face—raw, burning lines across sweat-slicked skin.
Behind him, the men advanced in silence. Fewer. Far fewer.
The first wounded man Caelum saw leaned heavily on a comrade's shoulder. His left arm was nothing but a stump, wrapped in cloth soaked with a nearly black red. Each step left a dark droplet on the cobblestones, which burst into tiny splashes.
Then came a man with his face wrapped in thick bandages, where an eye should have been. A dark stain slowly spread across the fabric, dripping toward his cheek. His lips moved without sound, as if speaking to someone unseen.
Another soldier had his chest bound tightly in linen strips that darkened visibly. His breath wheezed like a torn bellows, each inhale barely lifting his ribcage.
Then Caelum saw the improvised stretchers: two wooden poles joined by taut canvas, bearing bodies that might have seemed asleep if their limbs weren't twisted at impossible angles. Missing legs. Frozen hands, fingers curled like talons. A thick, metallic scent hung in the air, mingled with the acrid smell of wet leather and cold sweat.
The carriages brought up the rear. Slow-moving horses, eyes half-closed, pulled heavy carts draped in white sheets. The steady rhythm of hooves sounded like a funeral toll. Beneath the fabric, the shapes were clear: a shoulder, a ribcage, sometimes a foot protruding, grayish. One sheet slipped a few inches, revealing a soldier's hand locked in a spasm, nails torn off in what looked like a desperate struggle.
Between two of the carts, Caelum noticed something that didn't quite fit. A black crate—long and narrow—securely fastened to a small hand-drawn wagon. It bore no markings, no inscriptions, and seemed made of dense wood, almost glossy despite the dust of travel. Around it walked four soldiers who, at first glance, appeared among the least injured in the procession. No limping, no slings. Yet their eyes remained fixed on their surroundings, as if wary of anyone getting too close to their cargo.
Some wounded still groaned—a low, rough sound that faded quickly into the hush of the procession. Others lay motionless, eyes open to a sky they no longer seemed to see. The courtyard's cobblestones slowly darkened, marked by the trails left by the stretchers.
No one asked questions. The usual murmurs, greetings, and shouts of the manor had vanished. As if every inhabitant feared drawing upon themselves the same shadow that had followed these men here.
Caelum stood still, back straight, fingers clenched around his bowstring.
Barion passed in front of him. He looked up, and their eyes met. No words. But in the captain's gaze, Caelum saw something beyond fatigue: a heavy, dark weight that had nothing to do with the pain of wounds. Something even victory could never erase.