Contrary to Khaal's fears, another year passed quite peacefully. Just a few quarrels between his parents led to Elaine being temporarily moved to his chambers.
It wasn't that the palace had no more free rooms, but it would have been very difficult for the bodyguards to monitor the children's safety otherwise. Elizabeth had developed a bit of an obsession about this.
His five-year-old sister turned out to be quite a nuisance. She constantly followed him like a shadow, causing irritation to the Master and Scholar Southern Wind. But, one way or another, she was family, so the prince tolerated it. And since the prince himself tolerated it, the scholar and warrior had to put up with the situation.
So now, having dismissed all the "paid" padawans, the Master focused closely on Khaal.
They stood on the parade ground.
The Master, extending his blade forward, assumed a pose remotely resembling a classic fencing lunge. It should be noted that in Lidus, they used short and narrow swords. No longer than a meter, with a width of about two, maximum three fingers. Interestingly, the weight of the sword was concentrated not in the blade, but in the handle, which had a weighty pommel. The guard was almost non-existent.
Combined with the long sting, it was easy to imagine that the Master's technique focused on speed. The faster the lunge, the more elements he could weave with a basic "double," the more terrifying the result of his mastery.
Just yesterday, Khaal had personally seen how, without moving from his spot, the Master had decapitated seventeen dummies. Considering they stood in a semicircle at a distance of sixteen steps, then... The local arts, essentially the same as magic, truly impressed the imagination.
And of course, Khaal tried to analyze what was happening with his neural network, but it again complained about insufficient data to solve the problem.
"Smoother," instructed the Master, watching Khaal's movements. "And at the same time—more swiftly."
They moved across the parade ground, leaving long sandy furrows behind them. From the side, it might have looked like a slow morning stretch. In reality, they were practicing basic technique.
"Name the first three levels of techniques," asked Scholar Southern Wind.
Today the scholar was again sitting in the shade. Fanning himself, he occasionally adjusted his golden, spacious clothes. A kind of mix between a robe and a dressing gown, belted with a wide strap.
"Mortal level, then spirit and earth levels."
The scholar nodded and noted something in the scroll.
"Can you learn a spirit technique?"
"No," Khaal immediately replied. "That requires reaching the Heavenly Soldier stage."
"And that's why many believe that only from the Heavenly Soldier stage can a practitioner be considered a true adept!"
Scholar Southern Wind often got irritated when someone in the palace called themselves an adept. In his opinion, there were none here at all.
And while the scholar grumbled something indistinctly, little but already beautiful Elaine watched her older brother. Black hair gathered in a tight bun, blue eyes—she had a handsome brother. And he moved amusingly with the sword.
She had seen how her father moved—he was swift and sharp, like a death tiger. Khaal, on the other hand, floated through the air, moving his sword as if guiding a toy boat in a spring stream.
"Tell me, Khaal, how do we distinguish a Heavenly Soldier from an ordinary practitioner?" the Master suddenly asked.
Such questions were characteristic of the scholar, but not the warrior. So Khaal thought a bit, trying to find the catch.
"A Heavenly Soldier can fly, summon fire and water. He has touched eternity and can live many thousands of years."
"All correct," nodded the old man, who had stopped the technique.
The prince stopped as well.
"Then look here and tell me what you see?"
The Master closed his eyes. His breathing evened out, and the sand under his feet suddenly began to swirl, rising higher and higher. After a moment, a barely noticeable sand whirlwind was circling around the Master. It was summoned by the vortex of released power.
[Message to the carrier! Power activation detected in the perimeter!]
As if he hadn't noticed it himself. Sometimes the neural network annoyed more than it helped. But, to the prince's surprise, the message didn't stop there, as it had been before.
[Expected power: 2 units!]
I beg your pardon?!
Khaal wasn't given time to think. The Master sharply exhaled and swung his sword. This time, instead of a strike, a... fiery sparrow took flight. Leaving a smoky trail behind it, it flew about forty steps and crashed into the wall, melting a hole the size of a tennis ball in it.
The prince recoiled and instinctively raised his sword in a defensive stance.
He now looked at the Master with a completely different gaze.
"You are a Heavenly Soldier?!"
After a second of silence, two laughs rang out. One belonged to the old man in short training pants, the other to the old man in golden clothes.
"No, Your Highness," the Master shook his head. "I merely demonstrated a mortal technique to you."
The prince assessed the damage. Perhaps in words it's not that impressive—just a tennis ball-sized burn in the wall, but... It was the first time Khaal had seen something truly "magical." Besides the fact that he himself could cut a dummy with a sword strike from a distance of three steps, sometimes he had to doubt all these flights and such.
"Honorable teacher," Khaal fell to his knees and lowered his forehead to the sand, "please, teach me."
The Master immediately lifted the prince to his feet and dusted him off. The last thing they needed was for the queen to notice her son bowing to someone "to the ground."
"Of course, I will teach you, Your Highness," the old man smiled.
He walked over to a small chest standing near the barrel that five years ago had become the reason for Khaal's apprenticeship. The chest hadn't been there before, so the prince scolded himself for lack of observance. Surely it had been brought here before the lessons began.
The old man placed his palm on the lid, and it opened. Inside were neither countless treasures nor amazing artifacts. Just one old, worn scroll. And it was this that the Master handed to Khaal.
Ordering the neural network to record, the prince unfolded the scroll.
"Technique of the Scorched Falcon," read Khaal. "Volume One."
The Scorched Falcon was one of the magical birds of the local fauna. They say adult specimens reached the stage of leader. It's something like a Spirit Knight for humans. One such falcon, with a wingspan of twelve meters, could probably burn half of their kingdom.
[Recording information in the highest degree catalog "Detailed Description of Techniques"... Creating a register "Technique of the Scorched Falcon".]
"Are you sure this is written correctly, Master?" Khaal smiled somewhat roguishly. "I saw at most a roasted sparrow."
"Have some conscience, Your Highness," frowned the old man. "In the entire kingdom, you won't find another scroll of mortal technique. This one came to me through an amazing adventure in my youth. And it took me almost two centuries to master it."
Khaal read the contents again. There were phrases he barely understood, but fortunately, they were accompanied by detailed drawings. They showed how and through which nodes energy should circulate to create a "roasted sparrow."
"Tell me, prince," Scholar Southern Wind spoke again, "to what type does this technique belong?"
"Weapon technique."
"And what others are there?"
"Besides techniques for weapons?"
The old man nodded, continuing to fan himself.
For such questions, Khaal didn't even need to strain his neural network. He remembered himself.
"Techniques for the body. Techniques for external energy. Techniques for internal energy."
"And now do you understand what they are for?"
The prince looked again at the scorched wall.
"Techniques allow us to use the power of the next stages?"
"Not exactly, Your Highness," the scholar disagreed. "Rather, they allow us to better use our current power. In other words—a Heavenly Soldier doesn't need a technique to summon fire."
"But if a formation practitioner summons it with a technique," Khaal continued the thought, "then his fire will be stronger."
The scholar and the Master exchanged glances.
"Both yes and no," sighed the Master, scooping a cup from the barrel. "The world of martial arts is complex and multifaceted, Your Highness. And you haven't even seen its edge yet, let alone touched its surface. For now, try to memorize the contents of the scroll. It will take you no less than a year."
Khaal nodded, mentally praising the useful neural network. Thanks to it, he already remembered all the content down to the comma. Even though punctuation marks didn't exist in the local language.
"It says here—volume one." Khaal pointed to the title. "Are there others?"
"Techniques are often divided into volumes. And with each volume, their complexity increases, making new demands on the practitioner." The Master returned the cup to the barrel and washed his face. "I have seen with my own eyes, Your Highness, how a practitioner of the Heavenly Soldier level summoned a fire bird with this technique, with a wingspan of almost three meters. But the Scorched Falcon, it..."
"An adult specimen has a wingspan of at least twelve meters."
"Indeed, Your Highness," the Master nodded. "So what you hold in your hands is just the basics of basics. And even then, in our kingdom, mortal-level techniques can be counted on the fingers."
"So the second scroll would be at the spirit level?"
"Exactly, my prince."
Khaal looked at the scroll, then at his teachers, and again to the east.
The wind was blowing. It told him stories. It called to him.
The prince was weak.
He couldn't answer the call of the wind.
But nevertheless, at that moment, an anticipatory smile spread across his face. With each day, he saw the path before him more clearly. The road leading to the coveted goal.
To freedom.
To the boundless expanses of this amazing world. To its mysteries and dangers. To everything that Khaal had been deprived of in his past life.
And in this small moment of enlightenment, he didn't know that the wheel of fate had already turned. That his dreams were not destined to come true.
At that very moment, the commander was returning to the capital to celebrate his seventh birthday. The king's brother. The collector of tribute for the empire.
Primus was approaching.