The soft whisper of footsteps echoed through the walls beside them as Aether followed Anna.
"Anna," he called, voice tinged with curiosity as they veered away from the ascending staircase toward the training grounds. "The Grand Bibliotheca—just how vast is the knowledge stored there?"
Anna's shoulders slumped slightly, fatigue heavy in her posture. Dark circles shadowed her eyes, and she stifled a yawn before turning.
Moonlight caught the tired lines of her face. A bitter smile played at her lips. "Knowledge? It holds everything. Every footstep, every breath taken within those walls becomes part of its collection." She ran her fingers through tangled hair. "But knowledge... knowledge is currency there. Nothing comes without price."
"Your starter pack will serve you well enough," she added quickly, pride warring with honesty. She raised a hand to forestall another question.
"I—" She exhaled slowly. "I may not be versed in every topic you bring up, but that doesn't mean the knowledge isn't there."
A genuine smile spread across Aether's face. "You're right."
Ethereal text materialized in the air before them, glowing like smoke:
The Grand Bibliotheca: To access any piece of information, one must offer knowledge in return.
The words drifted apart like morning mist, leaving Aether staring wide-eyed.
"So it's a marketplace, then?" he murmured, his words slurring slightly with fatigue. "Trading memories for narratives of others?"
Even Anna sagged with relief, clearly regretting her suggestion to visit the library when walking had already become a trial.
"Yes." The word fell from her lips with such finality that she braced for another question. But Aether remained silent.
Anna gestured toward the training ground, where practice dummies stood in various states of disrepair. "Your sword is there," she said, nodding to the dummy that had humiliated him days before. It stood frozen in its triumphant pose, a silent challenger in the moonlight.
"Where—" Aether began, then paused as a familiar sensation tugged at him. A pulse of Rasivan energy called to a specific part of his body, magnetic and insistent.
"Never mind," he said softly. "I don't think we can make it to the Grand Bibliotheca today..." Disappointment laced his voice, curiosity losing ground to exhaustion. Yet the pull of his sword remained, vibrating through his remaining arm.
Anna's voice softened with relief. "First floor, door next to the entrance, past the bathroom, up to the upper floor, then the next set of stairs. Your room's at the mansion's peak." She turned toward the gazebo, steps heavy.
"Do you need help getting there?" she asked suddenly, a flicker of fear in her tone.
"I know my way," Aether thought, but forced a cheerful, "Good night!" after her. He waited until her footsteps faded before turning toward the training ground, drawn by memory.
He recalled the unique feel—smooth yet coarse, perfectly weighted to build grip strength.
"I wonder how this would feel with one arm," he murmured. The weapon tingled in his grasp, like dancing at the edge of a volcano. "Or maybe I'm being melodramatic," he added with a dry chuckle that didn't reach his eyes.
As he approached the dummy, movement caught his eye. The same one that had embarrassed him sprang to life, lunging forward in a wrestler's stance.
"One arm!" Panic shot through him. "I'm about as stable as a house of cards in a windstorm. Thank God I still have both legs…"
"Alright then—" He drew his sword, its edge catching the moonlight. The familiar weight stirred muscle memory from a time when both arms had made each strike fluid. Now, his balance skewed awkwardly to one side.
"Balance," he whispered, recalling his father's words. "The sword is not just a weapon—it's an extension of your body."
But those lessons assumed a whole body.
Still, the principles remained: adapt or fall.
He gripped the hilt tightly with his right hand, adjusting his stance. The absence of his left arm screamed at him—a phantom limb, useless but still expected. Every movement demanded doubled focus. The dummy charged, moving with uncanny grace.
It dropped low, sweeping at his ankles. "Ah—" The world spun as his back hit the grass with a dull thud, knocking the wind from his lungs. No second arm to break his fall—only pain.
"If I'd lost a leg instead of an arm, I might've killed myself entirely," he muttered, forcing a laugh as he pushed himself upright.
But the joke couldn't mask the frustration clawing at his chest. Every movement was a reminder of what he'd lost—and what he needed to rebuild.
He rose slowly, centering himself. The dummy repositioned, its frame creaking in the moonlight.
"Come on, then," he muttered. He widened his stance. Smarter. More calculated.
The dummy kicked high—an Altan move. He'd have blocked with his left arm and countered. Now, all he had was footwork.
He pivoted too late. The dummy adjusted mid-motion, its other leg slamming into his shoulder.
Pain exploded through him. His grip faltered, the sword suddenly heavy and foreign. Another strike hammered into his gut.
The blow lifted him off the ground. Time slowed as he flailed in the air, powerless to control his landing.
Before, he could have rolled, distributed the impact with both arms. Now, he hit the earth like a leaf in the wind.
"Enough," he gasped, curling around the pain. Each breath burned. Nausea churned.
"I'm starting to think this dummy has a personal vendetta," he grunted through clenched teeth.
Clutching his throbbing shoulder, Aether staggered to his feet. Again. Each fall whispered the same truth: old instincts were now liabilities.
Eight years in the dark had taught him how to read stone for fractures. Now, he needed to do the same for himself.
He planted his feet—low, wide.
Gidigbo. Foundation.
My base. Ground me like ironwood, or I fall with every breeze.
It lunged. He slid—fluid and quiet.
Esin. Flow.
The horseman's glide. Not just footwork—flow. Shift weight like water. Find the current they can't block.
His sword snapped forward.
Ida. Precision.
The swordsman's truth. One point. One purpose. No waste.
A spark lit his eyes. He twisted the dummy off balance with its own momentum.
Ijakadi. Leverage.
Use their force. Let their strength carve their downfall.
He closed his eyes for a heartbeat. The rhythm rose in his bones—the drumbeat of home.
Bàtá.
My rhythm. The pulse beneath it all. Foundation, glide, strike, and leverage—woven into a single dance.
Five styles. One purpose. He moved.
The dummy hooked under his ankle. He didn't see it coming.
Almost.
Gravity claimed him. His back slammed into the grass. Air tore from his lungs.
But this time, instead of a groan, laughter spilled from his chest—raw, breathless.
"Hah!" he wheezed, grinning at the sky. "I slid through the defense! Did you see that? Right through! Hahahaha!"
"Volcanic…" he whispered, testing the word as warmth bloomed in his palm. "…Asẹ."
He raised his sword—not in challenge, but in declaration. Nearby, elloros vines pulsed with a resonant glow, echoing his newfound energy.
"Volcanic Asẹ!" he shouted. The words rang clear in the quiet training ground. No longer a question—this was a naming.
He settled into his new stance, the grin fading into fierce resolve.
"All right. Again."
The fall was no longer defeat. It was the first step forward. And now, he knew the path's name.