Not long after Malia wobbled away, her legs trembling from fatigue and stubbornness, Jabari returned – freshly bathed and dressed. He found August still rooted in the middle of the garden, steadfast in his weighted horse stance.
"You ready to go?" Jabari asked casually.
"Ready," August replied, finally releasing the stance and unfastening the weights from his limbs with a calm exhale. Instead of strapping his axe to his back as usual, he carried it in his hands.
Jabari raised an eyebrow but said nothing. It was clear Aziz's words from the day before had struck something in August. The silent boy rarely gave anything away, but his actions spoke volumes.
The two made their way toward Aziz's residence, ignoring the occasional glances from other first-years as they passed. Since the assessment, the looks had changed. The sneers and mockery that once followed Jabari's every step had given way to wide-eyed awe and silent respect. Even the Deacons, once dismissive, now watched him with a reluctant acknowledgement.
Jabari, however, paid it all no mind. Whether they spat or bowed didn't matter to him. Their opinions were like the wind – loud but meaningless to him.
When they arrived, they found Aziz seated cross-legged in the training hall, eyes closed in meditation. He looked better – less pale, less frail. Jabari's heart eased slightly.
"Oii, brat. Go and get breakfast started. I'm starving," Aziz barked the moment he sensed their presence.
Jabari rolled his eyes. "Would it kill you to say please, you ill-mannered old fart?!"
Any lingering concern evaporated in an instant. Aziz's usual irreverence was a sign that he was still very much himself.
"It might!" Aziz retorted dramatically. "I'm still injured. Who knows how polite words might affect my condition!"
August watched the exchange in stunned silence. This was a side of Aziz he still struggled to get used to – eccentric, sarcastic, and oddly theatrical.
"Can't you just suffer in silence?!" Jabari snapped over his shoulder as he made his way to the kitchen, leaving August and Aziz alone in the training hall.
"You can sit down, you know," Aziz said, gesturing lazily to one of the nearby benches. "He's going to take his sweet time."
August sat down, his axe still in his grip.
"You looking forward to your tree-cutting mission today?" Aziz asked with a grin.
"Will this really work?" August asked, his gaze dropping to the battle axe in his lap.
"If it were anyone else?" Aziz shrugged. "It'd be a long shot. But you? I believe it'll work. Just keep your mind open."
August frowned. "Why am I different?"
Aziz smirked, that same maddening glint in his eye. "Who knows."
August didn't pursue it. Instead, he shifted topics. "Where am I supposed to find enough trees to chop down?"
Aziz feigned disappointment. "Not even going to try getting it out of me?"
"No."
"Why not?"
"You won't say."
Aziz sighed dramatically. "So boring!"
August didn't flinch.
"Your aunt said there are plenty of trees in the Binai Forest. Not far from here."
August blinked. "You already cleared this with my aunt?"
"Of course I did. I needed her permission to let you off the Institute grounds. Otherwise, we'd have a dozen bureaucrats hounding us."
"I thought this was something you came up with after our talk?"
"You're a child who's been trained in the ways of battle since you could walk," Aziz replied, his tone thick with sarcasm. "Your 'problem' isn't exactly hard to figure out."
"Ok," August said simply, standing up to begin his axe drills.
Aziz watched him for a beat, then closed his eyes again.
"So boring," he muttered with a shake of his head as he returned to his meditation.
"Breakfast is ready!" Jabari called out after spending nearly an hour in the kitchen.
August and Aziz entered the dining room only to find Jabari already seated, hungrily shovelling food into his mouth without a shred of ceremony.
"You know it's impolite to start eating before everyone's seated," Aziz scolded as he sat down. "That's if you can even call what you're doing eating!"
"Ah if or tal-ing bow mahers!" Jabari replied through a mouthful of food.
"As if you're talking about manners?" Aziz repeated, raising an unimpressed brow. "Finish chewing before you speak. No one wants to see the inside of your mouth."
August, already growing accustomed to their constant banter, silently took his seat and rested his axe against the bench. Without a word, he began plating his food.
The table was filled with traditional Ulo dishes, but each one bore a subtle twist. The flavours were familiar, yet distinct – some lighter, others more spiced, with a few ingredients clearly sourced from beyond Ulo's borders.
"Wha ou ou ink?" Jabari asked again, unbothered by Aziz's earlier complaint.
"It's good," August replied sincerely, somehow managing to interpret the garbled question with ease.
Jabari grinned with pride. Of all the improvements he'd made in the past six months, his cooking was one he held dear. With the help of several traditional cookbooks – and a few exotic spices from his Master's homeland – he'd recreated Ulo's classics while adding his own flair. It had become a personal form of cultivation, an art in its own right.
After the meal, Aziz and Jabari walked with August to the gates of the estate.
"Remember," Aziz said seriously, "this entire exercise is pointless unless you approach it with an open mind. Don't think of it as training your body. Think of it as connecting with your weapon."
"Okay. Bye." August gave a small nod before walking off, his axe still in hand.
Aziz stared after him. "He really doesn't like talking, does he?"
"He's okay once you get to know him," Jabari said in defence.
Aziz arched a brow at that but let it slide. "Whatever. In any case, it's time we officially start your weapon training."
Jabari's face lit up. "Does that mean you're finally going to teach me how to attack with my glaive?"
"Yes and no," Aziz said cryptically.
"Yes and no?" Jabari repeated, already bracing himself for one of his Master's signature riddles. "What does that even mean?!"
"It means, yes, you're going to learn how to attack with your glaive…
But no, I won't be the one teaching you."
Jabari blinked. "If not you, then who?"
"Him," Aziz replied, turning to gesture at a tall, light-skinned man standing at the entrance of the training hall. His long hair was tied into a neat ponytail, and he wore the elder's uniform with a silver spear resting casually in his right hand.
"Elder Zaire?!" Jabari exclaimed. "Elder Zaire's going to be the one training me?"
Aziz nodded. "I don't wield a glaive. Nor does anyone else in the Western Branch. But the spear is the closest relative to the glaive, and you deserve to be taught the fundamentals by the best spearman available."
He paused, smirking.
"And I can say with full confidence – Zaire is the best spearman in the entire Western Branch. He might not be the strongest warrior, but in terms of pure technique? He surpasses even that petty Supreme Elder of yours."
The words came without filter, and Jabari winced, unsure how Zaire would react.
To his surprise, the spear-wielding elder remained composed, his face calm as still water. If he felt anything about Aziz's jab at Supreme Elder Diallo, he didn't show it.
"I've vetted him myself," Aziz added with a playful wink at Zaire. "I can personally vouch for his skill."
Zaire's brows twitched ever so slightly, and Jabari caught the faintest flicker of irritation. The elder remained composed, but clearly, something had passed between them.
Jabari didn't know the full story, but Zaire remembered it all too well.
The evening after the assessment, he had approached Aziz in secret. He had tried to poach Jabari, fully aware of how taboo such a move was. But Jabari's potential with the glaive had been too dazzling to ignore. Zaire couldn't help himself.
He had expected resistance – perhaps even anger – but Aziz had surprised him.
Rather than scolding him, Aziz had issued a challenge.
If Zaire could land one clean hit with his spear, then Aziz would step aside and hand Jabari over, no questions asked.
The memory still stung.
Zaire was seething at that. It was as if Aziz had viewed the entire affair as a game, as if Jabari's future were some trinket to be wagered.
Zaire inhaled deeply, his grip tightening on the silver spear. Silently accepting Aziz's terms.
Because while Aziz might be frustrating beyond measure, Jabari's talent was the real thing. If all he had to do was land a single strike, then that's what he'd do.
Just like that, the two men stepped into Aziz's training hall, each selecting their practice weapon – Zaire with a wooden spear, Aziz with a wooden sabre.
The moment the match began, Zaire exploded forward, spear lancing toward Aziz's chest with blistering speed that would have overwhelmed most. His movements were clean and precise – every inch befitting a warrior of his calibre.
But the spear pierced only air.
He blinked. An afterimage?
"Where are you even looking?" Aziz's voice came lazily from behind him, laced with mocking amusement.
Zaire whipped around, only to see a white aura dancing across Aziz's form – flickering like fire, yet calm as moonlight. It wrapped around him like a second skin, radiating something deeper than mere energy… something ancient.
He didn't recognise what it was. But even so, he clenched his spear tighter, pride flaring in his chest.
'I won't be bested by a foreigner!'
Ulo had long claimed supremacy in the art of close-quarters combat. Their warriors were revered across the world – and he, Zaire, was an Elder among them. He couldn't accept that the man before him might defy that truth.
He launched another strike. Then another. And another.
Each one faster. Sharper. More desperate.
But it was no use.
Aziz deflected, dodged, and parried each attempt with the ease of a master swatting away falling leaves. His footwork was effortless. His defence unbreakable. And his expression, maddeningly relaxed, as if he were barely present at all.
When the match ended, Zaire was on one knee, breath coming in ragged gasps, while Aziz stood as if he'd merely taken a morning stroll.
"Okay, I've seen enough," Aziz said, stretching with a loud yawn. "You'll do."
"I'll do?" Zaire managed between breaths.
"Yeah…" Aziz nodded. "To teach that brat the foundations of glaivesmanship."
Aziz returned the wooden sabre to its rack before glancing back over his shoulder.
"You may be pretty weak overall," he said with that same irreverent tone, "but when it comes to pure spearmanship? Even I have to admit, there aren't many better than you. I can't think of anyone more qualified to teach that foolish disciple of mine."
As the memory faded, Zaire found himself glancing once more at the eccentric man who had humiliated him so effortlessly that night. He hadn't been handled like that in years. Not even Supreme Elder Diallo could've toyed with him so easily.
"Alright," Aziz said, snapping Zaire out of his thoughts. "So, what's first on the agenda for your student?"
"Right," Zaire cleared his throat. "Let's head to the training hall."
Moments later, he stood before Jabari, a wooden spear in hand. Though Jabari's weapon of choice was the glaive, there was no trace of dismissal in Zaire's tone.
"I know the glaive and spear are ultimately different weapons," Zaire began, "but in many respects, the glaive can be considered a variant of the spear. The weight distribution is different, the balance changes slightly, and you use broader motions, but at their core, they're closely related."
He spun the spear lightly in one hand, then grounded it at his side.
"The most powerful spear techniques in the world," he continued, "are all built upon a small set of foundational techniques. Mastering these fundamentals won't just help you understand the greater techniques – they'll transform you. Even if you never learn another technique beyond these, you could still become an incredibly formidable warrior."
Jabari's expression betrayed his scepticism. Zaire smiled knowingly.
"You don't believe me? I understand. But still, I'm living proof."
He stepped closer, voice calm and steady.
"Despite what people say about my 'spear talent,' I've never learned a spear technique outside of the foundational ones. Not one.
Instead, I dedicated everything to refining the basics – taking them beyond what anyone thought possible. That's why I'm respected for my spearmanship. Not because of some flashy technique…
But because I turned simplicity into supremacy!"
He raised the spear again, demonstrating a basic thrust – clean, fluid, precise.
"It's allowed me to increase the speed, power, and precision of every strike. But more than that, it's allowed me to see through the weaknesses of other spear techniques with nothing more than a glance."
He paused, letting the weight of that statement settle.
"But that's a long way off for a novice like you."
Jabari flinched slightly but held his tongue.
"For now," Zaire said, eyes narrowing with purpose, "we'll drill the foundations into you until they're not just muscle memory – they're instinct. Until your body can move with your weapon without thought, hesitation, or flaw."
He raised the spear again.
"Now. Let's begin."
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