Chapter Three: First Movement
The barn sat at the edge of the property, past the tool shed and the older fence that never got replaced. The grass behind it was short, flattened from years of walking, with dry dirt packed down underfoot. That's where Bram told Eli to meet him. No crowd, no onlookers—just the two of them, and the soft wind brushing through the nearby trees.
Eli stood still, holding a wooden staff with both hands. It was about his height, smooth, solid, and slightly worn from years of practice. Bram already had his own in hand, tapping it twice against his boot before walking into position.
"Ready?" Bram asked.
Eli nodded once. "Yeah."
Bram moved first—no feint, no delay. A straight jab forward with the tip of the staff aimed at Eli's center. Eli stepped back and raised his own to block. The force jolted through his arms. His stance was too upright, and his right foot slipped half an inch in the dirt.
Bram didn't wait. He turned the staff and swept low toward Eli's legs. Eli hopped back and raised his weapon, but too slow. The staff clipped his shin—not hard, but enough to sting. He stumbled.
"Don't wait," Bram said. "Move before you think you need to."
Eli reset his stance and held tighter.
This time, he attacked. A basic overhead swing, aiming down. Bram caught it easily, blocking with a single arm raised. Then, without shifting his feet, Bram pivoted and spun, swinging the staff around in a short arc. Eli lifted his staff across his body to block, barely catching the strike on the edge.
The hit knocked him off balance again.
Bram stepped in and pressed the staff against Eli's. His weight pushed forward, making Eli step back three times before he managed to shift sideways and break the pressure.
"You're too stiff," Bram said. "Loosen your arms. Let them move with the hit."
Eli nodded but didn't answer.
They circled again. The sun was mid-rise behind them, casting long shadows. A few birds scattered from the nearby brush. The wind picked up slightly, kicking some dust across the edge of the space.
Bram moved again. This time, a diagonal strike from high left to low right. Eli raised his staff and blocked, but his hands were too close together. The blow twisted his grip. Before he could recover, Bram stepped in with a second strike to the ribs.
Eli barely shifted, turning his body sideways. The staff scraped his tunic but missed clean contact.
"That was better," Bram said.
They reset. Both breathing a little heavier.
Bram's style was direct. Heavy, practical. He didn't waste energy on wide flourishes or unnecessary footwork. He planted his feet, moved in controlled bursts, and used short, forceful strikes that made the most of his strength. He didn't fight like a soldier. He fought like a farmer used to carrying weight.
Eli, by contrast, was raw. His movements were too wide, too slow. He relied on watching and reacting instead of anticipating. But small things were changing. He was adjusting his foot position. Lowering his stance. Mimicking the way Bram angled his elbows when deflecting a strike.
Not perfectly—but enough to notice.
They clashed again. This time, Eli blocked the first strike cleanly. Still clumsy, still heavy-handed, but cleaner.
They broke apart.
"Good," Bram said. "You'll learn faster if you stop hesitating. Copy the feel. Not just the shape."
Eli rolled his wrists, keeping hold of the staff. His arms ached, but he stayed ready.
"I'll keep trying," he said.
"Tomorrow again," Bram replied, resting his staff on his shoulder. "Don't strain. Just repeat what works."
They walked back toward the house without much else said.
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Later That Night – Third Person Limited (Eli)
Eli sat on the porch after dark. Everyone else had gone in, the lamps inside glowing faint through the shutters. He had a rough wool blanket draped over his shoulders, but the breeze was light enough not to need it.
He sat cross-legged with his hands resting on his knees.
He wasn't sure how Soul Energy was supposed to move. There were no guides for it here, no instructors. But the feeling from the morning was still there—low, steady, quiet. He focused on it.
He drew a breath in through his nose, slow. Then let it out.
Again.
The energy didn't surge or hum. It simply responded. Slightly warmer in his chest, then fainter near his arms.
He tried to move it—mentally, not physically. Focused on shifting it toward his hands.
A faint warmth followed. Not bright or sharp—just present. It settled near his palms, tingling slightly.
He opened his eyes. Nothing visible. No glow. But he could feel it.
He flexed his fingers, then slowly moved into one of the blocking stances Bram had shown him earlier. The energy shifted again, keeping steady in his arms.
He repeated the motion, then another. Simple patterns. Block left, deflect high, step back.
Each time, he tried to guide the Soul Energy into the motion—not forcing it, just pairing it with the action.
It didn't enhance his strength. It didn't make the movements faster. But it held them. Kept them stable. Where his grip had felt shaky before, it now felt supported. Not strong—just controlled.
That was enough for now.
He stood slowly and stretched his shoulders.
Tomorrow, he'd try again.
Nothing special. Just repetition.