Chapter Four: Adjustments
Eli stood on the packed dirt behind the barn again, staff in hand. The morning was overcast, with light wind brushing through the nearby brush. The grass had been trampled from the days before. The ground was firm, with small patches of dust where their feet had dragged too many times.
Bram stood across from him, holding his own staff. He rolled his shoulder once, then gave a short nod.
They started without a word.
Eli moved first this time—a forward lunge, staff extended, aimed for the side. Bram blocked, but his step back was sharper than usual. Eli followed with a turning motion, twisting the staff around in a downward strike. Bram parried again, but his stance widened slightly.
They separated.
Bram didn't speak. He just stepped in this time with a hard strike toward Eli's ribs. Eli slid to the side and blocked across his body, both arms absorbing the impact. His feet stayed firm.
Another swing came—diagonal this time. Eli ducked low and swept his own staff at Bram's leg. Bram stepped over it and pivoted, bringing his weapon down from above.
Eli raised his staff vertically. The wood cracked against his with a sharp sound. He held it.
They broke apart again, both breathing a little harder.
Bram stared at him for a second longer this time.
"Three days," he said, not lowering his staff. "You're nearly even with me."
Eli didn't answer. He kept his grip tight and his eyes focused.
"You shouldn't be. It took me three years to get this clean," Bram added. "And I didn't even have anyone teaching me properly."
Eli stood still. "I just copied what you did."
"More than that," Bram said. "You picked up my rhythm, my timing. You even angle your shoulder the same way."
They reset again.
This time, the spar moved faster. No gaps between hits. Staffs clashed again and again. Eli held his footing better, turned with his hips, and absorbed strikes instead of deflecting them wide. He wasn't stronger, but he was more precise.
They ended after a dozen exchanges. No clean hits. Neither dominant.
Bram stepped back and exhaled. "If your body keeps up with your eyes, you'll pass me before next week."
Eli nodded once, sweat on his brow. "Not yet."
"No. But close."
They didn't shake hands. They never did. Bram rested his staff on his shoulder and walked back toward the shed.
Eli stayed behind.
---
That night, Eli sat again outside the house, on the edge of the porch. The moon was low, half-covered by clouds, and the wind was light. His legs were crossed, hands on his knees.
He let his eyes close and focused on the warmth again.
The Soul Energy didn't surge or burn. It stayed calm—present in his chest, arms, and spine. When he focused, it moved just a little, spreading through him like slow heat.
He guided it toward his legs this time.
The energy flowed slower than he wanted. When he forced it, it scattered. He breathed steady and tried again. He moved it down past his knees, into his calves and feet. Then he stood.
His stance was better now. More balanced. With Soul Energy supporting his legs, he could hold low positions longer. Turn faster. Absorb more impact.
He moved through the sparring forms again. Block. Step. Strike. Turn. Parry. Reset.
His thoughts stayed on the training.
I've copied almost everything Bram has shown me. His stances, his guard, his tempo. But I can't match his power or speed. Not with this body.
He wasn't built like Bram. Bram had thicker arms, broader shoulders, and a stronger core. Eli's strikes didn't carry the same weight. He had to rely on angles and placement.
That's why he started using Soul Energy in his movements.
He didn't enhance his strength—not directly. He used it to support his muscles, to keep balance where his legs wavered or hold grip where his fingers tired. Just small boosts. Nothing that would burn out quickly.
But it was hard.
The moment I try to push it too far, it slips. The energy scatters. My hands shake. My stance breaks.
He exhaled slowly and reset his position again. The air was cool now, and the porch boards creaked lightly under his feet.
It's like holding water in my hands. If I move too fast, it spills. If I move too slow, it stagnates.
Still, he was getting better.
He lifted the staff again and practiced a five-strike form Bram had shown him earlier. Each motion smoother than yesterday. He didn't need to think as hard now. His muscles remembered.
He stopped after the tenth run.
His arms ached, but it was manageable. The Soul Energy was fading, pulling back into his chest.
He sat down again and closed his eyes.
For now, it was enough.
Then, from inside the house, a voice called out.
"Eli."
His father.
The tone wasn't urgent, but it wasn't casual either.
Eli stood, adjusted his shirt, and turned toward the door.
He didn't know why he was being called. But something in the way it was said made him pause before stepping in.
—