Shua!
The sword whispered free of its sheath. Henry inhaled with the rhythm of a peculiar breath, and once more unfurled the opening form of the Silverfrost Knight's swordsmanship—Silver Frost Reflects the Snow.
And in that instant, something stirred.
He was certain—utterly certain—that his angle, his speed, his motion were no different from before. Yet as the blade carved its arc, an unseen gate seemed to open. From every pore of his body seeped a cool, mysterious essence, flowing inward, threading through his veins.
Where it passed, it left a rapture profound: as though parched lips had been given chilled water beneath a blazing summer sky.
Henry's breath caught. The sensation was so wondrous that he sank into it without thought, entranced, his body flowing naturally into the subsequent forms of the Silverfrost style.
Shua—
Xiu—
Chi—
The knight's sword danced ceaselessly in his hands. It thrust, it cleaved, it rose in sudden sweeps as sharp and elusive as an antelope's horn glimmering on a cliff's edge. The longer he moved, the lighter his spirit grew. Training, once toil and strain, now surged through him like exhilaration.
Only when the ninth and final form fell did he halt, chest heaving with awe.
"This feeling… could it be those mysterious particles?"
Memory answered.
The former Henry had known the tales—legends of prodigies who, while cultivating, sensed strange particles seeping into them from heaven and earth. Most dismissed such stories as idle myth. Even Titus Kirk, the year's acknowledged genius, had admitted he never felt them.
Yet Henry felt them now. Which meant the legends were true. And to perceive them required a rare endowment indeed—at the very least, an Advanced Knight Talent.
These "natural particles," as they were called, formed the foundation of a knight's power. All who bore knightly potential could, through sword arts, draw them in, tempering their bodies. But only those of extraordinary talent could ever perceive their presence.
Joy lit Henry's eyes. He raised his sword again.
Shua! Shua! Shua!
Over and over, the Silverfrost forms unfurled. With each cycle, more of that cool current seeped into him, burrowing into bone and sinew. The sensation was addictive, like plunging deeper into a bliss that would never end.
By the thirtieth repetition, he forced himself to stop. Though his heart yearned for more, he remembered Lady Sera's warning. Training must be measured. To overdraw the body was folly. Once, the former Henry had crippled himself with hidden injuries. Only Sera's intervention had spared him. He could not rely on such fortune again.
"It feels as though… my strength has grown."
To test it, he drew again—not a refined form, only a simple horizontal slash at a tree before him, its trunk thick as a bowl's rim.
Crack!
The huai-wood split cleanly in two. The tree groaned, toppled, its cut smooth as polished jade.
Henry's eyes shone. "It's real. Not illusion."
Exhilaration swelled in him. The old Henry might also have cut such wood—but never with such ease. The stroke had felt like a hot blade through butter.
"Excellent."
Confidence glimmered. With this strength, half a month would be more than enough to meet the trial.
The days passed in a cycle of classes by day and cultivation by night.
Ten days later, in the grove's quiet shade, a golden-haired youth trained. His black leather armor gleamed with sweat, his knight's sword flashing silver as it tore through the air. Each arc scattered sunlight like lightning.
It was Henry.
Yet now, his blade was not the same as ten days prior. The forms were the same, the sword the same—but Henry himself had changed.
Though his outward body seemed little altered, beneath the skin every muscle fiber was denser, harder. His very weight had grown. And though heavier, his movements were swifter, sharper, for strength had surged alongside mass—strength beyond what flesh alone could explain.
Shua!
With one hew, a huai-tree nearly thirty centimeters thick burst apart.
Boom!
The crown crashed, splintering lesser trees like twigs. A trunk of such girth, felled in a single stroke—it beggared belief. Yet it was fact.
Ten days with an Advanced Knight Talent had wrought progress beyond imagination. He had not merely met the trial's requirement—he had surpassed it by far.
At last, Henry understood. This was why Lady Sera, so young, had soared to the rank of Great Knight. For most, the path was a lifetime's struggle, their dreams fragile, their progress halting. But with such gifts, the difference was heaven and earth.
"Tomorrow—the trial."
His lips curved into a cold smile. These days he had endured slander and mockery. Tomorrow, he would answer them.
That evening, fresh from the bathhouse, Henry returned to his quarters—only to find someone waiting at his door.
"Charles…?"
The figure lifted his head. At sight of him, relief and warmth broke across his face.
"Henry—you're back."
"Mm."
Henry inclined his head. Since inheriting this body, he had kept distance, wary of betraying himself. Early to rise, late to return, he had left Charles little company. Yet here Charles stood, waiting still.
"Tomorrow's trial… are you ready?"
Worry shadowed his features.
"Yes," Henry replied, his tone firm. "I am ready."
"I see…"
Yet Charles did not smile. He thought he knew Henry's strength. In such short time, to meet the standard was impossible. He assumed Henry's words were bravado, nothing more.
At last, Charles sighed. From within his breast he drew a small vial of jade-green glass, ornate and precious, and pressed it into Henry's hand.
"This is silver-deer blood. Use it well."
Before Henry could speak, Charles turned away quickly, unwilling to linger.
Henry stared at the vial, a flicker of surprise touching his face. The liquid was costly, hard-won—beyond the means of most merchant houses. Charles had surely strained his family's coffers to acquire it, perhaps even inviting punishment for the extravagance.
All for him.
It was, perhaps, a foolish investment. One final wager on a failing stock. If Henry fell tomorrow, then the gamble was lost, the ledger closed, the account marked in red.
But to Henry, it was not folly.
It was friendship.