The gray wasteland stretched endlessly beneath the eternal eclipse, its muted light pressing weakly through the warped boards of the wooden house. Inside, the unkindled candle trembled—flicker yet unburn, pulse yet still—a heartbeat suspended in eternity. Dust drifted lazily, catching faint light in impossible angles.
Khaldron crouched at the edge of the garden, fingers pressing seedlings into the soil with meticulous care. Steam rose from a bowl of pork adobo, curling into the faint smoke from Murim tobacco leaves rolled into cigarettes with infinite patience. Each motion carried centuries of discipline, yet breathed simplicity.
The Sword Saint knelt nearby, hands resting on the ground, eyes tracing every subtle movement. He wanted to act, to dominate, to bend the world—but Khaldron's lessons forbade it. First, one must dwell.
From the windowsill, the black cat observed. Its amber eyes glowed, infinite and patient. From the rafter, the crow tilted its head, feathers shimmering in colors unseen by mortals. Both were silent, still, yet radiated wisdom older than the Sword Saint could conceive.
Khaldron spoke quietly. "You seek mastery, yet your heart clings to pride. Watch them."
The Sword Saint followed the cat's slow, deliberate blink, the crow's measured tilt. Time itself seemed to stretch around their motions. "What… what am I to learn from them?" he asked.
"They are not animals," Khaldron replied. "They are older than self. They teach humility. Observe the cat: it takes only what it needs, never more. Observe the crow: it sees all, yet acts without arrogance. They dwell in patience, in alignment, in silence. Even I am forbidden to use the techniques I carry, except in absolute need. Humility restrains all else."
The Sword Saint lowered his gaze, humbled. "So… you do not act unless necessary?"
"Exactly. Even the ethereal step, even the bending of reality, is bound by necessity and restraint," Khaldron said. "Before you may wield the Vera Mors or Umbra Eclipse, before Illusio Aeternitas could ever touch another, you must learn to bend nothing but yourself. To dwell, to plant, to cook, to smoke, to drink, to align. This is the first mastery."
The Sword Saint pressed his hands into the soil. The faint shimmer of reality teased the edges of his perception. Footsteps felt slightly lighter, the soil subtly alive under his fingers, yet he could not yet claim anything. He planted seedlings, watered them, stirred the pork in the bowl, sipped coffee, inhaled tobacco—all deliberately, humbly.
Khaldron handed him a piece of adobo. "Eat slowly. Chew deliberately. Inhale the smoke fully. Each act is a lesson. Pride is forbidden. Force is forbidden. Only humility, patience, and dwelling can prepare you for the powers that lie beyond."
The cat blinked once, slowly. The crow tilted its head, feathers catching light in subtle brilliance. Their presence was still and silent, yet it carried the weight of centuries of observation. The Sword Saint began to understand: humility is not weakness; humility is alignment. Patience is not delay; patience is perception.
"Even a million years of observation," Khaldron said softly, "will teach nothing if you cannot bend yourself first. Only when the heart is patient, aligned, humble, can even a single technique answer your command. Until then, every motion, every breath, every seed planted is your teacher."
The Sword Saint exhaled smoke, tasted coffee and adobo, pressed his fingers into the soil, and inhaled deeply. Each act pulsed faintly with energy. Reality whispered, bending subtly around him—but he could not yet step fully into it.
Khaldron watched, voice low, deliberate. "Remember this. The techniques you desire—Vera Mors, Umbra Eclipse, Illusio Aeternitas, Falsitas Realitatis—are forbidden except in necessity. You may glimpse their echoes, feel their pull, but cannot wield them yet. You must bend yourself first, your patience, your humility, your alignment. Only then can power answer without arrogance or destruction."
The Sword Saint bowed deeply—not in ritual, not in submission, but in comprehension. The cat purred softly, the crow croaked once. The unkindled candle flickered once more. Dust floated like frozen stars. Outside, the garden shimmered faintly, ordinary to the uninitiated, mythic to those who observed.
And Khaldron… he simply dwelt, teaching the Sword Saint the essential truth:
Even the mightiest power is forbidden without humility.
And
so, the Sword Saint began to dwell.