Dawn crested over Götthain, splitting the sky like a blunt sword of grey and rose.
The air was no longer merely cold; it had become a bone-chilling oppression. Frozen mist hung between the trees, making each breath feel like inhaling shards of glass.
Albert stood on the training ground dusted with thin snow, wearing only crude linen shorts. His pale skin immediately prickled with gooseflesh, then flushed red under the onslaught of the pre-dawn air. Every hair on his body stood erect, his frame trembling uncontrollably—not from fear, but from the instinctual rebellion of his muscles against this torment.
Gregor stood opposite him, also shirtless. The fifty-year-old man's physique was the very definition of a soldier's muscle, not a bodybuilder's. His muscles were dense like the roots of an ancient tree. He looked as if he were carved from the very earth of Götthain itself—hard, coarse, and uncompromising.
"The cold is an enemy," Gregor rumbled, his breath condensing into thick clouds. "It will slow your muscles, freeze your thoughts. Your task is not to endure it, but to forget it exists. Let it in, then burn it from within."
Albert nodded, his teeth chattering as he fought the shivers. He regulated his breath as Gregor had taught, drawing deep into his diaphragm, imagining the frigid air becoming fuel. But it was difficult. Dilan's body—the body that had frozen in a Ukrainian trench—screamed its protest from the depths of his memory.
"Today, we return to the beginning," Gregor said, rolling his massive shoulders. His voice was like stones grinding together. "Before the sword, before the armor. Your body is the first weapon and the last. Let us see how well you know it."
"Yes Sir."
Without warning, Gregor slid forward. It wasn't a thrilling burst of speed, but an efficient shift of weight. His hand—as large as a blacksmith's hammer—swung in a low, sweeping motion aimed at Albert's ribs.
Dilan's instincts, honed by years of training in his past life, flared to life. Every instinct screamed at once.
Albert did not retreat. He stepped in, letting the sweep pass by his body while his own arm rose—not to block, but to adhere and guide. His smaller palm met the massive wrist of Gregor, pushing it gently yet firmly, diverting the momentum sideways.
Tai-chi? The principle of Yielding? The thought flashed, but was instantly corrected. No. This was simpler, dirtier. It was the first principle taught by his grandfather in that sweat-and-sawdust smelling training room, a lifetime ago—in a different life.
"Good," grunted Gregor, slightly surprised. But he didn't stop. His body pivoted, his elbow jabbing toward Albert's ribs like a wooden cudgel.
Albert let himself fall—not a full collapse, but a rapid lowering of his center of gravity, evading the elbow. As he dropped, his right leg shot forward, sweeping at Gregor's ankle. It wasn't a graceful sweep; it was like a tree root suddenly growing to block a path.
Gregor stumbled, but his balance was phenomenal. He only wavered for a moment before, with a terrible reflexive action, he twisted his body and drove his elbow downward, right toward the half-crouched Albert.
Too close! Albert rolled to the side, feeling the rush of air as the elbow struck the frozen ground with a dull thud. He rose quickly, ready.
"Not bad," Gregor said, standing straight again. His blue-grey eyes narrowed. "But you avoid contact. In a real fight, distance is a luxury. Sometimes, the only choice is to accept a lesser blow to deliver a greater one."
He attacked again. This time, his assault was a relentless combination: a fist to the head which Albert parried with his forearm, a sharp pain shooting to the bone; a low kick to the shin which Albert deflected with his own foot, his bare foot going numb; then a sudden grab for the throat.
Here, Albert had to make a choice. Opposing Gregor's raw strength with his still-childish power was suicide. He had to use the martial system he learned in his past life.
A boring system. And a system that was lethal if used without restraint.
As Gregor's large hand closed toward his throat, Albert did not try to block it. Instead, he raised his own arm at an odd angle, not to obstruct, but to guide. His left arm met the inside of Gregor's forearm, pushing it outward by mere centimeters—just enough to make the fingers miss his throat and land on his shoulder instead. The pain was piercing, but not fatal.
And simultaneously, as Gregor's body opened up from the missed grab, Albert's right hand moved. Not with a swinging punch from the shoulder, but with a short, sharp thrust. His fingers were gathered tight, their tips aimed precisely at a point below Gregor's ribcage, slightly to the left.
He stopped. His touch was light, just a tap.
But in Albert's mind, the image was clear: the tips of his fingers, with all the momentum of his small body behind them, piercing the diaphragm, damaging the spleen, sending a shockwave that paralyzed.
In his past life, in his grandfather's grim training room, they called it the 'short heart stab'. But the target wasn't the heart; it was a cluster of nerves and vital organs. The effect: instant breathlessness, shock, inability to fight.
Gregor froze. His assault halted. He stared at the point on his body that had just been touched, then at Albert's face. The air between them grew immensely heavy.
"That..." Gregor slowly lowered his hand. His voice was low, filled with dangerous curiosity. "That is not a fighting technique I have seen before."
Albert took a step back, lowering his hands. His breath came in short, white puffs. "It is not for dueling," he said, his voice flat, suppressing the tremors from cold and adrenaline.
"What is it for, then?" Gregor asked, his eyes unblinking. There was a new light in them—not anger, but recognition of something foreign and potentially deadly.
"For stopping a threat. As quickly as possible. Vital points, weak spots, disabling or fatal injury." Albert looked at his reddened palm. "My grandfather taught it to me."
It was the truth, filtered through two lifetimes. Dilan's grandfather was indeed a former special forces soldier in Nusantara who had trained him from childhood.
"Merpati Putih" as a practical martial system was not designed for duels or beautiful movements, but for sensitivity, close-range reflexes, and rapidly terminating a threat by disabling an opponent's ability to continue an attack.
Its use in special forces environments showed this approach was effective in real conditions.
Gregor was silent for a long moment. Then, with a sudden movement, he raised his hand again—not to attack, but to beckon. "Show me. Slowly."
He might be surprised because Albert's grandfather had been dead for a long time...
They spent the next hour in the biting cold, moving in slow motion. Albert demonstrated the principles: using an opponent's momentum against them, always moving into the blind angle, attacks aimed not for bruising but for crippling—techniques for pressing the eyes, striking the throat, destroying the knee, locking the spine.
"Here," Albert indicated, placing his thumb gently in the hollow behind Gregor's ear. "Sufficient pressure will cause crippling headache and disorientation. Here," his finger moved to the spot below the floating rib. "Can rupture the spleen. Here," at the base of the throat above the collarbone, "can crush the windpipe or damage the artery."
Gregor listened, his face a stone mask. But Albert could see the wheels turning in the man's mind, assimilating this dark, efficient new knowledge. "This is... savage," Gregor murmured finally.
"Yes, Sir," Albert replied without apology. "It is for survival. Not for honor or pride. If this were not a training session," he met Gregor's gaze, "one of us might not be standing again."
The statement hung in the frozen air, a candid acknowledgment of the true nature of what Albert knew. Gregor looked at him for a long time, and Albert prepared to see disgust, or condemnation.
Instead, the old man nodded, slow and respectful. "I see. You are not training to be a knight, are you? You are training to be an executioner. Or to avoid being a victim."
"I am training to have a choice," Albert corrected. "When there is no sword, when there is no armor, when there are only bare hands and the intent to kill. I want the choice to remain alive."
Gregor let out a long sigh, exhaling it into the air. "Very well. Then teach me. Not everything. But the principles. If an enemy uses something like this—and on a chaotic battlefield, all dirty tricks are fair—I want to know how to counter it."
***
The training resumed. This time, they practiced countering those very techniques. How to anticipate attacks on vital points, ways to protect vulnerable areas while still attacking, how to use armor—even light armor—to shield those zones.
Gregor was a phenomenal mentor and student. His vast experience as a knight gave him the foundation to understand these brutal concepts. He quickly grasped the weaknesses in Albert's approach: the techniques relied on precision and close quarters. In an open duel with a strong, experienced opponent like himself, it was difficult to get the right opening.
"You need a distraction," Gregor mused after successfully deflecting Albert's tenth attack toward his groin. "Or you must be willing to take a hit to gain position. Like this."
He demonstrated, deliberately letting Albert's weak punch land on his stomach, then swiftly locking Albert's arm and twisting him, sending Albert sprawling hard onto his back.
Albert lay in the snow, winded. His chest heaved, his muscles screamed. But in his eyes was a fire. The fire of learning.
They continued training until the sun had fully risen, bathing the field in a pallid light that offered no warmth. Their bare torsos were flushed, steaming with sweat and the heat of their bodies battling the cold. Every inhalation felt like a knife in the lungs.
Finally, when Albert could barely lift his arms anymore, Gregor signaled a halt. "Enough. We continue tomorrow."
Albert nodded, too weary to speak. He stood up shakily, his body a canvas of blossoming blue bruises and red marks from grabs and strikes.
He felt every part of his twelve-year-old body—every muscle, every joint, every ache. But there was a deep satisfaction, a certainty that even though he had lost today's duel, he had demonstrated something valuable. He had tested his old martial system in this new world, and while imperfect, it was still valid.
As he bent to pick up his tunic from a snowbank, he heard the sound of light footsteps.
"You look like a living statue of ice."
Albert turned. Alena stood at the edge of the training ground, wrapped in a thick white fur cloak, her pale face peeking from within the hood. Her cheeks were pink from the cold, and her light brown eyes were wide, taking in Albert's bruised, steaming form.
She carried a large, clean linen cloth, neatly folded in her gloved hands.
Albert quickly pulled on his longer training trousers, but his upper body remained bare. He felt no shame—shame was another luxury he couldn't afford—but he felt strange under the girl's intense scrutiny.
"Lady Alena," he said, giving a slight bow. "What brings you out into this piercing air?"
"Curiosity," Alena answered frankly, stepping closer. Her eyes didn't leave the pattern of bruises on Albert's shoulder and arm. "And... this." She offered the cloth. "A servant said you would be training early. I thought you might be chilled after."
Albert was taken aback. He accepted the cloth. The material was rough and simple, but warm, likely kept near a hearth. "Thank you," he said, his voice coming out huskier than he intended.
He began wiping the sweat and melted snow from his skin. The sensation of the warm cloth on his cold, sore skin was profoundly odd.
He watched Alena watching Sir Gregor, who was calmly donning his shirt, paying them no mind. Her expression was unreadable.
"He teaches you harshly," Alena commented finally.
"He teaches me correctly," Albert countered. "Harshness is the consequence."
Alena nodded, as if she understood. Then, in a suddenly lighter, almost teasing tone, she said, "So, does the living ice statue have plans after it thaws?"
Albert frowned. "I will bathe, then breakfast, then perhaps the library. Why?"
"I wish to see your village," said Alena. "Steinbach. You mentioned it yesterday. And... I wish for you to be the one to show me."
Albert froze, the cloth stopping on his back. "Now? In this winter? There is nothing to see but snow-covered roofs and people huddled by hearths."
"Precisely why I wish to see it," Alena insisted. Her eyes shone with a peculiar determination. "I want to see how your people—our people," she corrected herself with a slight flush, "survive the winter. My castle in Lanser is high in the mountains, far from the villages. I only see numbers in reports: wood stores, grain, winter deaths. I have never... seen it directly."
There was an authenticity in her request that moved Albert. This wasn't the whim of a noble girl on an excursion. This was the curiosity of a future leader—or at least, someone realizing she would one day bear responsibility.
And there was something else. A desire to see his world.
"Very well," Albert said after a moment's consideration. "But you must dress very warmly. Warmer than this. And we will walk. A carriage would draw too much attention and make us seem... separate."
The smile that blossomed on Alena's face was warmer than the cloth in Albert's hands. "I will be ready within the hour."