Zachary was limping back to his room after having dinner post-training. In the final moments, he'd gotten overconfident—and Eddard had punished him for it. 'That damn old man. Even while I was mimicking Dahrio's techniques, he still managed to beat the shit out of me.'
He was amazed at how Eddard, despite having the body of a mundane human, could exert more power than he should have been capable of—pushing him, a Dormant Human, to his limits.
Zachary arrived at his room and immediately sat cross-legged on the floor. This position, combined with controlled breathing, allowed him to use his perception in a more focused and precise way. His entire body ached. The way Eddard had struck him—limiting his power but hitting the most precise spots—still baffled him. He recalled how Cassie had looked worried over dinner, her eyes drawn to the sound of his limping steps.
He used this time to internalize what he had learned. Eddard's teachings might have seemed like senseless beatings… maybe they were. But they also had a clear purpose. The martial art Eddard used on him was extremely basic and simple, yet the old man possessed an abnormal level of insight, allowing him to wield it with creative precision. It also had strong foundations—something Zachary now realized he lacked.
This became even more apparent when he attempted to use Dahrio's movements. They were complex and full of deeper purpose—and Zachary had failed to use them correctly. Eddard had noticed, of course. Experiencing both styles firsthand had been an enormous help, showing Zachary where he stood and what he was missing. He continued meditating on these insights when an uncomfortable sensation in his stomach began to rise. He frowned, trying to ignore it, but the feeling only grew stronger.
Finally, he let out a resigned sigh and walked toward the bathroom. "Nature calls, huh?"
After a couple of minutes, Zachary returned to his original spot with a strange look on his face. "Now that I think about it, none of the novels I've read ever address the topic of going to the bathroom. They always skip over the fact that—even in the wild, or in the worst of places—you still have to do it." Zachary couldn't help but lampoon the idea. "But this isn't a novel. This is my real life now."
"Teacher Julius said this was on the curriculum, but I'll be honest—I still feel uncomfortable thinking about doing that in the Forgotten Shore. I come from a time where, even if you went camping in the wild, you could still carry a few commodities with you." He grimaced with dry amusement.
"As a Dormant Human, I still need to perform my bodily functions... Do Saints even go to the restroom?" He quickly circled back to the real topic.
"My Aspect Ability says I can exert control over myself. So… can I control my body to stop needing to go at all?" Zachary wondered aloud, turning his focus inward.
His body perception was flawless. He could feel every part of himself. Suddenly, he recalled something Eddard had said: "Preoccupied with a single leaf, you will miss the tree." At the time, he'd waited for correction. But maybe doing it with purpose was the real way forward.
Zachary calmed his breath and emptied his mind. He began focusing on the moment—becoming fully self-aware. He focused first on the larger parts of his body, then dove deeper: muscles, joints, the blood flowing through them. He followed the bloody stream, tracing how it flowed from the highest points to the lowest, irrigating with life every corner of his being.
And through this, he found his answer. "I won't be able to stop my gastric system," Zachary said with confidence—not defeated, but thoughtful. A slight smile crept across his face. "But I think I can work with something else."
***
Days passed, and the Solstice was drawing closer. Zachary took his now-usual seat at Cassie's table, setting down his tray of food.
Cassie turned her face in his direction, a questioning look crossing her features. "You're eating more than usual."
Zachary raised an eyebrow and glanced at his tray. What she said was true—it held nearly double, maybe even triple, the food he used to take. "You noticed."
Cassie smiled slightly. "My hearing's been getting better. The tray sounded heavier."
Zachary nodded in understanding. "Yeah, I recently realized I've been out of shape, so I decided to bulk up a little and build some muscle."
What he said was true. During his meditations, he'd noticed that his body was in worse condition than he'd thought—likely a consequence of the Original One's poor diet, given his circumstances. So to help his body reach Balance faster, Zachary had been hitting the gym.
"Man, I'm telling you. You should see the Academy gym—it's out of this world," he said offhandedly, still a bit awestruck by the equipment.
"See?" Cassie asked, arching an eyebrow.
"Shit. You know what I mean. The equipment in there is not from this place." Zachary corrected himself quickly.
Cassie chuckled, a little guiltily. "I know. But I was curious. How many classes are you taking?"
"Actually, just two. Wilderness Survival in the morning, and Basic Combat with a… particular instructor in the afternoon," Zachary answered, then grimaced. "But it feels like I've taken a full semester already. Teacher Julius takes up half the day for himself—grumbling that it's not enough time—and Instructor Eddard abuses—I mean, teaches me—almost until midnight."
Zachary gave a long, tired sigh before continuing. "I just barely manage to wash up before passing out, only to wake up early and drag myself to the gym."
Cassie 'looked' at him with a mix of bewilderment and something close to envy before offering a few supportive words and returning to her breakfast. Zachary didn't blame her—she spent most of her day just trying to adapt to her Flaw.
After finishing his meal, Zachary headed off to meet with Teacher Julius. Most of the time was spent learning how to craft a variety of objects from different materials—ranging from simple survival tools to basic weapons. Julius excused the lessons by saying, "One cannot always rely on Memories." Once they were done, Zachary made his way directly to the worn and distant training room, where Eddard was already waiting for him.
"You're late, kiddo," the old man said with fake annoyance.
Over the past few days, their training had focused solely on hand-to-hand combat. Eddard had explained that, moving forward, Zachary would need to use his body as a single, unified organism. The martial art they practiced was perfectly suited to that goal—with efficient movements and a heavy focus on fundamentals. Through repetition and ...direct experience, Zachary had finally begun to wield his body not just through his Ability, but through instinct and control.
"I think we've had enough of hand-to-hand combat for now," Eddard said, a strange humor in his voice. "If you keep practicing on your own—and add that Battle Art you stole from the Nightmare—you'll reach a higher realm soon enough."
He paused, then continued with a smirk. "Now we'll move on to armed combat. Thanks to The Spell, you Awakened ones don't lack weapons. So, tell me—do you have a preferred one?"
'Stole? You damn—' Zachary quickly calmed himself before answering.
"I haven't actually trained with any kind of weapon before, to be honest. But I did get a sword Memory in my Nightmare," he said, then paused as he remembered what Nephis told Sunny in the novel. "And I also heard that the sword is the king of weapons."
"King of weapons? Hahahaha!" Eddard repeated with clear surprise before bursting into thunderous laughter. "Hahaha, what a joke! Where did you hear such bullshit?"
Zachary didn't answer, momentarily struck speechless—but it seemed Eddard wasn't expecting a reply.
"That's such an amateur thing to say. Do you really want to know what weapon is the king of weapons?" Eddard asked seriously, locking eyes with Zachary. Zachary could only nod.
"The one that lets you kill your opponent while keeping yourself alive. Hell, even your teeth and nails will be the king of weapons if they help you survive." Eddard's voice was firm, carrying the weight of experience. "Ingrave this into your mind, kiddo—there is no king of weapons."
With that, he turned and walked to the weapon rack by the wall, grabbing two training swords.
"But well, this actually works really well," he added, tossing one of the swords toward Zachary, who caught it without much trouble.
"After all," Eddard said with a small grin, "the sword is my greatest strength." He declared as he began instructing Zachary. "Now place your right hand on top and your left hand on the bottom."
Zachary followed the instruction, gripping the sword with less awkwardness this time, but Eddard just raised an eyebrow.
"Why are you holding it so tightly?"
Zachary hesitated before answering, "So that I don't lose it."
Eddard scoffed lightly. "Cover yourself."
Before Zachary could react, Eddard's sword struck his with a loud clang that echoed through the room.
"Aghh!" Zachary groaned as pain radiated from his hand to his wrist. Eddard just clicked his tongue.
"Listen, kiddo. If you're too stiff, you'll snap—just like a branch." He then showed him how he held his own sword. "Look. Your grip must be natural—firm, but at the same time, flexible."
Zachary watched Eddard's hands closely—how the sword rested naturally in his palms, how his fingers wrapped around it with stern efficiency. He adjusted his own grip, mimicking the motion.
Eddard gave a small nod of approval. "Good. Now, onto swordsmanship," he said while getting into position. "The three basic attacks with a sword are the slice, thrust, and slash." He demonstrated each movement with flawless precision.
"Blocking is done with the edge—but the broadside can also be used if it's a well-made sword. You don't usually worry about this when using a Memory."
Then, without warning, he pointed the training sword in Zachary's direction.
Zachary gulped without realizing it. He felt it in his bones and senses—even with a training weapon, Eddard was a deadly figure. But the old man continued, unbothered.
"The shortest distance that can be reached between myself and the opponent is called the 'line of attack.' And sword fighting," he added, "is all about obstructing your opponent's line of attack… and extending your own."
"You must imagine your opponent's lines in your head before swinging your sword," Eddard declared. "Now raise your sword, kiddo."
For the next couple of minutes, Zachary attacked Eddard—or at least tried to. Every time his blade was about to land, Eddard's sword appeared from nowhere to block the strike, all while the old man remained standing tall, barely moving from his spot.
Eddard busied himself correcting Zachary's posture—the movement of his shoulders, the spacing of his elbows, the way he stood, and how to control his center of gravity. Thanks to his Body Control , Zachary was able to apply the corrections immediately.
After a few more minutes, Eddard gave a small nod and smiled—a smile that gave Zachary a bad feeling. "Good. I think we can begin."
'Haven't we already started?' Zachary thought, but before he could ask, Eddard spoke again.
"The more of me you take, the more you leave behind. What am I?" he asked, face still calm and unreadable.
"What?" Zachary blinked, when he suddenly felt danger.
{_^_}
Without warning, instead of blocking, Eddard's sword struck his arm with force. "Wrong answer."
"Aghh!" Zachary cried out, dropping his weapon. He scrambled to retrieve it, then turned to look at Eddard with confusion and pain—but the old man only gestured for him to continue.
Zachary did, resuming the exchange of strikes and parries. As before, Eddard didn't budge from his position, effortlessly turning away every attempt.
Then, Eddard spoke again.
"I have cities, but no houses. I have mountains, but no trees. I have water, but no fish. What am I?"
Zachary felt the danger spike again.
He tried to step back, to create distance—but Eddard's hand shot out, grabbing him by the collar of his uniform. With a practiced movement, the pommel of Eddard's sword slammed into Zachary's side. A low, breathless growl was the only answer Zachary gave.
"Wrong answer," was all the old man said.
Zachary gave Eddard a questioning, slightly enraged look, but the old man remained as impassive as ever. With a refound burst of frustration, Zachary redoubled his efforts, striking harder—though still in vain.
After a few more exchanges, Eddard spoke again.
"I speak without a mouth and hear without ears. I have no body, but I come alive with wind. What am I?"
Zachary's mind reeled… then suddenly clicked. 'I've heard this one before.' Without missing a beat, he shouted:
"An echo!"
Eddard's only response was a grin. "Left shoulder."
'What?' Zachary barely had time to react before a strike came flying toward him. Acting on pure reflex, he angled his sword downward to guard his shoulder—and blocked it cleanly.
"Good, good, you're sharp," Eddard said with approval. "You see, a sharp body is necessary—but a sharp mind, one that can wield it with creativity and precision, that will be your true weapon."
He stepped back to his original spot and gestured.
"Now get into position, kiddo."
'So every time he asks a riddle, it means there'll be an attack. Knowing where it'll land depends on my answer.' Zachary thought as he got into position—before another realization struck. 'This is different from the situation with that Legacy Sleeper. Eddard's threat is so intense it overwhelms my perception… it clouds the precision of it.'
With a quick shake of his head, Zachary pushed forward, doing everything he could to land a hit. He thrust, slashed, even threw in a few feints—but it was all for nothing. The old man might as well have had eyes on the back of his head.
And every few moves, without pattern or rhythm, Eddard tossed out another riddle.
"The more of me there is, the less you see. What am I?"
"Darkness."
"Chest." Clang. The sound of steel meeting steel.
"I am always hungry. I must always be fed. The finger I touch will soon turn red. What am I?"
"Fire!"
"Neck."
'Son of a bitch!' was all Zachary had time to think as he barely blocked. His mind burned. He struggled to find an opening, track the unpredictable timing of the riddles, fight off the instinct to retreat, and still answer correctly—all at once. It was overwhelming. But thanks to his Ability, his mind held firm.
"I am the parent of knowledge, yet I grow when you do not know me. What am I?"
"Ignorance."
"Wrong. A question." And the dull edge of the blade landed hard against his ribs.
"I am not made, only known. I can free you or chain you. You carry me, though I weigh nothing. What am I?"
"Guilt."
"Eyes."
"I was your first possession. You did not choose me, yet you wore me like skin. You lost me, but I still follow you. What am I?"
Zachary hesitated.
"Wrong. Your name."
He gritted his teeth, pain and regret flashing through him. 'A little personal, don't you think?' But he didn't voice it. He just kept going, stuck in this vicious dance of blades and riddles. Most of the time, he managed to answer correctly—but when he failed, the punishment was swift and sharp.
Then, unexpectedly, Eddard's voice cut through with a different kind of riddle.
"Good, good. Then riddle me this, kiddo… What's in my pocket?"
***
Days passed, and Zachary's training continued. The sword technique he was learning from Eddard was the most basic of them all—focused entirely on the fundamentals. It was clearly limited, with defined edges and no room for direct advancement. But that didn't matter. The purpose of this technique wasn't growth; it was to serve as a solid foundation, strong enough for the user to build further techniques on their own.
He improved steadily, even in answering the riddles. Though he never managed to solve the final one. No matter what answer he gave, he was always punished. He still remembered being hit twice as hard when he jokingly answered, "Pocket sand."
Over time, through scattered conversations during their training, Zachary learned something more about Eddard. He hadn't just en part of a Special Forces unit during the Fall of the Nightmare Spell along with the First Generation—he had been part of the First Generation, despite being a mundane human.
He learned this when Eddard spoke of how he had first taken up the sword. He explained that in the early days of the Nightmare Spell, with the collapse of media and the disappearance of modern resources, the newly Awakened had to look inward—to what they already knew. And what they knew were martial arts.
It worked. Martial arts helped the Awakened adapt to their powers more easily. In some cases, they even complemented their abilities. But things weren't so simple. The martial arts of the old world were designed for one thing only: human vs. human conflict. And in the face of monsters, abominations, and other Awakened, those arts quickly became inefficient and clumsy. That's where Eddard came in.
Even as a mundane, his insight into the art of combat was second to none. He worked side by side with the Awakened of the First Generation, helping them polish and create new Battle Arts. Hell, he even created one of his own.
"This is no otherworldly swordsmanship," Eddard began. "You must've already noticed—but the only strength of this style is its solid foundation." He spoke carelessly, but Zachary knew he was lying. Not because he could read the old man, but because he had been experiencing the style firsthand.
"But that's not entirely true, is it?" Zachary probed. An arched eyebrow was the only response, prompting him to continue. "Yes, this swordsmanship is clearly limited… but these limits—they're a sign. A sign that there's a road forward."
He was speaking from experience. While sparring with Eddard, there were moments—brief, fleeting—when some movements gave him a strange lightness. No, more like an intuition… as if something more was just within reach, but the insight always slipped away before he could grasp it.
Eddard looked at him with unreadable eyes before speaking. "How many limits did you feel?"
That was the confirmation Zachary had been waiting for. "Four… no, five of them."
Eddard gave a tired, almost defeated smile as he placed his training sword back on the rack. "I hadn't expected you to realize it this early. Yes, this sword style is not an ordinary one."
He pulled a dusty chair from near the wall and gestured for Zachary to take a seat.
"You must've already noticed—mastering this style perfectly grants its user five special moves: a heavy strike born from exact muscle tension, a fast thrust created by complete relaxation, a strike that hits blind spots after a feint, a combination of honest movements that confront the opponent directly, and a counterattack that follows a deflect." Eddard counted them off, raising a finger for each.
"That's no coincidence. When I helped the First Generation develop their styles, I realized something. Every form of swordsmanship can be divided into five core categories."
He straightened slightly, voice becoming firm.
"I named them:
The Righteous Sword—a just and intricate technique, luring the opponent with fair and exact movements.
The Heavy Sword—a hulking, weighty technique, it utilizes its strenght to cut through everything and dominate the opponent.
The Bewitching Sword—a deceptive technique, it tricks the opponent with feints and illusions.
The Swift Sword—a fast, relentless technique, it drowns the enemy in speed.
The Gentle Sword—a flowing, soft technique that parries and retaliates with grace."
Eddard finished, a little out of breath.
"Every sword technique out there falls into these five categories. Even the best among them are just different blends of these doctrines. But at their core—they're the same."
He let out a long sigh. "I created this style with that in mind. I believed… if someone could form an indomitable foundation, and then climb to the peak of each of these five paths, they'd be able to return to the starting point—now carrying the strength of them all."
Eddard looked up at the ceiling of the training room, but his eyes weren't focused there. They were fixed on something far beyond it. "I knew it was possible, but this body of mine only allowed me to envision an Imaginary Realm."
"As a mundane human, I could only build the foundation. Maybe if I had Awakened, I would've been able to at least pave the road to each style separately," Eddard finished, shaking his head lightly.
Zachary was baffled. He had sensed this wasn't a normal sword technique, but being told it could transform into the pinnacle of swordsmanship was something else entirely. "How—how many others know this technique?" Zachary asked.
"Only you and me, kiddo. When I realized I wouldn't be able to go further, I shared my ideas and style with most of my contemporaries. But they dismissed the idea, claiming I had no proof," Eddard said with a mocking grin.
"What?! That doesn't make any sense! I know it's not finished, but this style has enough foundation to prove it's possible!" Zachary argued, almost rising from his chair.
"Calm down, kiddo," Eddard said, waving a hand. "Those comments didn't come from underestimating me. You're still too young and inexperienced to understand, but most Awakened strive for a grander goal: a Transcendent Battle Art." He stood and began dusting off his clothes.
"A Transcendent Battle Art is the culmination of an Awakened's potential—strengths and philosophy born from climbing the Path of Ascension. Most never even reach the first steps of it. Yes, this technique promises great strength through mastery, but that's the thing—it only promises. What if someone trains in this and reaches its peak, only to realize their abilities can't keep up? Or worse, what if they neglect their other abilities chasing this dream?"
He sighed before continuing. "The truth is, the risks of learning and developing this technique far outweigh the rewards it might bring. At the end of the day, why chase an Imaginary Realm when even reaching a known one is already so difficult?"
Zachary remained silent, seated. He felt something stirring in his chest, and finally spoke. "Are you telling me this beca—"
But Eddard quickly cut him off. "No, no, no. I've long accepted that reaching the Imaginary Realms is a Fool's Errand. I only taught you this technique because, despite its shortcomings, the foundation it provides will help you immensely moving forward." He finished putting the last of the training materials away. But Zachary could only laugh inwardly.
'A Fool's Errand? Doesn't that make me the perfect man for the job?' he thought, as a strong determination bloomed inside him. "Does this technique have a name?" Zachary asked, rising from his chair and raising his sword to eye level.
"I call it Simple Sword," Eddard said, as if it were nothing.
What a fitting name, Zachary muttered inwardly, then looked at his teacher. "I won't promise you I'll reach that realm, but I swear to you—I'll aspire to prove you right," he said with conviction.
Eddard looked at him for a long moment before giving him an honest smile."That's enough for me, Zachary."
And with those words, the Solstice was finally here.