Chapter 42: Enlightenment?
The wall was still six days away. First, they had to reach the River crossing, which was four days away, and then two more beyond that.
The old knight looked at the sky. The sun was still two hands above the treeline. By the column’s usual pace, that meant another six miles of road.
But the young master was now ordering them to stop. If they stopped now, then they would probably have to extend the travel at worst case one or two days.
"It’s too early for a stop, young master."
"I know it’s early. I want to see the result of the enlightenment - let’s use the daylight for training."
Gareth thought for a moment before nodding.
"Understood."
He signalled a stop, and soon the entity party came to a halt. Since the provisions were now being carried in the cart, they no longer needed to worry about anything.
Jin, or rather, Encrid Gannon, dismounted the carriage, and that alone made three of the watching bandits exchange glances, because somehow he looked more noble than when he had boarded the carriage.
The group made camp in a clearing off the road. While Merta bullied the cooking fires into life and Fennick wandered off to check the treeline out of habit, Encrid walked to the open ground at the clearing’s edge, drew the sword Corvan had packed for him a lifetime ago, and stood with it.
He had held this sword before. It had always felt like a heavy, unfriendly piece of metal that belonged to someone else.
But now it didn’t feel that way. It felt familiar.
Encrid swung the sword a few times to get the hang of it before he took the stance and concentrated.
’First Form,’ he thought. ’Falling Talon.’
He didn’t remember learning the name. It was simply there in his mind, the way his own name was there, carrying a weight and a history that did not belong to him. Nine generations of Gannons had cut this same line in a thousand cold courtyards.
He stepped, and cut.
The blade came down in one clean line from high to low and stopped exactly where it was meant to stop.
There was no wobble or drunken bird.
Encrid stood still, looking at the sword at the end of its arc, listening to his own heartbeat.
’Again.’
The second cut was better. His weight arrived on the blade at the same moment as the edge, and he felt it happen. He felt the mechanics click together properly for the first time in his life.
’So this is what it was like for Gus,’ he thought. ’This whole time. This is what it felt like from the inside.’
It wasn’t mastery.
He could feel the limits clearly. E rank meant a competent beginner, a man about two years into honest training, and his body still lagged behind the knowledge - his muscles arrived late to positions his mind had already reached. When he tried the Second Form at speed, the transitions fell apart, and he had to slow down and walk through them step by step.
But he understood them now. That was the difference. For two weeks he had been copying shapes without knowing what they meant.
But now he knew.
He worked through the First Form eight times and the Second Form twice, and he was setting his feet for another pass when he noticed the clearing had gone quiet.
He turned around.
Sir Gareth stood ten paces away, and his face displayed an expression that was hard to understand.
"Young master," the old knight said carefully. "Do that again, please."
Encrid did it again.
Sir Gareth watched the Falling Talon come down - the step, the hip, the weight, the line - and then stood in silence for three long breaths.
"I didn’t know you were proficient in the Gannon Family’s swordsmanship. I have just been teaching you the basics."
The old knight said, openly taken aback.
Encrid gave a dry laugh at that.
"Even I wasn’t aware of this fact, Sir Gareth!"
He lowered the sword as he let out a breath.
"I told you what it was," he said. "Enlightenment. I don’t understand it any better than you do. But I’m not going to waste it."
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Encrid trained with Sir Gareth till the light died. The Old Knight dropped the basics without a word and moved straight into real corrections - the kind he gave to men worth correcting - while Gus drilled his own forms four paces away and kept stealing glances at his master with pure, delighted disbelief.
By the time Merta banged the ladle against the pot, Encird’s arms were trembling, his palms were raw, and he was happier than he had been since arriving in this world.
He sat by the fire with his bowl, aching in a satisfied way.
[ Gannon Family Swordsmanship: E (0%) → E (2%) ]
’Two percent in one evening.’ He worked his stiff fingers around the spoon. ’At this rate, with real training on top of it-’
Just when Encrid was overjoyed and getting ahead of himself - he saw him.
Across the fire, the silent boy sat with his wrapped sword across his knees, and Encrid realized those steel-grey eyes had been watching him the whole time. Not warily.
But hungrily.
The same way Gus had once watched knights from a stable loft.
’Right, there was this monster.’
The sword saint - a genius beyond common sense. The boy probably would have registered both the forms he had practiced in his head and might display them with more proficiency than he had.
Encrid realized that he couldn’t be complacent with such monstrous talents surrounding him.
He lifted his bowl slightly towards the boy. It was a small gesture.
The boy got frustrated and looked away at once.
But for half a second before he turned - Jin would have bet the entire salvaged fortune in the cart on this - that the corner of that small, cracked mouth had moved - almost as if he wanted to say something to Encrid.
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