The silence of the night wrapped the room like a thick cloak, and only the soft breathing of Astrid and Isis filled the space. Lying between them, Aziz kept his eyes open, fixed on the high, ornate ceiling, but his mind was far away.
The mories of the duel with Sofia still played out in his head. The movents, the impacts of the wooden swords, the exchanged glances... But above all, what stayed with him was the technique. The "Fundantal Essence of the Sword". A simple, almost naive na, yet what he had felt when receiving it was vast — too deep to be described in words.
Aziz slowly closed his eyes.
"System... take to the Dream Space. I want to start testing this technique."
[Ding! Access to Dream Space initiated...]
Darkness enveloped him like a warm embrace. The physical world seed to dissolve in layers, and for a mont, Aziz felt suspended in a void — without a body, without ti, only consciousness. Then, a bluish mist began to take shape around him, expanding in spirals until it ford the new scene.
It was always like this.
The Dream Space materialized as a large clearing surrounded by a starless night sky, where the light seed to co from nowhere and everywhere at once. The ground was made of a smooth, dark stone that softly reflected his steps, and the air carried a subtle scent of smoke and ancient wood.
Aziz looked around, feeling that familiar strangeness settle in. There were no sounds beyond his own breathing. No wind. No insects. No birds. Just space. And him.
"Ti here flows differently... twice as slow as in the real world," he murmured to himself. "I need to make the most of it."
He snapped his fingers. "System, show the technique."
No response ca, as usual whenever he was not directly interacting with the interface.
But then... sothing moved.
On the other side of the clearing, a figure erged from the mist. Tall, slender, and completely wrapped in dense shadows, with no defined features. It had no face, no clothes, but its silhouette resembled that of a swordsman. A long, elegant sword appeared in its hand — made of pure spectral light, almost translucent.
Aziz felt a shiver run down his spine.
The figure said nothing. It only assud the initial stance with supernatural fluidity. Feet placed at the exact distance, shoulders relaxed, a firm grip, controlled breathing. And then... it began to move.
It was beautiful. Almost hypnotic.
Each strike flowed into the next as if they were part of a single breath. A horizontal arc made way for a light retreat, followed by a sharp thrust and then a full-body spin ending with a clean, firm sideways cut.
The figure moved as if dancing, but without exaggeration. No energy wasted. No hesitation. Only precision.
Aziz watched in absolute silence, eyes fixed. His heart beat slowly, as if his body tried to keep pace with the rhythm of that silent style. At the end of the sequence, the figure returned to the starting position, as if nothing had happened — and then simply dissipated into particles of mist.
Aziz stepped forward. Then another step. He breathed deeply.
"All right..."
He closed his eyes for a second and tried to replicate what he had seen.
He assud the stance as best as he could rember: feet apart, sword in hand, controlled breathing.
But sothing was wrong from the start.
His first movent was hesitant. The horizontal cut ca out crooked. The thrust was too forceful. The final spin lost its balance center. He corrected, adapted, tried again... but it wasn’t the sa. It was just an imitation.
Ti passed slowly inside there, and Aziz kept repeating the movents.
Once, twice, ten, twenty tis.
Sweat ran down his forehead. The sword — even if illusory — weighed on his arms as if it were real. His muscles burned. His mind throbbed.
"It’s not right..."
He stopped, panting.
"I don’t understand... just copying."
He sat down on the dark stone floor, leaving the sword beside him.
The Dream Space remained in absolute silence.
Aziz rested his elbows on his knees and hid his face between his hands for a mont.
’It’s frustrating... I thought it would be different. That receiving a technique ant knowing how to use it. But it’s not.’
He raised his gaze again, staring into the void.
’This technique isn’t just a sequence of moves. It’s a path.’
And yet, he did not give up.
He stood up, planted his feet firmly on the ground, and started again.
This ti, without rush.
Without trying to get it right imdiately.
Just feeling.
He let his body guide the movents as he rembered from the shadowy figure. Each cut was more restrained, less raw. The spins beca smoother. The breathing... closer to the right rhythm.
And, almost imperceptibly, sothing changed.
It was still not perfect. Not even good. But there was *sothing* there. A beginning. A seed.
Aziz felt the progress. Small, almost insignificant, but real.
A slight smile ford on his lips.
"It’s a start."
---
Outside, in the real world, the night advanced slowly.
Astrid awoke for a brief mont, her light blue eyes shining in the dimness. She watched Aziz asleep between her and Isis. Despite the deep sleep, there was sothing in his expression — as if his dreams demanded more effort than they should.
She leaned slightly and ran her fingers through the boy’s white hair.
"You are made of sothing rare, my little one..."
Then she embraced him gently and lay back down, in silence.
---
Inside the Dream Space, Aziz was still training.
The shadowy figure had appeared once again, as if the system had read his persistence. The sa sequence. The sa fluidity.
This ti, Aziz didn’t rush to imitate. He just watched. As if trying to absorb the essence behind the gestures, not just the external form.
When the figure vanished, he closed his eyes.
’It’s not about morizing... it’s about *understanding*. The flow. The rhythm. The reason behind each step.’
He took the initial stance.
Inhaled.
And began again.
The sound of his own breathing beca his rhythm. The surrounding space — vast, misty, silent — seed to shape itself to his focus, as if the world obeyed the pace of his mind. He moved his feet, raised the sword, and executed the first strike, aiming not to imitate, but to feel.
The wooden blade cut the air with a clean movent, yet still stiff.
"More lightness. Less rigidity."
The phrase ca from him, in a muffled whisper. And then, as if provoked by the sincere attempt, the system decided to manifest:
[You have a special talent, you know? It’s almost comical to see soone repeat the sa mistake so many tis and still try again, as if they’ll get it right next ti.]
Aziz raised an eyebrow, maintaining his stance. "You’re enjoying this, aren’t you?"
[A little. It’s like watching a pup try to hunt for the first ti. Stumbling, tripping... but with those determined eyes.]
He took a deep breath, trying to ignore the entity’s provocative tone. Still, there was sothing different in the way the system spoke. Behind the usual irony, Aziz sensed... a slight admiration.
"If you have any useful advice, now would be a good ti."
[You’re still trying to understand with your muscles sothing that starts with perception. It’s not about how you move your arm or where you step... but why.]
"I’ve noticed that already."
[Noticing isn’t the sa as feeling. And feeling isn’t the sa as understanding.]
Aziz stayed silent. He knew arguing with the system was useless. Instead, he turned back to the technique. He restarted the first move, slower this ti. He felt the wood of the sword, the weight in his grip, the pressure on his feet. And tried to feel... the "why."
One step forward. Wrist spin. Half-moon cut. Return to base.
He failed. Again.
But he stood firm.
Again.
And again.
Ti flowed strangely there. Each attempt seed to last minutes, and yet, he didn’t feel the body’s natural fatigue. Only the ntal one. In the real world, maybe a few minutes had passed... but in the Dream Space, Aziz had been training for nearly an hour.
[You’re starting to breathe with the movent. That’s new.]
"A complint? You’re going to make cry."
[Don’t get carried away. You still look like a little bird sneezing wind with its wings. But it’s a stubborn bird.]
Aziz smiled lightly, more from the feeling of progress than from the provocation. The system could mock all it wanted, but that last phrase had given him sothing: confirmation he was on the right path, even if only at the beginning.
He closed his eyes once more.
’Focus on the flow. Let the body follow the intention. Don’t control... allow.’
The next sequence of movents was not perfect. Far from it. But there was sothing new. A slight fluidity between the second and third strike. A natural fit, as if his muscles had finally understood the gesture without needing him to command them.
And then he stopped.
He stood still for a few monts, feeling what he had done.
"That was it?"
[It was... a step.]
"But a step I took. Without copying anyone."
[Yes. For the first ti, you moved not like soone trying to learn a technique... but like soone trying to express themselves through it.]
Aziz said nothing. He didn’t need to.
He kept training. Sequence after sequence. Sotis going back to the start. Sotis failing halfway through. But failing consciously. Correcting patiently. And little by little, the technique ceased to be a set of orders to follow, and began to beco a language — a way of saying sothing without words.
The mist around seed to vibrate lightly, responding to each well-executed movent. It was subtle, almost imperceptible. But Aziz noticed. The Dream Space reacted. As if recognizing the effort, as if approving it.
[Interesting... very interesting.]
"Are you surprised?"
[Yes. And no. Most would have given up after the sixth attempt without progress. You didn’t.]
"Because it’s not about achieving a quick result. It’s about achieving the right one."
[You’re starting to look like a true practitioner.]
Ti kept flowing outside. But in the Dream Space, Aziz had already surpassed two hours of training. Sweat ran down his temple, even though his physical body was not there. His muscles, or at least their sensation, were tense. ntal fatigue accumulated.
He knelt for a mont, placing his hands on the ground.
He breathed deeply. Then once more.
"I won’t stop."
[You don’t need to.]
He stood up once again.
The shadowy figure reappeared before him. Silent. Subtle. And repeated the technique with a slight variation — an axis adjustnt, a wrist tilt, a different timing between strikes. Aziz watched with sharpened attention.
This ti, he didn’t imitate imdiately.
"Show the why of this."
The figure did not respond, as always. It only executed the sequence once more.
Aziz then closed his eyes and tried to reconstruct in his mind the logic of what he had seen. The weight shift, the purpose of that spin, the reach of the strike... everything had a reason, and he needed to feel it, not just copy it.
With eyes still closed, he restarted.
And for the first ti, he completed the entire sequence without stumbling on his own steps.
He stood silently, sword lowered, breathing steady.
The system’s voice sounded lower, more serious.
[Now you’re no longer just trying to learn a technique. You’re trying to understand it from the inside out.]
Aziz opened his eyes.
"I’m still far from it."
[Yes. But today, you started walking.]
And for the first ti in that space, Aziz smiled without irony. Without exhaustion. A sincere smile.
He turned around and walked to the center of the misty field. He was no longer fighting the technique, but walking with it.
There, in that world shaped by dreams and silence, the sound of his steps was almost imperceptible — but each one marked the beginning of a new path. A path that was his alone.
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