Chapter 55
Ten Strikes
Sylas was bent over, heaving, feeling as though his entire body would collapse at any moment. His lungs were on fire, his legs were made out of the lead, and his brain was incapable of stringing together a comprehensive thought. This was all a result of him having run, jumped, and swung a blade for over twelve hours with infrequent, a few minutes long breaks. It had completely broken his body down, and he'd hit his limit. Not even the knowledge that he had limited time to make changes was enough to unbreak him.
Sitting down, he settled for a few minutes, some of the body's abilities recovering. He could at least see once again, and move his arm—however slightly—to fetch himself some water and wet the parched throat. He knew what he was doing wasn't optimal—long-term, the best way to build a body was through bursts. However, he didn't really have long-term—he had to go all-in. Even still, he knew, he couldn't push himself like this anymore—he suspected that all body modifications, both positive and negative, would stay. If he crippled himself, wouldn't that make his entire life completely miserable, even with the loop?
Nonetheless, the grueling workout sessions that he'd been religiously abiding by for nearly fifteen days now have yielded benefits. He was strong—not just stronger, but genuinely strong. He could easily heave nearly a hundred-pound trunks over his shoulder and carry them—not for long, but still carry them. It was a fascinating change facilitated entirely by his utter disregard of sanity and safety.
But it wasn't enough, he knew. Though he was strong, he was still weak. Weak compared to Tebek, compared to Tenner, and especially to Derrek and Dyn. To try and close the gap, he also attempted to use magic as means to enhance his swordsmanship, but the magic was too weak. In fact, all it did is nearly kill him twice as he overdrained himself. Since then, he'd stopped trying. Unlike the building of the body, there seemed to be a consistent path for magic—one he'd have to follow as well.
Standing up, he stretched slightly, not allowing his muscles to cool. If they cooled… they'd hurt. Having recovered barely at the very least, he went over to the wooden, training dummy and picked up the sword he'd dropped. In-between the breaking-and-building of his body, he never forgot to train in the Heartseeker Mantra. Though, as it stood at the moment, it wasn't truly much of a mantra, he hoped that further down the line his efforts would be rewarded.
So far, he'd managed to strike six times with absolute precision within five seconds. He was inching closer. But, the closer he got, the more impossible it seemed. Even now, his arms were almost a blur—he suspected that, at least in this one, particular way, few could actually stab faster than him. Nonetheless, there was still room—that's what the Mantra was telling him. It was entirely divorced from magic and was entirely dependent on the body. It was telling him that there was still room for his body to grow.
Outside of training like mad, he hardly bothered himself with much else. Ryne would bring him some food every day and yapper while he ate about how stupid he was being, Tenner would occasionally wander by and warn him not to push himself, but that was it. From them, he'd also learned that another massive pyre was held a few nights back—during one of those moments when he was lying passed out from exhaustion—for all the men and women who died during the 'Battle of the Bandits', as it was dubbed.
Other than that, however, it seemed that everyone was preparing for the winter. The blizzards continued to scorch the world almost daily, with the temperatures already dancing with dangerously cold. The castle had to be regularly cleaned up, but that hardly helped since it was perpetually buried in at least three-four feet of snow. Though the conditions were terrible, Sylas hardly paid attention to it. With the singular desire on his mind, he soldiered on.
Days passed in such stupor—he continued to ache and then continued to ache some more. Running, lifting, swinging, crying, sleeping, trembling… bit by bit, his efforts also began showing visually. He'd bulked up considerably, his shoulders seemingly lifted up from their previously-depressed state, carrying two boulders that his arms became. He'd filled out a depressing frame and started looking like someone who belonged on the frontier of conflict.
A month and a half since the Battle of the Bandits passed in the blink of an eye. By now, the snow had buried the castle so deep that it was pretty much only Sylas who spent a considerable amount of time outside. Others, unless absolutely necessary, never left. Even the patrols shrunk to just staying within the warm watchtowers, never walking the walls.
By now, he mused while eating, he must have been called crazy about a million times. It was a hundred just today, mostly by the young girl shaking next to him. Though she was wrapped in good three layers of clothing—compared to a single, thin shirt that Sylas wore—she was still clearly frosted and frozen. Despite that, however, Ryne came every day—at least three-four times—to bring him warm meals and either some wine or mead.
"You look like a shaking squirrel," Sylas chuckled, looking at her. "You should run inside. It's cold."
"Oh, it's cold, isn't it?! You realize it's cold?!" the young girl fired back. "Then, for the love of God, WHY ARE YOU PRACTICALLY NAKED?!! WHAT IS WRONG WITH YOU?!!"
"… khm, my sheer badassery warms me up."
"…"
"Don't look at me like that," Sylas said. "I'll tell the Prince."
"Go ahead, tell him! Tell him, I don't care! Just… please, please put on some clothes! I feel like freezing just looking at you! Why… why are you so stubborn?! What if you fall ill?! We're cut off from the rest of the Kingdom until at the very least the First Thawing! That's almost half a year away!"
"I won't fall ill," Sylas reassured the girl. "Didn't you hear? Scoundrels never fall ill. Scoundrels and stupid people. Seeing as I'm both, I'm doubly assured I won't fall ill."
"I—I—I…" the girl stuttered, helplessly staring at him. "Just tell me why. You were picking up on talismans really quickly. If you were patient, in a few years, you could become decent. Instead of that, why are you doing… this? What's the point?"
"The point?" Sylas finished off the stew and wiped his mouth, standing up, walking over toward the training dummy, and picking up the sword. "Helplessness? Future? Fragility? There's many points, I suppose. I subscribe to the most selfish one, though—I just like lookin' like one of those chiseled heroes from the heroic stories."
"You look like a homeless person!" Ryne fired back. "Did you even look at yourself?! Your beard is so bushy you could masquerade as a tree!"
"… okay, first off—ouch," Sylas said, taking a deep breath and focusing on the training dummy, tightly holding onto the sword. "Secondly," he mumbled, his eyes shining briefly as he stabbed forward. The sword seemingly flew, leaving Ryne aghast—she was entirely unable to even see the trajectory, only noticing that the sword had completely obliterated the wooden dummy into the chunks that flew off. A faint, silver trail quickly vanished as Sylas relaxed. "I meant my muscles. Did you see these guns?" he lifted his left arm and flexed it. "I mean, hot damn. Back home, all lads in the gym would be swarming me. That's how you know you've made it."
"W-w-what was that?!!" she exclaimed, excitedly running over. "You… how did you do that?!"
"Oh, the dummy? Don't be that impressed," Sylas chuckled bitterly. "The lady had taken quite a beating for over a week now. It was just a matter of time. Ah, luckily Tenner brought the replacement this morning while I slept." To not waste any time, Sylas actually had Valen build him a cabin right at the training grounds. It was a very simple, one-room building with a basic fireplace for heating, but it did its job. "Stand back. I want to test something. The last time… what was it? Eight hits? Geez, hitting that eighth one was really hard. Is it even possible to go ten for ten?"
"What are you talking about?" Ryne instinctively made some distance between the two while he walked over to the dummy.
"I'm talking about," he said, taking a deep breath and clearing his mind. "Speed. Accuracy. Determination. All surged into one."
"Wha—" Ryne fell silent.
The atmosphere around Sylas changed—she could practically feel it. It was as though the cold air was melted, as though a bubble formed around him. His expression… it chilled her for a moment, far more than the surrounding frost. It was as though he became a completely different man—from the joking uncle who seemed to lack some of the most basic knowledge of the world… to a seasoned warrior going in for a kill.
She watched with bated breath, forgetting the cold. He crouched faintly, pulling his left leg slightly behind the right, holding the sword with both arms and yanking them back behind his hips. He was singularly focused on the dummy, allowing a moment of silence, of stillness, a moment for it all to settle. And then… he stabbed.
It was a stab that was even quicker than the last—all Ryne saw was a flash of silver light and heard a delayed smack echo out into the wind. But before she could process any of that, he stabbed again. And then again. Each stab seemed to take the remnant momentum of the last and grow even faster. She was stunned into stupefied silence—she'd seen many men fight, seen them all swing and stab… but she'd never witnessed a sight remotely close to this one. Was… was there anyone who could even dodge or parry a stab of that speed?
Fourth… fifth… it was as though he was possessed, Ryne realized. Each consecutive stab also seemed to grow louder, more violent, more unbridled, wilder, and freer. Eight… ninth…
Sylas felt it, something within him change and surge. The sight in front of him sharpened beyond its normal capacity—he saw everything, down to the tiniest clinks and chinks in the dummy. The world slowed down as his arms thrust forward. Gleaming the blade, it shimmered and shone, crying lowly like an excited child. It stiffened the sound and swallowed it, connecting with the dummy.
"Tenth," he mumbled, still caught up in the whirlwind of state he was experiencing for the first time in his life.