With the bulk of his body adhering strictly to the cold, unforgiving contours of the stone wall, Osric found himself acutely aware of every icy tendril that seeped into the ridges of his muscles. His arms were bent at the elbows, his forearms acting as sturdy pillars on the ground while his feet hovered just above the stone floor. Gradually and with measured precision, he drew his feet towards his head, arching his back gracefully and bending his knees. His body wound tightly, his body poised like a scorpion in a defensive coil, ready to strike. He moved his legs further, arching his back as if attempting to form a human bow, his knees folding as his toes made the barest contact with his own head. The arch teasing the limits of his own anatomy, toes just above the messy mop of his hair. He held the pose for several deep, meditative breaths, indulging the slow burn of his expanding back and legs.
Balancing his weight and maintaining the pose, Osric could feel his core and upper body crying out against the strain, every fiber of his being working in unison to keep his body suspended in the intricate display of acrobatic finesse. Each breath he took was measured and controlled, drawn out in a slow rhythm to maintain the level of focus and concentration.
Shrouding his vision behind a veil of darkness, he allowed his eyes to close, the sudden absence of light serving only to amplify his sense of inner focus. Every inhalation, every exhalation, he used it as a tool, regulating the rhythm of his breath, granting his muscles and tendons a chance to stretch and expand fully, all within the realm of his control. He could almost feel the gnawing tension, that metallic bite of physical exertion, slowly dissolving, melting away bit by bit.
Finally, with a degree of slowness that was almost contradictory to the sheer control he seemed to wield over his body, Osric finally allowed his legs to descend, breaking the pose as he grounded himself once again. His movements graceful, as he effortlessly transitioned from the arduous pose to a simple, grounded seat.
Over the past few days, every minute of Osric's life had been dictated by a strict and meticulously planned schedule. He sought to optimize his time to the utmost degree, striving to extract the most out of every second, incorporating physical improvement and knowledge growth at every opportunity.
Though he received visits from Cain and Glcuia, Osric politely sent them away, explaining that he was currently engrossed in personal training and needed the solitude to focus on his progress.
Both of them had caught wind of the bet and grasped the severity of the situation. Recognizing the stakes at hand, they encouraged Osric and bid him farewell, wishing him their best. However, they did make him promise to fund their food tour if he won. Osric, though somewhat reluctant, agreed to their terms with a good-natured smile.
Cain's role was going to be crucial in the aftermath of his victory. Thus, it was essential to keep him within his sphere of influence.
Osric returned his attention to the fourth sequence of the Black Caiman Spiral, a series of movements that were designed to emulate the unbridled ferocity and the raw power of the formidable Dreadscale Crocodiles. He had procured this technique as a spoils of war, gleaned from an individual he had crossed paths with in the untamed wilderness who, despite nursing severe injuries, had posed a surprising challenge before finally falling beneath Osric's superior strength.
From his seated position, Osric knelt like a predatory beast, ready to pounce, with one leg extended behind him and the other bent in front of him. He then leaned forward, placing his palms on the ground while simultaneously lifting his extended leg off the ground. With a graceful motion, he bent his lifted leg at the knee and reached behind with one hand to grasp the top of his foot.
With his foot firmly in his grasp, Osric slowly began to draw his lifted leg towards his body. He simultaneously arched his back and lifted his chest, all while keeping his extended leg straight and his hips square. Inch by agonizing inch, he brought his foot as close to his head as possible, ensuring his shoulders remained down and relaxed.
Osric held the pose for several breaths, feeling the intense stretch in his quadriceps, the insistent pull at his hip flexors, the expansion of his chest, and the slight tension in his shoulders. He maintained a steady gaze, focusing his attention on his breath and the sensations coursing through his body.
As he prepared to release the pose, Osric slowly and carefully let go of his foot and gently lowered his lifted leg back to the ground. Then, he eased back onto his heels, taking a moment to rest, breathing deeply to recenter his focus.
The Black Caiman Spiral comprised a total of 24 movements. The first twelve were designed as a mortal technique, their emphasis on flexibility and agility. These initial movements were intended to build a strong foundation, strengthening the core and providing an unprecedented degree of control over the body. The latter twelve were meant to be used in conjunction with energy to refine the body further.
In the short term, numerous avenues were available for him to enhance his strength. However, given the shifting geography and recent developments, he needed to find something practical, long term and sustainable.
That process of narrowing down took time.
While the specifics might have evolved, the underlying principles remained constant; thus, while restructuring his information in the current context, he was training his body to its limits while being cognisant of his injuries and his current body state.
His primary focus was on leveraging both static and dynamic stretching derived from the first twelve movements of the Black Caiman Spiral to enhance his flexibility to boost his combat efficiency.
Flexibility was the crux of a body that was robust, resilient, and primed for high performance.
Increased strength resulted from a greater number of muscle fibers. However, the flexibility of the muscles themselves played a crucial role in determining the level of power an individual could harness during a fight. Their ability to stretch and contract with ease acted as the determining factor in harnessing and channeling the raw power a combatant could bring in a confrontation.
Strength acted as latent power, lying dormant until flexibility unlocked its true potential. Flexibility acted as the main catalyst, transforming strength potential into kinetic force. Thus, Osric's primary goal at this stage was to increase his flexibility so that he could utilize the full extent of his body. Rather than focusing on amassing brute strength, he was intent on optimizing his current existing capabilities, prioritizing technical proficiency over raw power.
His mind was willing, but his body had yet to fully acclimate; his muscles were not quite prepared to stretch and bend to the desired extent.
"At the rate I am improving, I am going to need about a week to Mold," he predicted, confident in his progress.
Due to the Abyssal Subcontinent's deep-rooted culture of body modification, Osric was highly skilled in training the body. His strategy was a layered one - first, he would hone his flexibility, then progress to enhancing endurance and strength. Subsequent stages would see him focusing on more specialized attributes like balance and body composition.
While others might have had plenty of resources at their disposal, Osric's true strength lay in his accumulated wealth of experience and information. It was this extensive backlog of knowledge that he relied upon, and he was determined to exploit it to the fullest extent.
***
In the vibrant, throbbing heart of the village square, Glucia and Cain meandered at a leisurely pace. Bathed in the golden wash of the afternoon sun, they weaved skillfully through the exuberant, chattering swarm of villagers.
"Ever since that damned bet, he's become a hermit! Holed up, training, and nothing else!" Glucia griped, her words sounding like a muffled bark as she gnawed on the succulent meat bone she held in her grip.
She cast a sideways glance at Cain, a complex mixture of concern and frustration etched on her face.
Feeling her gaze, Cain bristled under the unspoken accusation, countering, "I'm at a loss, honestly. Don't you dare look at me like that! I've tried dragging him out, but he's stubborn. Keeps saying he's neck deep in work!" His hands flew up in a gesture of defeat, fingers glistening with the slick sheen of chicken fat.
As he ripped another chunk of tender meat from the bone, his voice carried a resonant note of disappointment. "I've thought of confronting Finn, demanding some answers. But my old man's warning to steer clear of this mess leaves me with tied hands. He insists it's far more convoluted,"
"Let's give him more time. We've got our hands full anyway. He can't avoid the morning classes next week. We'll corner him then and check on his progress," he suggested, his voice reassuring, a comforting balm amidst their meal.
"That's a fair point," Glucia conceded, her head bobbing in agreement as a napkin danced along the curve of her lips.
"I won't lie," she admitted, her face a poignant reflection of her mounting apprehension. "I don't know about you, but I'm feeling this increasing knot of nervousness about the awakening. I just hope my competency doesn't fall flat," her face was an open book, her simmering anxiety visible in the subtle furrow of her brows.
"Ease up. You're going to do great!" he assured her with a convincing grin, "It's me who should be in a cold sweat. If I don't clock a competency higher than 40%, my old man will literally have my head," Cain sighed, his voice tinged with an undertone of gallows humor, as he nonchalantly tossed the stripped drumstick bone into a nearby bin.
"Hehe," Glucia's laughter chimed in the air, momentarily dissipating the shadows of her worries. And thus, they continued with their impromptu meal, encircled by the tantalizing scent of various food vendors that formed an aromatic curtain around the lively square.
***
The library had transformed into something of a second home of sorts to Osric. His days assumed a rhythmic, predictable pattern. Intense training under the early morning sun would be followed by a leisurely visit to the hushed corners of the library. After an invigorating afternoon of training, he would immerse himself in a sea of books yet again until the final toll of the library bell signaled the end of the day.
Over time, he had deliberately forged a bond with the librarian. Their interactions had evolved from polite nodding acquaintances to sharing thoughtful casual conversations as they saw each other almost daily.
"Mr. Fletcher, can you tell me more about the infected areas around the village? The village records only briefly mention them without delving into too much detail," asked Osric, his quill poised above a worn notebook as he stood near a towering, dusty bookshelf in the dimly lit library.
These infected sites were one of the many new zones he had discovered. They were described as tortuous and tedious to deal with, but beyond that, no other information was recorded in the tomes.
"Well, Osric," he began, " Ever since the Golden Renaissance Era ended, infected sites have become a staple part of the continent. Ordinary creatures inhabiting these sites undergo startling mutations and exhibit accelerated growth, some reaching an astonishing Rank 2 or even 3, contingent on the time they've spent there," the librarian shared. His voice reverberated softly within the library confines, a gentle whisper amidst a symphony of flipping pages and the soft tick-tock of the wall clock.
"And what happens to humans in these sites?" Osric probed further, his quill darting energetically across his notebook, mirroring his eager intent to seize every nugget of information that the librarian bestowed upon him.
"Well, depending on your Rank, you have to fight the corruption, leading to a decreased interval in your professional pay. If you stay too long, you will mutate and turn irrational. However, irrational physiological change has not been found much in animals. Most of the sites have a core you have to destroy or something you have to kill to ease the infection."
"Well, your Rank plays a vital role here," began the librarian, his fingers absentmindedly tracing the worn-out edges of a nearby book as he spoke. "Depending on your Rank, you'll find yourself in an uphill battle against the insidious corruption, which consequently leads to a reduced interval in your professional pay. Tarry too long, and you'll undergo horrifying mutations, reducing you to a creature devoid of rational thought. However, such irrational physiological transformations seem to be less prevalent in animals. Most of the sites have a core you have to destroy or something you have to kill to ease the infection."
Mr. Fletcher cast a furtive glance at Osric, who was diligently writing down the information in his notebook. The librarian's eyes twinkled with a blend of amusement and appreciation.
"That's all I can tell you. If you want to learn more, you need to get permission to access that information. If anyone asks where you got this information, you did not hear it from me, alright?" he smirked, a mischievous glint in his eyes.
"That's about all I can divulge. I am afraid. If you want to learn more, you need to get permission to access that information. If anyone asks where you got this information, you did not hear it from me, alright? My lips were sealed, alright?" His tone was hushed, a conspiratorial smirk playing at the corners of his lips, adding a mischievous glint in his eyes.
"Naturally, Mr. Fletcher. If pressed, I'll merely point towards the library," Osric responded, his face alight with a cheeky grin that mirrored the librarian's own.
"You scamp," the librarian chuckled heartily, the rumbling echoes of his laughter filling the library's silent expanse before dwindling to a faint whisper. His steps receded softly, leaving Osric amidst a sea of books, lost in a deep sea of thoughts.