Losing the white silk had always been a thorn in Aryan's heart, an unhealed wound of regret. Hearing its whereabouts from doo-woodpile's mouth left him stunned. But clarity dawned soon after:
First, during the journey in the slave cart, the white silk had been claimed by doo-woodpile. At the time, Aryan had been unconscious, and doo-woodpile, with his relatively higher "status" among the slaves, would have easily seized whatever he desired.
Second, doo-woodpile, utterly clueless about martial arts, had no means to understand or utilize the techniques inscribed on the silk. He likely didn't grasp that The Gulen Sword Technique was a pinnacle of Western Kingdom Gulen's martial heritage. Had he known, his first move upon entering Alamut Castle would have been to expose Aryan.
Aryan stood so abruptly that doo-woodpile, though prepared, flinched back, instinctively adopting a novice combat stance.
"Hey, don't get any ideas. I've started learning martial arts too, and I'm no weaker than you!"
Aryan knew this boy too well. Without a word, he crouched down to continue scrubbing the floor.
"If that's the case, then what could I possibly teach you? Keep the silk for yourself."
"Don't try to fool me." A sly grin spread across doo-woodpile's face. "You know who I am? I've been pulling cons since I could walk. You're too green for this game."
Aryan, now at the water basin, calmly wrung out the cloth as he retorted, "Believe what you like. Firouzeh is a hundred times stronger than I am; if she can't teach you, there's no way I can."
Doo-woodpile frowned, scrutinizing Aryan with suspicion, trying to uncover his true intentions.
"Firouzeh's impressive, I'll admit. But she told me there's not enough time to teach me her most effective techniques. Your Gulen Sword Technique, though—it's quick to learn and powerful, isn't it? That'd suit me perfectly."
"Random scribbles on a cloth, and you take them seriously?" Aryan chuckled coldly. "Look, even I didn't manage to master it."
"Ha! That's the worst lie you've told yet. You didn't even get a chance to start training. If it weren't important, why'd you panic so much when you lost it?"
Doo-woodpile's grin widened. "Let's cut to the chase—you teach me the technique, make me a killer, and I'll return the silk to you. Deal?"
That single word, return, set Aryan's blood boiling. He forced himself to stay composed. "Hand over the silk now, and I'll show you a few tricks."
Doo-woodpile laughed and shook his head. "I'm no fool. We'll stick to my terms. Once I'm a killer—at least once I make it to the East Fortress—you'll get your precious silk back."
As Aryan weighed his options, sefr-woodpile entered, shooting doo-woodpile a disdainful glare and ushering him out. Ever since doo-woodpile had begun training with Firouzeh, sefr-woodpile's opinion of him had plummeted, and their interactions had grown colder. For his part, doo-woodpile hardly bothered with pretense, buoyed by the security of Firouzeh's favor.
That evening, Aryan was left to ponder his predicament—retrieve the silk and eliminate the risk of exposure. Entrusting doo-woodpile with secrecy was akin to hoping one's enemies would perish overnight.
As his thoughts spiraled darker and more desperate, Aryan found himself dwelling on a singular solution: doo-woodpile must die. The rationale was irrefutable—doo-woodpile was insufferable, malicious, and, above all, dangerous. While he might be ignorant now, even an accidental leak about the Gulen Sword Technique could spell Aryan's doom. Firouzeh and the seasoned killers of Alamut Castle would surely trace its origins to the Gulen family's legacy. Death would be unavoidable.
But Aryan didn't want to die. Divine will had carried him through slavery and humiliation; he was destined for vengeance, not defeat. Perhaps it was divine will, too, that this loathsome obstacle stood in his path, requiring removal.
At dinner, Aryan made his decision. He agreed to doo-woodpile's terms while carefully plotting his next move. Killing someone wasn't simple—he lacked authority to punish like sefr-woodpile or Firouzeh and certainly wasn't an elite assassin capable of subtle executions.
Late at night, as everyone was preparing for bed, doo-woodpile beckoned Aryan over.
"Let's start tonight."
"It's curfew. We're not allowed outside."
"No problem. I got Firouzeh to clear it with the castle steward. I can train at night in the courtyard as long as I stay within the compound. You can come along as my helper."
Aryan's anger simmered, but he swallowed it and played the submissive role, following doo-woodpile out. The other boys watched, surprised at Aryan's apparent compliance.
In the courtyard, doo-woodpile stretched and shouted exaggeratedly while warming up. Across the way, sefr-woodpile opened his door to glare.
"Keep it down, will you? If you're that eager to train, head out to Ghost Cliff!"
Although doo-woodpile had been granted permission, he dared not openly defy sefr-woodpile. Forcing a smile, he nodded his assent and glanced towards the small gate in the western wall, his face paling slightly. Except when absolutely necessary, no one ventured to the wailing cliff during the day, let alone after night had fully descended.
Taking a deep breath, doo-woodpile led the way to the west gate.
Once outside, staying as close to the walls of Alamut Castle as possible to avoid the edge of the corpse-laden precipice, doo-woodpile steadied his nerves again and said, "Let's begin."
"Hand me the white silk."
"What? Wasn't it agreed—"
"I need to see the text on the silk to properly teach you the 'Gulen Sword Technique.'"
"Hey, that's not fair. We already struck a deal, and you shouldn't go back on your word. I've scrutinized the writing on the silk. It explicitly states that mastering even the accelerated version requires achieving the first level of foundational breath control in the 'Gulen Sword Technique.' I want you to teach me the standard method. The accelerated technique—I can figure that out on my own. Why would I need you for that?"
Aryan's suspicions were confirmed—the silk indeed contained a rapid mastery method.
"I haven't read the silk. How would I know all that otherwise? You want to learn the 'Gulen Sword Technique,' and I'll teach you. Listen carefully..."
Though Aryan had lacked the diligence to truly excel, having spent nearly a decade merely reaching the first level of breath control, the words describing the method were etched in his mind. He began to recite them fluently, one passage at a time.
Doo-woodpile frowned in concentration, committing the instructions to memory. When Aryan finished reciting the foundational technique, doo-woodpile's eyes shifted shrewdly. "Repeat it once more—I didn't catch everything."
Aryan repeated the process, occasionally pausing to clarify certain terms as requested. After four or five thorough repetitions, the extensive technique was transmitted, and Aryan further demonstrated the accompanying movements and postures. The 'Gulen Sword Technique' emphasized training internal strength, unlike conventional martial arts, without any meditative practices.
"Yes, this sounds right. Don't think I can't tell if you're lying, but trust me, I'm clever—someday I'll be the deadliest assassin in Alamut Castle and the right hand of the 'King of Assassins.' You're no fool either, yek-woodpile. Don't waste your time with those brutish wolf cubs; they're all brawn and no brains. Stick with me, and I'll help you get into the east stronghold and become an assassin yourself."
Clearly elated, doo-woodpile extended his hand, awaiting yek-woodpile's response, as if he were already the renowned Alamut killer magnanimously recruiting a loyal ally.
After a moment's contemplation, Aryan reached out, grasping doo-woodpile's forearm in return. Despite the latter's flawless Western Kingdom dialect, Aryan sealed their accord in the manner of Central Asian tribes.
From that night on, the two ventured nightly to the wailing cliff beyond the western gate to practice the 'Gulen Sword Technique,' a secluded place where even the guards refused to tread.
Their peculiar alliance puzzled the other boys who shared their quarters. Doo-woodpile's standing soared, and a few who had previously allied with sefr-woodpile began clumsily flattering him in Western Kingdom tongue, hedging their bets for the future. Doo-woodpile lapped up the newfound reverence.
In contrast, the brothers panj-woodpile and haft-woodpile grew more distant. They not only ignored doo-woodpile entirely but also began showing open disdain toward yek-woodpile, pretending not to see him when they crossed paths, where once a nod might suffice.
Doo-woodpile, though prone to bragging, was undeniably quick-witted. On the third day of training, he felt a warm sensation in his abdomen and pressed his abdomen excitedly, as if a pregnant woman marveling at new life. "Is this the 'Gulen Sword Technique'? I can feel it!"
"That's just the first layer of foundational breath control," Aryan replied.
"Hah, I've got inner strength now! This energy feels unruly, though."
"That's expected. Yang is straight, fierce, expansive, and wild. The more intense it feels, the better."
"Exactly! I feel so much stronger!"
Doo-woodpile practiced a set of punches he had learned from Firouzeh. Though imperfect in form, his strikes carried a forceful energy, their presence menacing.
Aryan mused privately, This is the Gulen family's legacy. Fully mastered, even the 'King of Assassins' wouldn't stand a chance.
The following evening, returning from Firouzeh's tutelage, doo-woodpile confided gleefully, "Hey, Firouzeh complimented me today! The 'Gulen Sword Technique' really works."
Aryan's heart tensed. Firouzeh was a dangerous figure. While she hailed from Central Asia's martial realm, she might recognize the 'Gulen Sword Technique.' With a nonchalant smile, he said, "You mentioned me to Firouzeh? Perhaps she can teach me too, and we can join the east stronghold together."
Doo-woodpile's grin vanished, replaced by wary suspicion. "I'll bring it up, but don't rush. Only one person is chosen at a time. You'll have to wait for the next opportunity."
Relieved that doo-woodpile wouldn't disclose the technique to Firouzeh immediately, Aryan exhaled quietly.
Later that night, as they prepared to leave the cliff and return to their quarters, doo-woodpile broke an unusual silence, asking, "Yek-woodpile, what do you think of me?"
Taken aback by the question, Aryan opted for candor. "You're despicable."
Doo-woodpile laughed, a genuine, unoffended laugh.
"Exactly. I am despicable. And do you know why? Because this world is despicable. To survive here, you must embrace it. To rise above, you must double down on it. To be invincible, you must outpace others in your shamelessness. That's the only truth I know. Ponder it—it's as profound as your 'Gulen Sword Technique.'"
Aryan acknowledged a bitter truth in doo-woodpile's words. To achieve vengeance, he must outmatch his foes in ruthlessness.
Looking at doo-woodpile's thin, angular face, Aryan's lingering guilt evaporated. This self-proclaimed master of cunning was unlikely to live long—training carelessly, he was doomed to be consumed by his own ambition.