Azrael fell into a deep sleep, unaware that the old man was practicing martial arts just a few steps away from him. But it was only a matter of time before he heard some strange, dry sounds; he woke up startled, saw Sara and James fast asleep, and cautiously headed toward the source of the noise. He then saw, in a way he found very curious, something he had never truly seen in his life, as from the day he was born he had only known that swords were used in this world, but never such fluid and strange martial arts.
"I know you're there, boy. Come here," says the old man, halting his movement.
"Hey, boy," the old man continues, wiping sweat from his brow with a cloth, "tell me why a large number of students are fleeing the academy. What exactly happened there?" he asks in a surprisingly kind way, as if he had already seen everything before.
"From what I could see in the chaos," replies Azrael, his voice still husky from sleep and surprise, "I believe the academy was invaded by a large number of well-organized mages and swordsmen," Azrael says in a very odd way, as if he were still processing the scene.
"If you want, you can stay here as long as you need," offers the old man, making a broad gesture with his hand toward the cabin. "I will protect you."
"Really? How so?" asks Azrael, stepping a little closer, his curiosity overcoming caution. "What kind of technique were you practicing earlier? Could you tell me, please?"
"Hahaha, yes, it's normal for me," replies the old man, and a smile spreads across his wrinkled face. "It's a martial art I created, especially for myself. Since, as you can see, I have no talent with the sword and I can't use magic either. I had no choice but to learn to defend myself in another way."
"In order to even learn the first technique," he explains seriously, "you would need a very strong physical condition, because this is going to require more brute strength and willpower than refined technique, at first."
Azrael, already confident in his physical condition and his constant training sacrifices, thinks he will be able to meet the requirements of the first technique without problems. 'I can do this easily,' he repeats to himself.
"Sir, could you teach me then, step by step, so I can give it a try?" asks Azrael, very confidently, puffing out his chest a little.
"Of course. Let's see how you do," nods the old man, adopting the starting stance once more.
The old man begins to demonstrate the technique rapidly; with each light step he took he seemed to float above the earth, and each dry punch or palm strike had enough force to cut the air and cause a loud sound like a whip crack.
"These are the basic movements," he clarifies while executing a sequence. "They seem simple at first glance, but they are not at all."
Azrael, at that moment, began to imitate him in a clumsy and strange way; he managed to copy the stances, but the old man told him calmly that he was doing it without essence, that he had to be skillful and have total control over the force emanating from his feet, and that the strikes had to be concentrated to destroy anything. With that instruction, Azrael realized the true difficulty; with each attempt he felt every bone and muscle protesting, as if on the verge of breaking. He practiced and practiced with a fierce determination, so obsessively that he didn't sleep at all the entire night.
Finally, the first rays of sunlight filtered through the trees. Azrael, exhausted but alert, lowered his arms and watched the dawn.
"Oh, it's morning already. How curious," murmurs Azrael, more to himself than to anyone, feeling the exhaustion and a new understanding within his body.