I learned something important on the third morning.
Books are heavier when you're already tired.
I shifted the strap of my pack for the fifth time and glared down at it.
"…You know," I said, "if I die, it won't be to monsters. It'll be crushed under knowledge."
Porlyusica didn't slow down. "Then walk straighter."
"I am walking straighter."
"You're leaning."
"Emotionally or—"
"Physically."
"…Right."
We kept moving.
The forest had changed again. Thinner trees. More wind. The ground was softer here, mossy, damp. My boots sank just a little with every step. Not dangerous. Just annoying.
Perfect for mistakes.
She stopped without warning.
I didn't.
I bumped straight into her back.
"Oof—!"
She didn't move.
I stumbled back, rubbing my nose. "You know, stopping without warning is technically a hostile action."
"You didn't look up," she replied.
"…I was thinking."
"That's the problem."
She pointed at the ground.
"What do you see?"
I followed her finger. Broken twigs. Pressed moss. A shallow groove in the dirt.
"…Something passed through recently," I said.
"What kind?"
I hesitated, then crouched. Looked closer.
"…Heavy. But not dragging. Steps are uneven."
She waited.
"…Injured?" I added.
She nodded once. "Good."
Then she kept walking like nothing happened.
I scrambled after her. "Wait—so that was a test?"
"Everything is."
"…That feels illegal."
⸻
Reading While Moving (Bad Idea)
We stopped near a stream to rest.
I sat on a rock, pulled out one of the books, and flipped it open while stretching my legs.
Porlyusica glanced at me. "…Close it."
"But you said to read every day."
"Not while walking."
"I'm sitting."
"You're distracted."
"…I can multitask."
She took the book out of my hands without asking.
"You tripped yesterday because you tried to memorize diagrams while moving uphill."
"…That was unrelated."
"You stepped on air."
"…Minor detail."
She handed the book back later, after we rested.
"Read now," she said. "Then move."
I obeyed.
The pages talked about balance under fatigue. How bodies compensate when tired. How micro-adjustments turn into bad habits if you don't notice them.
I swallowed.
"…So if I keep leaning like this—"
"You'll injure yourself," she finished. "Not today. Not tomorrow. Eventually."
I straightened automatically.
"…Noted."
⸻
When the Body Answers First
Later that day, something small darted across the path.
I froze.
Porlyusica didn't.
She stepped forward, calm, hand half-raised.
The creature—some kind of horned forest lizard—hesitated, then scurried off.
I exhaled.
"…I didn't even think," I said. "My body just stopped."
"That's good," she replied. "Thinking comes later."
We resumed walking.
After a while, I noticed it again.
That faint internal buzz.
Not stronger.
Just… clearer.
When I stepped wrong, my ankle corrected itself before I fully felt it. When I jumped a root, my landing adjusted on instinct.
I didn't say anything.
Neither did she.
But she watched.
⸻
Notes That Matter
That night, I wrote again.
Day 12.
Almost tripped twice. Didn't.
Book says bad habits hide in fatigue. Makes sense.
Porlyusica stops without warning. Rude but effective.
Body reacts before I think. Need to trust it—but not too much.
I hesitated, then added:
Running still feels right.
I closed the notebook and looked up.
"…Hey," I said.
She glanced over the fire. "What."
"When do I stop running?"
She didn't answer immediately.
The fire popped softly between us.
"When you can choose not to," she said at last.
"…And until then?"
"You learn."
That was it.
No dramatic speech.
No promise.
Just truth.
I lay back, staring at the sky again, muscles aching in that familiar, honest way.
Tomorrow I'd read more.
Tomorrow I'd walk better.
And if something chased us—
…I already knew the drill.
Run first.
Think while running.
Read later.
And don't step on air.