Chapter 11: Halfway to Understanding
Snow did not care how hard a man tried.
It did not reward effort.
It did not acknowledge intent.
It only recorded mistakes.
Aren learned that within the first hour.
The army had resumed its march before dawn, the Northern Plains looming closer with every step. Snow lay thick now, blanketing the land in white that erased old paths and made every new one uncertain. The wind cut sharper, carrying the promise of colder nights and harsher days ahead.
Aren walked with his squad at the front.
From the outside, nothing looked different.
His posture was steady. His pace measured. His commands short and clear.
But inside—
Nothing aligned.
The movements Seraphina had shown him replayed again and again in his mind. Silent Crossing. Last Step.
They were clear when remembered.
They were wrong when attempted.
The first time it happened was subtle.
A scouting movement ahead—nothing serious. Just a shadow shifting against the white. Aren raised his hand, signaling the squad to slow.
They stopped cleanly.
A lone figure appeared from behind a low rise. Not an enemy. One of their own scouts, moving quickly, careless from relief rather than danger.
Still, Aren moved.
Not to attack—but to test.
He stepped forward, blade lifting, body aligning the way Seraphina had shown.
Silent Crossing.
His foot landed a fraction too far.
The blade arrived late.
Not disastrously late.
But late enough.
He corrected instantly, resetting before anyone could comment. To the rest of the squad, it looked like nothing more than a cautious adjustment.
To Aren, it felt like a slap.
Too slow.
He said nothing.
They continued.
The second time was worse.
Later that morning, two shapes emerged on the horizon—raiders, distant but watching. Not engaging. Measuring.
Aren felt the pressure immediately.
This was real enough to matter.
He signaled the squad into formation, spacing tight, shields angled. The raiders advanced cautiously, axes low, steps deliberate.
Aren stepped forward again.
Last Step.
He waited for commitment.
Waited—
—and waited too long.
The raider hesitated, reading the pause, then shifted his approach. Aren adjusted, abandoned the attempt, and met the attack with basic swordsmanship instead.
Clean.
Effective.
But not Sword of Paradise.
The raiders disengaged moments later, deciding the exchange wasn't worth the risk.
The fight ended without casualties.
But Aren's hands shook afterward.
Rovan noticed.
Not immediately.
Rovan never did.
It was only when they resumed marching that the veteran fell into step beside him, shield resting against his shoulder.
"You're thinking too much," Rovan said quietly.
Aren didn't answer.
"That thing the commander showed you," Rovan continued. "It's not coming out clean."
"No," Aren admitted.
Rovan nodded once. "Good. Means you're not pretending it is."
That was Rovan's way of reassurance.
It didn't help much.
By midday, Aren had failed four times.
Not catastrophically.
Not publicly.
But enough that he felt it in his bones.
Each attempt followed the same pattern.
The idea was right.
The intent was correct.
The execution lagged behind by a breath.
And in combat, a breath was the difference between inevitability and exchange.
The system chose that moment to speak.
Not aloud.
Not dramatically.
Just… present.
[Doctrine: Sword of Paradise]
[Observed Forms: Silent Crossing, Last Step]
[Current Mastery: 27%]
Aren did not stop walking.
The number didn't anger him.
It steadied him.
Twenty-seven percent meant something simple.
You are not delusional.
You are not "almost there."
You are barely past understanding.
That was acceptable.
What wasn't acceptable—
—was staying there.
They halted briefly near a shallow ridge to redistribute supplies. The squad rested, some kneeling, others leaning against shields or spears.
Aren did not sit.
He stepped away from the formation, moving far enough that no one would accidentally step into his practice range.
He drew his sword.
Slowly.
No flourish.
Just the blade.
He didn't swing.
He aligned.
The snow under his boots shifted slightly. He adjusted. Again. And again.
He stepped forward.
Too wide.
He reset.
Again.
Too shallow.
Again.
His muscles burned with restraint rather than exertion. This was not physical exhaustion—it was correction fatigue. The kind that came from forcing the body to abandon habits that had kept it alive.
Behind him, Lethan watched.
The younger soldier didn't comment. He just… watched.
After the tenth failed attempt, Aren exhaled slowly and stopped.
His breath fogged in the air.
You're forcing it.
Seraphina's voice echoed in his memory.
If you force it, you'll die faster than before.
Aren closed his eyes.
He lowered the sword.
Waited.
Then raised it again—not to strike, but to feel where it wanted to be.
This time, he didn't step.
He shifted weight.
The line felt cleaner.
Still wrong.
But closer.
The system did not update.
Good.
By the time the march resumed, Aren's shoulders ached—not from swinging, but from holding tension too long.
That night, the temperature dropped sharply.
The camp settled in tighter formations, fires burning low and close. Frost crept along armor edges. Breath steamed visibly now, even at rest.
The squad gathered near a small fire.
No jokes tonight.
Lethan passed around ration bread. Bran chewed carefully, injured arm held close to his body. Corin adjusted straps in silence.
Aren sat slightly apart.
He did not speak.
After a while, Corin broke the silence.
"You're trying to use something above your weight," he said.
Aren looked up.
"That's not a complaint," Corin added. "Just an observation."
"I know," Aren replied.
"You're not failing because it's bad," Corin continued. "You're failing because it doesn't forgive."
That was accurate.
Rovan nodded. "Basic swordwork forgives. This thing doesn't."
Aren didn't respond.
Later that night, when most of the camp slept, Aren stood again.
The snow reflected faint starlight, turning the plains into a pale, endless field.
He drew his sword.
This time, he practiced without stepping.
Just alignment.
Just intent.
No forms.
No names.
The squad woke to the sound of steel cutting air.
Again.
And again.
And again.
Aren practiced until his fingers went numb.
Then he practiced until sensation returned painfully.
The system updated quietly.
[Current Mastery: 34%]
The next day, it rose again.
Not from success.
From correction.
Aren failed in motion. Failed in snow. Failed when tired. Failed when watched.
The squad saw it.
Saw their leader misjudge distance.
Saw him abandon the technique mid-motion.
Saw him choose survival over pride.
And slowly—
They stopped expecting perfection.
They started expecting effort.
By the third day, nearing the outer edge of the Northern Plains, Aren landed it once.
Not clean.
Not decisive.
But recognizable.
A movement that denied space instead of chasing it.
A moment where the enemy's hesitation mattered more than Aren's speed.
He didn't kill with it.
But he controlled with it.
The system updated again.
[Current Mastery: 41%]
Aren didn't smile.
He trained harder.
He woke before the squad.
Practiced while they packed.
Practiced while they rested.
Practiced while the wind burned his lungs and snow crept into his boots.
By the time the Northern Plains' boundary markers appeared on the horizon—half-buried stones worn smooth by weather and war—Aren's body no longer fought the alignment.
It didn't obey yet.
But it stopped resisting.
The system displayed its final update for the march.
[Doctrine: Sword of Paradise]
[Mastery: 50%]
Aren stared at the number for a long moment.
Not satisfaction.
Acknowledgment.
Halfway.
Not to mastery.
To competence.
He sheathed his sword.
Rovan approached quietly.
"Still struggling," Rovan said.
"Yes."
Rovan nodded. "Good."
Aren looked at him.
"If you were already good at it," Rovan continued, "we'd be in trouble."
The Northern Plains stretched before them—vast, white, merciless.
Aren stepped forward with his squad.
He wasn't ready.
But he was ready enough.
And that would have to do.