CHAPTER 4: Blood Not of His Own - Part 1

  Varne placed a stack of logs next to a large tree stump that reached up to his waist. On this scorching day, he chose to go bare-chested, the stone pendant necklace hanging from his neck.

  He placed a broad paulownia leaf on the tree stump and set a log on top. He gripped an axe in his right hand, and with a single swing split the log without scratching the paulownia leaf beneath. He switched hands and repeated the action.

  In a short time, he had finished splitting dozens of logs. He wiped the sweat from his forehead with the back of his hand. He was in a forest clearing, without a hint of shade to shield him from the blazing summer sun.

  Two years had passed since Eiran left. His encounter with the brigands and the absence of friends his age had made Varne focus on his training, even though he still was not sure of its purpose.

  Various exercises had sculpted his physique into a well-defined build. Not large, but substantial. He was not particularly tall either. In a crowd, he would not stand out, but if lined up he was a little above average.

  In two years, he had progressed from a passive Prana Decima to an active or genuine Prana Decima. Half a year ago, after mastering destructive Prana techniques, Lorn moved their training deep into the forest.

  They set up a tent and could stay in this clearing for weeks before returning to the village. Lorn never spoke about it, but he knew from others that two years was remarkably fast. Such talent could make him dominate the battlefield if only his father allowed it.

  “Father, I'm done.”

  Lorn was catching fish in the river. Clusters of cattails grew on its banks. When practicing the Voidblade technique, a long-ranged slashing technique, he had to be able to cut the plants without felling them. And he had truly succeeded only if the plants did not wilt the next day.

  Lorn flipped the leaves. “You've learned to control your strength well. Practice both of your hands; you never know when one might be unusable. You might have to fight using your left hand while climbing spiral stairs with walls on the right.”

  His father was a monster hunter without Guild membership. Years ago, he had been allowed to live in the village in exchange for protecting it from monster attacks. Their residence was close to the forest as most of the monsters came from there. In recent years, the number of monsters had decreased. No one knew the reason, but it had made Lorn, and by extension, Varne, less appreciated.

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  According to Lorn, he was forty years old – he was not a farmer, so he was less attentive to the cycles of seasons and years. His body was robust and fit, characteristic of Prana Decimae who was not prone to age. Several scars bore witness to his past, but he did not like to talk about it.

  Lorn fetched a pair of lead-filled wooden swords from the tent and tossed one to Varne. They then assumed ready stances. Varne attacked first. Lorn deflected the blow with the flat of his blade and then countered with a thrust. Varne tilted his upper body and swung back.

  He once asked why Lorn only taught him sword techniques.

  “Three reasons. Swords aren't the king of weapons, but they are versatile in many situations. Suitable for wanderers who can't choose their battleground. Second, swords are easy to find and purchase. You don't want to be in trouble because your weapon is too peculiar. And finally... I only know sword techniques.”

  Both their swords locked until their hands touched. “Watch out; I can break your fingers, Son.”

  Varne hooked his heel behind Lorn's heel and pushed to topple him. However, Lorn swiftly seize his ears and brought him down to the ground with force.

  “Ouch...” Varne got up, holding his searing ear. Lorn believed that half-hearted training would only create a false image of real combat. Therefore, his attacks were not restrained, even if they did not inflict harm.

  “Every fighting style has its own philosophy. Ours emphasizes strength, speed, and surprise. That's why your attacks must be strong, swift, and sudden like lightning!”

  Varne assumed his ready stance once more.

  “Wait. Your sword's strap is loose.” Lorn reached out his hand and, as Varne handed him the wooden sword, spun it so that the tip faced his neck.

  “You just died, Son.”

  Varne frowned. “That's unfair.”

  Lorn sighed. “Of all the responses, that was the worst. Saying that to your opponent is like praising them. Remember, you fight to stay alive, nothing else. Don't fight when you can avoid it. Not all enemies need to be fought. An ancient master once said only cliffs face the tempest. When the storm comes, take shelter.”

  Evening was drawing near when Lorn finished their sparring. He went into the woods to check traps, while Varne bathed in the river before preparing a campfire. However, as he patted down his pockets, he realized the flint was missing. By the time his father returned from the forest with a pair of summer-furred brown hares, Varne still hadn’t lit the fire.

  “Varn, I'll show you something.”

  Lorn rested his left hand on the firewood. He always wore that wide bracelet with five white beads on his left wrist. The beads were called Arcanzite and could convert Prana into elemental energy. Lorn's Arcanzite in particular converted Prana into lightning.

  One of the beads glowed. A net of purple lightning ran through his hand, and from his fingertips a strand of lightning leaped onto the stack of wood, igniting it.

  “This isn't just for lighting fires,” Lorn said. “Each Prana technique has its own maximum power, limiting our attack output. Arcanzite acts as a Prana reservoir, allowing us to release it in a single burst. Of course, Arcanzite also has its own capacity limit.”

  “Doesn't seem very useful.”

  “Imagine it this way. You have a campfire and a bucket of water. If you try to extinguish the fire drop by drop, you could use up the whole bucket and the fire would still burn. But if you pour the bucket, it's a different story. Arcanzite is useful for pouring your Prana.”

  “Then it's only useful when facing much stronger enemies. But you always said to run from enemies like that.”

  Lorn smiled. “But in your hands, Arcanzite will be even more powerful.”

  He did not quite understand the point. Before he could ask, Lorn had already removed the bracelet and handed it to him. “Try it yourself.”