Chapter 59: Learning to Aim Again

Chapter 59: Learning to Aim Again

The dart struck above the mark.

Silas lowered his shortblade and stared at the target. He had used the same approach that worked before the breakthrough, or thought he had. The little weapon sat noticeably higher in the replaceable facing, its exposed end still trembling.

He drew it out slowly.

Sorel had told him to adjust to his new output before complicating his training. Silas had booked a private room to keep the studio’s amplification out of the results.

All right. The dart first.

He set the blade down and worked with the dart alone. The metal answered faster now, accelerating before he expected it to. Several careful attempts gave him a better feel for the difference. He slowed the approach until the point held level with the mark.

Once he could place it reliably, he brought the shortblade back into the exercise.

Returning Edge took him off the line of an imagined counter. He kept the dart’s task simple while he watched his feet, then gave it more attention as his guard recovered. The point sank in close to the first mark.

Silas pulled it out and repeated the movement.

After the fifth attempt, he was breathing harder but still had reserve to spare. A week ago, keeping both actions going would have exhausted his concentration long before his mana became the problem.

He rested anyway. On the bench beside his bag, the slim weapon case lay open, both padded ends intact. He checked the dart for damage before putting it away.

His next exercise used nothing sharp.

With a padded practice blade in hand, he tried a short Burst Motion step into the return. The first attempt carried him past the floor mark. He recovered without falling, irritated by the wasted motion, and shortened the burst.

The second attempt was better. He turned before his weight dragged him forward and finished the recovery cut in balance.

Silas let out a pleased breath.

He had wanted to try that since Renn’s first lesson. Now he could do it without trusting luck to keep him on his feet.

After one more repetition, he returned to ordinary footwork. The burst left enough strain in his legs that he wanted the recovery step settled before adding anything else.

When he left, he was sore, hungry, and no longer guessing about what Late Rank One had changed.

Elyra was waiting beneath the library’s covered walkway with a sheet of paper resting on her knee.

She looked up as Silas approached. He had agreed to meet her after practice to read the note she wanted to share about the invitation exercise. The last time they had discussed it, her disappointment had been hard to sit beside.

This time, she handed him the page without hesitation.

"That’s all of it," she said.

Silas read it standing by the low wall. The account described a beginner who had mistaken the fading echo of his own invitation for an uncertain answer, then learned to wait instead of immediately sending another request. There was no name, no bond, and no unusual cat.

He read it a second time, more slowly.

Elyra tapped her pencil against the closed notebook on her lap. "Have I described what you felt correctly?"

"Yes. This is fine." Silas handed the page back. "Thank you for letting me see it."

"You asked me to."

He deserved that small reminder. He sat down on the wall beside her, leaving room between them for her case.

"How’s Nim?" Elyra asked.

"Comfortable. He seems to consider that his main responsibility."

"And the exercises?"

Silas rested his hands on the edge of the stone. "I’ve put those aside for now. I’m concentrating on cultivation and the competition."

Elyra studied him. He resisted the urge to offer a more elaborate explanation. He wasn’t abandoning Nim, and he had never promised to become a spirit scholar on her schedule.

"You were trying very hard," she said.

"I was. There are things I can improve faster right now."

After a moment, she nodded. "When you start again, don’t turn every conversation with him into an exercise. Spirits notice."

Silas glanced at her. "That sounds like someone objected."

"One did." Elyra slipped the page into her case. "He stopped answering the questions I wanted answered and became extremely interested in whether I was eating enough."

Silas laughed.

"I reached Late Rank One yesterday," he said.

Elyra turned to face him properly. "Already?"

Her surprise pleased him. He tried not to look too pleased about it.

"Sorel confirmed it. I spent this morning discovering that I have to learn to aim all over again."

"Congratulations." Her smile came easily. "I’ll look for you in the qualifiers."

"Look quickly. I may not be there very long."

"Then I won’t have to give up much of my day," Elyra said.

Silas looked at her, and her smile widened a little before she fastened the case.

They walked together as far as the junction between the training halls and the conservation offices. Elyra asked whether Nim would mind another visit sometime. Silas told her to send a message whenever she was free.

He meant it. After they parted, he realized he hadn’t thought about her Talent before answering. He glanced back once toward the conservation offices, then continued to the registration hall.

Alden had found a registration terminal without a queue.

He was standing beside it when Silas arrived, the equipment guidance open on his communicator. A countdown in the corner of the screen showed four days until the qualifiers.

"There you are," Alden said. "Have you read the part about personal weapons?"

"Not all of it," Silas said.

"Read it before you enter something you can’t use."

Silas leaned in. The rules required approved training equipment for contact events and banned concealing any undeclared weapon from the officials. Talent-driven equipment had to go through the checks too.

His live dart would stay out of the competition. He could ask about an approved blunt version, but that would show every opponent an idea he wanted to save for something far more dangerous.

He pictured the dart swinging around behind a practice opponent while a hundred students watched.

No. He could train that combination privately. The competition offered resources, but he didn’t need to spend every advantage to win them.

Silas listed his shortblade practice equipment, his bracers, and Remote Grasp. He would use approved equivalents wherever the rules required.

The form asked for his current cultivation stage.

He selected Late Rank One.

Alden noticed. "You advanced?"

"Yesterday."

"Why didn’t you say?" Alden asked.

"You were busy warning me about equipment," Silas said.

Alden put his communicator away long enough to clap him on the shoulder. Silas accepted the congratulations with a grin that was getting harder to keep off his face whenever anyone mentioned the breakthrough.

"We should practice again," Alden said. "I’ve been working on what happened last time."

"Of course you have," Silas said.

"You pulled me off line. I didn’t enjoy it."

Silas thought of their earlier exchanges and Alden’s irritating habit of coming back with a better answer. "Tomorrow morning?"

Alden checked his schedule. "Before class. I’ll reserve the lane."

Silas turned back to the form. Beyond the terminal, several students were arguing about which Star Class entrants would finish highest. One insisted the qualifiers would be the only meaningful competition for everyone else. His friend disagreed loudly enough to earn a look from the attendant.

Silas finished reading the declaration and submitted his entry.

His name appeared, with a confirmation number beneath it.

He saved the receipt, then sent Mara the public schedule as he had promised. Her reply arrived while Alden was finishing his own registration: she would keep the morning free if the academy made viewing available.

Silas looked at the message for a long moment before writing back that he would find out.

"Ready?" Alden asked.

Silas put the communicator away. "Yes. What time tomorrow?"

They settled on an hour while walking to the dining hall. Alden started describing a change to his opening stance, then stopped halfway through.

"Actually, you can find out when we start," Alden said.

Silas smiled. "I’ll bring my guards."

Tomorrow’s bout could leave him with a bruised chest and something to correct. He meant to use every practice session he had left.

When the Red Gate opened, there would be no instructor calling stop.