Chapter 9
One week went by after his confrontation with General Malchi and he was going stir crazy. The Senior Abbot refused to see him when he asked for an audience. The monks just told Zale to be patient when he questioned them about why the Senior Abbot wouldn’t meet with him. So Zale didn’t really have much to do while he waited to be assigned a master. He wanted to participate with the other high potential youths in their training. Unfortunately, he had no active skill he could practice with. So instead he attended the martial training every morning and continued to practice physical training in the afternoon.
During the first class he attended the instructor asked him what type of weapon he wanted to train in. Zale had never thought about it before. Hero’s always had a sword they used to cut their way through any obstacle. Sword masters were able to slice mountains in half with a casual swing of their blade. Another part of Zale looked at the bow. Divine archers were feared throughout the ages. Able to hit their target hundreds of miles away, no one would dare provoke them. Even a war axe, though stigma dictated was only ever wielded by brutes could cleave the earth itself if trained to the master level.
The choices were endless. Zale spent the entire first day holding each weapon in his hands. Staff, tonfa, war hammer, mace, shield, even exotic weapons like chakram were included in the Spirit Hall’s weapons room. None of them felt right to him. As he held them, none seemed to fit him. Off to the corner of the training hall was a log with multiple sticks coming out like arms in multiple places. He wondered what it was for. The martial instructor saw Zale’s eyes on the wooden training log.
“That is for practicing hand to hand combat. The wooden sticks act as arms for you to practice blocks and joint techniques. The trunk acts to temper your fists.”
While the instructor spoke he struck the training log. He blocked on of the arms high and parried an arm low then struck the center as hard as he could. It was impressive. Zale looked at his own fists and sensed that in the future a weapon would be cumbersome to him. He wasn’t raised with tutors and private fencing lessons. He was raised pulling weeds and plowing fields. His entire family worked with their hands as far back as anyone could remember. Zale was sure that he would regret picking one of the weapons based on stories he had heard or stereotypes. He felt he had to go with his instinct.
If someone didn’t have talent or drive no matter how much hard work they put into something they would never be the best. Hard work and dedication could make some great at something. Talent alone could make someone stand out and be applauded. But to the be the best of the best, to stand above everyone at the peak, that took a combination of both.
He would use his fists. His body was under his control. It felt natural as he mimicked the instructor and blocked high, parried low, and struck the center. His fist hurt when it made contact with the log. Even his forearm hurt where he blocked the wooden arm. The instructor smiled.
Not everyone was able to instinctually know what they should practice. Some people spent years of their life studying to perfect an art to only learn that they could never reach the top or worse yet didn’t even enjoy it. Others would try different things weekly before hastily switching to something else because they were constantly looking for the one thing the fit them perfectly. It was very rare for people to be able to look and touch for but an instant and know it wasn’t meant for them.
Zale spent that whole week practicing martial arts from the instructor. It was a shame Zale’s teacher only knew the basics of one style. He was lucky the style his instructor knew was the Empire’s standard that was taught to all soldiers named Ruling Fist. The Spirit Hall had manuals that explained more advanced techniques that he could study on his own.
Although one week wasn’t even enough time for Zale to learn all the basics let alone master them he had a voracious appetite to learn. He knew that the basics were a foundation that all the advanced techniques were based off of. If he knew why he was punching and blocking a certain way now it would help him perfect the moves and stances now and help speed his transition to the advanced arts latter.
Besides, he had nothing better to do. He couldn’t train in his F rank skill Lightning Rod unless he wanted to risk death, and no matter how much he tried to train Impulse Control he failed to make any progress. Until he was assigned a master who could help direct him in how to train his abilities he was stuck. So he made his entire purpose training in Ruling Fist.
He spent all morning practicing Kata by himself and training moves and stances with the wooden log. The other students noticed his attendance but continued to train and spar amongst themselves. They had all been training longer than him and were using weapons, it would be awhile before he would be able to have a sparing contest against them. During the afternoon he would do conditioning while the other students were working on their abilities. He would run the compound multiple times with sand bags tied to his legs and chest. At night he would read the manuals for Ruling Fist before he went to sleep, trying his best to comprehend the why not just the how.
During meals he looked for Yale because he hoped maybe the energetic youth would be willing to nudge his master Commander Cipher to speed things up with the Senior Abbot but he found that Yale was nowhere to be found. When he questioned the other children about it during martial training they gave looks of pity when thinking of Yale. Apparently Zale wasn’t the only one to see the bruises all over the boy’s body. They told him he practiced every day in the back field with his master.
Zale took a look later in the week and realized how much work he needed to do still. Yale fought Commander Cipher in a battle Zale would have pictured being told around a campfire. He wasn’t sure what abilities Commander Cipher was using but they were in the metal category because five metal poles the size and width of a person floated in the air and attacked Yale from multiple angles. The boy who screamed peeking was a man’s duty didn’t back down. He held a bow and jumped on top of the pillars trying to crush him as they slammed into the ground. Rolling, flipping, diving, basically anything to dodge the bombardment that could easily crush him Yale moved with a dexterity that was beyond what Zale thought humanly possible. None of the boy’s movements were desperate though, they were all thought out. Whenever an opportunity arose he would condense an arrow made of ice and launch it at his master. With each arrow that flew Commander Cipher would just sneer and move a pillar to block. When the ice arrow connected it would exploded in a blast of chilliness that dropped the temperature more and more.
After five or ten minutes of battle where no one seemed to be even close to achieving victory one of the five pillars swept the back of Yale’s feet and knocked him to the ground while another one slammed down on his chest pinning him to the ground. The metal pillars then floated back to Commander Cipher’s side and Yale stood up coughing, trying his best to get his breath back.
“You still don’t perceive the entire battlefield. Ten-minute break and then we go again.”
Zale knew what it meant to be accepted to one of the schools. Their resources were limitless. Every graduate was someone who hold immense power and influence. This type of harsh training was common to grow talent. Everyone selected for the tournament were people who showed talent. Not one person competing would be someone not qualified. After witnessing how tough Yale was training he stepped up his own regiment, making sure he pushed himself as hard as possible.
He found a piece in the daily routine. If it wasn’t for the storm clouds above Delvers Ridge maybe he wouldn’t have demanded to see the Senior Abbot. The barn lighting on fire was still in his memory. He needed to figure out how to deal with his F rank passive Lightning Rod. It couldn’t wait any longer. To Zale’s surprise he wasn’t rejected an audience. He was told to meet the Senior Abbot in his office at the break of dawn the next morning.
Zale would finally have a master. He walked into the Senior Abbot’s office that morning knowing that he would finally have guidance on how to proceed with his training. He could research himself given enough time but he only had a single year. What was a years’ worth of research compared to a lifetimes worth of experience? Even if his master was as unclear about Zale’s ability as he was they would still be infinitely more knowledgeable on other lightning skills that could have training methods that could work for his. He would be able to make progress. Some progress was better than no progress.
What was in the Senior Abbot’s office was the last thing Zale expected though. General Malchi sat across from the Senior Abbot in a deep conversation. Gone was the patchy facial hair, gone was the stink of booze, gone was man who slept in a bar booth. The two men stopped their discussion when Zale entered and both stood up.
“Hurry and greet your master,” the Senior Abbot said.