Black Ice ✓ | Deathsworn #1

Chapter 24 ∞ Movement

We were led to the path of the monastery where the monks resided. While the city was still busily buzzing outside the tall walls of the place, the towering trees and the wide breadth of land seemed to block out all the sounds. We were left in the peaceful sanctuary of nature's song—birds tweeting, the trees rustling, and our feet in a fleeting chorus across the pavement.

I stayed quiet for the most part, letting the adults converse as I sank into the embrace of my own thoughts. The energy in this place was so pure and overflowing that I was tempted to sing. I stopped myself, even so, knowing what sort of consequences doing so could bring. I grounded myself by listening in on the conversation that the monk was having with my mistress but was just too lost at the topic that I eventually zoned out again.

Before long, we found ourselves passing by a prayer hall. Hums were coming from inside followed by incoherent mutterings I could barely understand. As we went further, within a few steps, I heard cries of willpower and determination echoing from a distance. Out of curiosity, I left my mistress's side for a bit and leaned over the fences to see a couple of monks training on their stances like something out of a kung-fu movie. My mistress was totally clueless about my leaving that she entered the building ahead of us without me by her side.

I doubted she needed me at all. It was kind of strange seeing her in so much ease that she actually forgot about me. One minute she was fussing, the next she's forgetting.

The stances they practiced harnessed a great deal of energy, I realized. As a Conduit, I was more sensitive to the movement of the domains around me. I suspected these guys were Conduits too. There was a small vacuum that funneled the energy straight into them, supplying their fists with power and agility to name some traits. With each stance came with either defense or offense—or both. I could tell with how the energy expanded or contracted around their bodies. The complexity made my eyes spin. Each sway, each flick—it all bore a significance and purpose, whether to attack or to defend. Some, however, were more suited to offenses and defenses as they better realized the fierceness of one attack or the stability of the other.

Man, I don't have that kind of talent. If I did, I would at least have a little more improvement with the sword my mistress had been teaching me for six years now.

"Tell me your thoughts, young one," rumbled a deep voice.

I looked up, a little startled. I hadn't felt anyone creep to my side. Were his footsteps that light?

It was, of course, an old man. But he looked particularly young for an old man. He had some greying wire-y noodle beard that extended to his chest with a bald, cleanly shaved head and a fluffy brow. His face was round, a little on the pudgy side, but he carried an air of wisdom about him and an undeniable presence.

I straightened my back unwittingly and said, "I'm not skilled enough to comment on what they do. I don't have a talent for it."

"What makes you say that?" he asked, laughter rumbling in his chest.

"I've been taught for six years. I'm just not cut out for it."

"Dear child, it's not a matter of being 'cut out' for it," he told me. "It's all if you're willing to trim yourself and pursue the discipline. Some children are born with a better shape that fits the boxes they try to put themselves in, but what you don't see is that the box itself changes its shape as well. A wise man would allow himself to be like water—whatever shape, wherever—it adapts."

"What if I don't want to?"

"Then there's no forcing it," he said.

"Then that's the end of the discussion."