Chapter 431: Training (5)
The next morning broke softly over Lorienya. Dawn bled gold through the canopy, painting the upper leaves in molten light while the forest floor remained caught between shadow and morning mist.
The great roots of the World Tree glowed faintly underfoot, humming with slow, ancient rhythm, like a sleeping heart beneath the world.
Lindarion was already awake.
He stood on the training grounds before sunrise, long before the first soldiers arrived. The dew still clung to the grass, and the scent of moss and bark filled the air.
His white hair caught the dawn, his golden eyes calm, unreadable. He wasn’t waiting, he was remembering.
The stance was different here, the rhythm of the ground unfamiliar. Lorienyan soil was soft, yielding; the air heavy with mana. Every strike felt slower in such balance. In Eldorath, the air had been sharp, the land dry, each motion faster, crisper.
He adjusted, as he always did.
Ashwing lay nearby in his smaller lizard form, tail lazily twitching. "You’re up early again," he muttered through their mental link.
"Old habits," Lindarion replied. "I don’t sleep easily when things are still."
"That’s... almost poetic," Ashwing said, yawning. "Almost."
By the time the first rays touched the glade, the Lorienyan soldiers began to gather, quiet, respectful, their eyes drawn to the prince as though to a flame they couldn’t quite meet. Thalan arrived among them, his staff slung across his back, the faintest trace of pride in his eyes.
He bowed. "You honor us again, Prince Lindarion."
Lindarion inclined his head slightly. "You and your students honored me yesterday. Today, I’ll return it."
The murmurs rose briefly, uncertain. Few among them had expected their prince to join them again, and fewer still believed he would teach.
He gestured to a wide circle beneath the trees. "Form ranks. Not by rank, not by age. By instinct. Stand beside those whose rhythm matches yours."
Confused glances passed between the elves, but they obeyed. The result was a curious pattern, mismatched, uneven. Yet Lindarion’s eyes traced the subtle harmony beneath it.
"Good," he said. "Your instincts aren’t wrong. You fight in pairs, in movement, in reflection. Lorienyan battle forms are meant for song, harmony of blade and breath. But the world outside sings in dissonance."
He stepped into the center, drawing his blade. The morning light slid down its edge like liquid gold.
"Today, I’ll teach you to dance with chaos."
A ripple moved through the gathered elves. Some straightened; others looked uneasy. Lorienyan combat was structured, graceful, it followed rhythm like music. Chaos had no place in it.
Thalan watched closely.
Lindarion motioned for one of the younger soldiers, a slim elf with short brown hair and wary eyes, to step forward. "Your name?"
"Kaelar, my prince."
"Strike me."
Kaelar hesitated. "My prince—"
"Strike me," Lindarion repeated, tone calm, but unyielding.
Kaelar drew his blade and swung, clean, elegant, predictable. Lindarion sidestepped with the ease of breathing and tapped the elf’s wrist with his pommel, disarming him instantly.
The weapon clattered to the grass.
"You hesitate," Lindarion said. "You announce every move with posture, with breath. You think before you strike. That’s discipline, but discipline without adaptation becomes death."
He turned, gesturing toward another soldier. "Again. Both of you, now."
They obeyed. The two elves attacked in sequence, one from the left, one from behind. Lindarion didn’t parry; he flowed.
His sword became a line of light, each movement absorbing momentum, redirecting it, his body turning with such efficiency that the air itself seemed to bend.
Within three breaths, both elves were disarmed again.
He sheathed his blade and faced the watching crowd.
"You fight as the forest lives, patient, balanced. But the enemies beyond Lorienya are not forests. They are storms. You must not only endure the wind, you must learn to ride it."
He drew a line in the dirt with his boot. "From today, you will train in disruption. You will learn to feel mana in motion, to break patterns, not follow them."
He raised a hand. Mana stirred, faintly golden, curling around his fingers. "Feel it," he murmured, his voice low, resonant, the command laced with power. "The forest breathes. Its rhythm is not your enemy. But you must learn to break the song, without silencing it."
A low hum spread through the glade as the soldiers began to focus, their mana threads flaring faintly, greens, blues, silvers, each tied to the roots beneath their feet. Lindarion walked among them, his presence sharp as steel and calm as rain.
He corrected stances, shifted arms, adjusted balance. Each time he touched an elbow or guided a shoulder, the air trembled, not from force, but from resonance. His control of mana was exact, elegant, terrifying.
Thalan watched him move, awe mixing with discomfort. This was not Lorienyan technique. This was something older, darker, a fusion of elven grace and something human, honed and ruthless.
After hours of drills, the first test began.
Pairs sparred under Lindarion’s silent gaze. Every mistake was met not with scorn, but with a single soft word, "Again." And they did, until the rhythm broke. Until they began to improvise. Until hesitation gave way to instinct.
By midday, the glade was alive with motion, elves striking, spinning, breaking form only to reform again. Lindarion moved among them, sometimes deflecting a blade mid-swing, other times adding pressure with invisible force.
At one point, Kaelar lunged toward a sparring partner, slipped, and instead of falling, rolled with the momentum, turning his stumble into a sweep that brought his opponent down.
The others froze.
Lindarion smiled faintly. "Good."
Kaelar blinked, panting. "But that wasn’t in form—"
"It wasn’t meant to be," Lindarion said. "You adapted. That is strength."
A ripple of energy passed through the group, excitement, disbelief, inspiration.
Ashwing watched from a root, tail flicking. "You’re enjoying this," he said in Lindarion’s mind.
"I’m remembering," Lindarion replied. "When I first learned to fight without expectation."
"Didn’t you almost die doing that?"
"Yes."
"Great. So we’re teaching that now?"
Lindarion’s lips twitched. "In moderation."
By late afternoon, even Nysha had joined to observe, her arms crossed as she leaned against a trunk. She said nothing, but her eyes followed every movement, sharp and discerning.
When the sun began to dip again, Lindarion called a halt.
The soldiers stood in uneven lines, sweat-slick, exhausted, but more alive than they had been the day before. Their breathing was heavy, but their eyes were bright.
"You have begun to unlearn," Lindarion said quietly. "That is harder than learning itself. But it is the only path to truth."
Thalan stepped forward. "Prince Lindarion," he said, his voice hoarse but sincere. "Your method... it feels wrong, and yet—"
"It feels right," Lindarion finished for him.
Thalan nodded. "Yes."