The silence of the night wrapped the room like a thick cloak, and only the soft breathing of Astrid and Isis filled the space. Lying between them, Aziz kept his eyes open, fixed on the high, ornate ceiling, but his mind was far away.
The memories of the duel with Sofia still played out in his head. The movements, the impacts of the wooden swords, the exchanged glances… But above all, what stayed with him was the technique. The "Fundamental Essence of the Sword". A simple, almost naive name, yet what he had felt when receiving it was vast — too deep to be described in words.
Aziz slowly closed his eyes.
"System… take me to the Dream Space. I want to start testing this technique."
[Ding! Access to Dream Space initiated…]
Darkness enveloped him like a warm embrace. The physical world seemed to dissolve in layers, and for a moment, Aziz felt suspended in a void — without a body, without time, only consciousness. Then, a bluish mist began to take shape around him, expanding in spirals until it formed the new scene.
It was always like this.
The Dream Space materialized as a large clearing surrounded by a starless night sky, where the light seemed to come from nowhere and everywhere at once. The ground was made of a smooth, dark stone that softly reflected his steps, and the air carried a subtle scent of smoke and ancient wood.
Aziz looked around, feeling that familiar strangeness settle in. There were no sounds beyond his own breathing. No wind. No insects. No birds. Just space. And him.
"Time here flows differently… twice as slow as in the real world," he murmured to himself. "I need to make the most of it."
He snapped his fingers. "System, show me the technique."
No response came, as usual whenever he was not directly interacting with the interface.
But then… something moved.
On the other side of the clearing, a figure emerged from the mist. Tall, slender, and completely wrapped in dense shadows, with no defined features. It had no face, no clothes, but its silhouette resembled that of a swordsman. A long, elegant sword appeared in its hand — made of pure spectral light, almost translucent.
Aziz felt a shiver run down his spine.
The figure said nothing. It only assumed the initial stance with supernatural fluidity. Feet placed at the exact distance, shoulders relaxed, a firm grip, controlled breathing. And then… it began to move.
It was beautiful. Almost hypnotic.
Each strike flowed into the next as if they were part of a single breath. A horizontal arc made way for a light retreat, followed by a sharp thrust and then a full-body spin ending with a clean, firm sideways cut.
The figure moved as if dancing, but without exaggeration. No energy wasted. No hesitation. Only precision.
Aziz watched in absolute silence, eyes fixed. His heart beat slowly, as if his body tried to keep pace with the rhythm of that silent style. At the end of the sequence, the figure returned to the starting position, as if nothing had happened — and then simply dissipated into particles of mist.
Aziz stepped forward. Then another step. He breathed deeply.
"All right…"
He closed his eyes for a second and tried to replicate what he had seen.
He assumed the stance as best as he could remember: feet apart, sword in hand, controlled breathing.
But something was wrong from the start.
His first movement was hesitant. The horizontal cut came out crooked. The thrust was too forceful. The final spin lost its balance center. He corrected, adapted, tried again… but it wasn't the same. It was just an imitation.
Time passed slowly inside there, and Aziz kept repeating the movements.
Once, twice, ten, twenty times.
Sweat ran down his forehead. The sword — even if illusory — weighed on his arms as if it were real. His muscles burned. His mind throbbed.
"It's not right…"
He stopped, panting.
"I don't understand… just copying."
He sat down on the dark stone floor, leaving the sword beside him.
The Dream Space remained in absolute silence.
Aziz rested his elbows on his knees and hid his face between his hands for a moment.
'It's frustrating… I thought it would be different. That receiving a technique meant knowing how to use it. But it's not.'
He raised his gaze again, staring into the void.
'This technique isn't just a sequence of moves. It's a path.'
And yet, he did not give up.
He stood up, planted his feet firmly on the ground, and started again.
This time, without rush.
Without trying to get it right immediately.
Just feeling.
He let his body guide the movements as he remembered from the shadowy figure. Each cut was more restrained, less raw. The spins became smoother. The breathing… closer to the right rhythm.
And, almost imperceptibly, something changed.
It was still not perfect. Not even good. But there was *something* there. A beginning. A seed.
Aziz felt the progress. Small, almost insignificant, but real.
A slight smile formed on his lips.
"It's a start."
---
Outside, in the real world, the night advanced slowly.
Astrid awoke for a brief moment, her light blue eyes shining in the dimness. She watched Aziz asleep between her and Isis. Despite the deep sleep, there was something in his expression — as if his dreams demanded more effort than they should.
She leaned slightly and ran her fingers through the boy's white hair.
"You are made of something rare, my little one…"
Then she embraced him gently and lay back down, in silence.
---
Inside the Dream Space, Aziz was still training.
The shadowy figure had appeared once again, as if the system had read his persistence. The same sequence. The same fluidity.
This time, Aziz didn't rush to imitate. He just watched. As if trying to absorb the essence behind the gestures, not just the external form.
When the figure vanished, he closed his eyes.
'It's not about memorizing… it's about *understanding*. The flow. The rhythm. The reason behind each step.'
He took the initial stance.
Inhaled.
And began again.
The sound of his own breathing became his rhythm. The surrounding space — vast, misty, silent — seemed to shape itself to his focus, as if the world obeyed the pace of his mind. He moved his feet, raised the sword, and executed the first strike, aiming not to imitate, but to feel.
The wooden blade cut the air with a clean movement, yet still stiff.
"More lightness. Less rigidity."
The phrase came from him, in a muffled whisper. And then, as if provoked by the sincere attempt, the system decided to manifest:
[You have a special talent, you know? It's almost comical to watch someone repeat the same mistake twelve times and still get up to try a thirteenth.]
Aziz raised an eyebrow, maintaining his stance. "You're enjoying this, aren't you?"
[A little. It's like watching a pup try to hunt for the first time. Stumbling, tripping… but with those determined eyes.]
He took a deep breath, trying to ignore the entity's provocative tone. Still, there was something different in the way the system spoke. Behind the usual irony, Aziz sensed… a slight admiration.
"If you have any useful advice, now would be a good time."
[You're still trying to understand with your muscles something that starts with perception. It's not about how you move your arm or where you step… but why.]
"I've noticed that already."
[Noticing isn't the same as feeling. And feeling isn't the same as understanding.]
Aziz stayed silent. He knew arguing with the system was useless. Instead, he turned back to the technique. He restarted the first move, slower this time. He felt the wood of the sword, the weight in his grip, the pressure on his feet. And tried to feel… the "why."
One step forward. Wrist spin. Half-moon cut. Return to base.
He failed. Again.
But he stood firm.
Again.
And again.
Time flowed strangely there. Each attempt seemed to last minutes, and yet, he didn't feel the body's natural fatigue. Only the mental one. In the real world, maybe a few minutes had passed… but in the Dream Space, Aziz had been training for nearly an hour.
[You're starting to breathe with the movement. That's new.]
"A compliment? You're going to make me cry."
[Don't get carried away. You still look like a little bird sneezing wind with its wings. But it's a stubborn bird.]
Aziz smiled lightly, more from the feeling of progress than from the provocation. The system could mock all it wanted, but that last phrase had given him something: confirmation he was on the right path, even if only at the beginning.
He closed his eyes once more.
'Focus on the flow. Let the body follow the intention. Don't control… allow.'
The next sequence of movements was not perfect. Far from it. But there was something new. A slight fluidity between the second and third strike. A natural fit, as if his muscles had finally understood the gesture without needing him to command them.
And then he stopped.
He stood still for a few moments, feeling what he had done.
"That was it?"
[It was… a step.]
"But a step I took. Without copying anyone."
[Yes. For the first time, you moved not like someone trying to learn a technique… but like someone trying to express themselves through it.]
Aziz said nothing. He didn't need to.
He kept training. Sequence after sequence. Sometimes going back to the start. Sometimes failing halfway through. But failing consciously. Correcting patiently. And little by little, the technique ceased to be a set of orders to follow, and began to become a language — a way of saying something without words.
The mist around seemed to vibrate lightly, responding to each well-executed movement. It was subtle, almost imperceptible. But Aziz noticed. The Dream Space reacted. As if recognizing the effort, as if approving it.
[Interesting… very interesting.]
"Are you surprised?"
[Yes. And no. Most would have given up after the sixth attempt without progress. You didn't.]
"Because it's not about achieving a quick result. It's about achieving the right one."
[You're starting to look like a true practitioner.]
Time kept flowing outside. But in the Dream Space, Aziz had already surpassed two hours of training. Sweat ran down his temple, even though his physical body was not there. His muscles, or at least their sensation, were tense. Mental fatigue accumulated.
He knelt for a moment, placing his hands on the ground.
He breathed deeply. Then once more.
"I won't stop."
[You don't need to.]
He stood up once again.
The shadowy figure reappeared before him. Silent. Subtle. And repeated the technique with a slight variation — an axis adjustment, a wrist tilt, a different timing between strikes. Aziz watched with sharpened attention.
This time, he didn't imitate immediately.
"Show me the why of this."
The figure did not respond, as always. It only executed the sequence once more.
Aziz then closed his eyes and tried to reconstruct in his mind the logic of what he had seen. The weight shift, the purpose of that spin, the reach of the strike… everything had a reason, and he needed to feel it, not just copy it.
With eyes still closed, he restarted.
And for the first time, he completed the entire sequence without stumbling on his own steps.
He stood silently, sword lowered, breathing steady.
The system's voice sounded lower, more serious.
[Now you're no longer just trying to learn a technique. You're trying to understand it from the inside out.]
Aziz opened his eyes.
"I'm still far from it."
[Yes. But today, you started walking.]
And for the first time in that space, Aziz smiled without irony. Without exhaustion. A sincere smile.
He turned around and walked to the center of the misty field. He was no longer fighting the technique, but walking with it.
There, in that world shaped by dreams and silence, the sound of his steps was almost imperceptible — but each one marked the beginning of a new path. A path that was his alone.