Chương 130: Chapter 91: Mastery

Vane let his spear clatter to the ground. Leaping to his feet, he hurled the whetstone into the forest with a strangled cry. The stone ricocheted through unseen branches as soldiers around neighboring fires flinched, their heads turning. After swaying on his feet for a moment, he turned back to Arany, the explosive release leaving him hollow. The old soldier hadn't moved; the flask still unflinchingly offered. Vane gave a slow nod and stepped forward with slumped shoulders.

He took the flask in both hands and raised it to his lips, his throat working as he drank deeply. Lowering the flask, he wiped his mouth on the back of a sleeve, staring at the dirt. Arany stepped closer, somberly saying, "What happened on the field today stays on the field, Elias. The lieutenant will not speak of it, nor will I." Vane stiffened, his head sinking lower in shame. The old soldier reached out and rested his hand on Vane's shoulder.

"Berrick, son of Brandt, has paid the ultimate price. The burden of that on your conscience is a heavier enough penance." Arany had spoken softly, but an edge of steel crept in.

"However, you must remember your place. The shield wall is the root that holds the tree against the storm. If one root tears loose, the entire tree can fall. Do not let your fire burn our brothers again." A choked sob and broken nod were the only replies. Arany gave his shoulder a final squeeze before stepping back, his attention widening to encompass the entire somber circle. Raising his resonant voice, he began a story.

"The first time my path crossed with Berrick… he tried to barter a 'lucky' goblin tooth." Vane chuckled dryly. The corner of Arany's mouth twitched.

"Swore it came from a matriarch he'd killed himself, but the thing was barely a fang. I paid him a silver for it anyway." Another soldier moved at the edge of their firelight, rolling a small wooden cask forward. The man positioned it near the campfire, then pulled a tap and mallet from his pack before the definitive crack of the tap being hammered in echoed through the camp. A starting pistol that brought others to their fire. The wake had begun. Vane shoved a battered tin cup into Cal's palm.

Cal stared at it, his fingers closing around the rim automatically, his first instinct a refusal born of his sense of respect for the dead. But Vane was already moving away, pouring whiskey from the cask into his own cup. He turned, his eyes red-rimmed and fierce as he thrust his cup toward the fire.

"For Berrick." His voice cracked on the second syllable, but he didn't falter, lifting his cup higher. Around the circle voices responded and added the other names as cups were raised. Cal joined them. The whiskey burned down his throat and ignited in his belly. He coughed, his eyes watering, but he forced it down. Arany spoke again.

"Berrick was the stingiest bastard I ever met. Wouldn't lend you a copper if you were bleeding in a ditch." A few scattered chuckles rippled through the group, followed by muttered agreements.

"Man held onto his copper like a tree holds water in a drought. But roots run deep where the ground is hardest. When the fever took Renard's boy last winter, Berrick paid the healer. Didn't speak a word of it. Just let the fruit fall where it was needed." As cups were refilled by the fire the stories began in earnest, recalling Egill's terrible jokes that made you groan and laugh at once; and Chandra's obsession with keeping her spear polished to a mirror shine even in the depths of a bog.

Stories emerged of people who were flawed and real, built from mundane memories rather than grand eulogies. Cal listened, the whiskey's warmth spreading through his limbs. He didn't speak, for he had no stories to share about people he had barely known. But he could witness. At some point he noticed Ria's drink was empty. She sat hunched, her fingers still clutching Berrick's dagger as she stared vacantly into the fire.

In a quiet moment, Cal reached over and eased her cup away, refilling it from the cask with a dram before handing it back.

"He died owing me five silver," she murmured.

"Reckon this settles the tab." She downed the liquor in one quick motion. The night wore on and the stories continued, growing louder and more raucous as the cask emptied and another was cracked open. Laughter mingled with tears. Vane raised his voice above the others, recounting some absurd mishap involving Berrick and a stolen pig that sent the group into a cathartic eruption of mirth. Cal chuckled despite himself, the liquor easing the horrors of the day.

As the laughter subsided it left a warm haze of spirit and fellowship around the fire. Arany stood, his broad frame silhouetted against the flames as he refilled his cup from the cask.

"We have given our grief to the fire," he said.

"We have remembered the names of the fallen." He lifted his cup once more.

"Now we toast the deed that gave their deaths meaning." He turned and looked directly at Cal.

"Berrick was taken by the rot-fiend. But that fiend was slain in turn by the sword of Cal Valorn." Vane let out a cheer, slamming his cup against Cal's which sloshed over their hands.

"To Valorn!" he roared. Another soldier from Arany's squad pounded the ground with his fist.

"I saw it! Never seen an F-tier move like that.

'twas fast and graceful, it was. Moved like a phantom and took the bastard rotter in the neck!" Cups were raised around the circle, a chorus of slurred praise inundating Cal as he lifted his own cup to meet theirs. It was good to be alive. Cal woke to a splitting headache and the taste of stale alcohol coating his tongue. He groaned and rolled onto his side, the frost-covered earth pressing against his cheek. Apparently, he hadn't made it to his tent.

His body protested every movement, muscles stiff from the hard ground while the lingering ache of battle left deeper aches. The camp was already stirring with called commands and clanking gear as porters went to and fro, breaking down fortifications and loading supplies. Forcing himself upright, Cal waited for his vision to steady and rubbed at the insistent throb behind his eyes. Never again. I've sat through four-hour compliance seminars that caused less brain damage than Legion whiskey.

My tongue feels like it's wearing a wool sweater. For the rest of the day they marched—a long, weary procession back toward Deadfall. The damp morning air helped clear his head, cool mist clinging to his skin as they moved through the Virethane's dense undergrowth. The expedition shared a weary cohesion, their steps synchronized through the exhaustion, the only sounds the stomp of boots in mud and the rattle of gear. No one was in the mood for marching songs today.

Cal's mind wandered, sinking into the flow of the march. He reflected on his growing power, bitter that it hadn't been enough to save his friend. He resolved to work harder. Then his thoughts drifted to Evelynn and the kids, to the warmth of a Christmas morning so vivid and perfect that he almost stumbled when his boot caught on a root. Support creative writers by reading their stories on Royal Road, not stolen versions. A hand clamped onto his shoulder, steadying him. Vane marched beside.

Without a word, he unhooked his waterskin and offered it. Cal took the leather flask and gulped down a mouthful, then handed it back with a nod. Vane returned the gesture and fell back into step beside him as they made their way home. They arrived back at Deadfall as second dusk approached. The air was filled with the smells of cook-fires and the sounds of doors being barred as the village settled into its nightly routine.

When they arrived at the garrison Cal parted ways with his squad, bypassing the barracks as his feet carried him on the path toward the offices. He found Captain Hatch at his desk, a quill in hand as he reviewed a stack of reports under the light of the overhead runes. Hatch glanced up as Cal entered.

"Valorn." Cal came to attention, his hands clasped behind his back. He drew on his lifetime of corporate experience with performance reviews to address the officer. Never lead with failures. Lead with the wins. Hatch is my boss and my employer. He needs to see a return on his investment, or my exemption could disappear.

"Sir. Reporting on the expedition to the corrupted zone." Hatch continued writing.

"Go ahead."

"The mission was a success: the rotters were thinned out at the scar. The expedition engaged multiple waves of undead, including two E-tier Elites. While the main force assaulted the juvenile drake rotter, my squad contained the adventurer corpse until our shield wall broke. Then I engaged the target directly and eliminated it in single combat." The quill hovered over the parchment for a second before the captain slowly set it down. He looked up, his eyes locking onto Cal skeptically.

"An E-tier Elite," Hatch repeated.

"In single combat."

"Yes, sir."

"Valorn, do you have any idea what you're saying?" Hatch leaned forward, his hands clasping together on the desk.

"An F-tier fighting an Elite undead on their own is an execution, not a battle. The attribute difference alone makes it nigh impossible. You shouldn't have been able to keep up with it, let alone damage it. That's why we send so many soldiers in the first place." He stared at Cal skeptically.

"I managed to exploit a gap in its armor, sir. And... I got lucky." Hatch stood and walked around the desk, stopping a few feet from Cal and looking the young man up and down. Letting out a slow breath, the captain shook his head.

"I have E-tier veterans in this garrison - men and women with years of experience - who wouldn't have been able to do what you're proposing. I can't think of a single legionary below D-tier who could kill one of those things solo. Most would have waited for backup or died holding the shield." He paused, his eyes narrowing.

"I taught you the forms, Valorn. I taught you how to stand and how to thrust. But I didn't teach you that. No amount of drilling bridges that gap." The captain returned to his chair, setting down into it slowly. Waiting. Cal took a breath, gathering his thoughts.

"Sir, if I may... something happened out there. A System event I don't understand." Hatch motioned for him to continue. Cal braced himself.

"I achieved [Spear Mastery]." The captain's stoic composure cracked. He leapt up quickly, his chair scraping against the floorboards.

"Say that again, Valorn." A bit taken aback, Cal repeated himself.

"I… I achieved [Spear Mastery], sir. The System offered me a Legacy." Hatch worked his jaw as he hunched over the desk.

"Mastery? From the First Form alone?"

"Yes sir."

"That's... impossible." He scrubbed a hand over his face.

"But I suppose your claim of besting an E-tier makes more sense now…" Hatch gestured for silence.

"Before you say another word, listen to me. What Legacy did Vox offer you?" Vox? Oh, right, that's what the Dominion call it. Cal opened his mouth to answer.

"Stop! Don't actually tell me!" Cal froze.

"Don't tell anyone unless your life depends on it! Legacies, like Bloodlines, are sacred. They are rewards for achieving Mastery and the deepest secrets to one's power. Some are obvious in their use, but others can be a surprise you keep in reserve. A tool no enemy knows you possess. Understand?" He nodded, relieved by the man's lesson. The captain sank into his chair and leaned back, his fingers steepling.

"Good. Now. Why do you think the Legion drills the First Form so relentlessly?" Cal had thought about this on the march back.

"To build a foundation. So the individual Skills... merge... into a Mastery."

"Correct. But it's not just that you achieved Synthesis with the First Form alone. It's the speed of it." He paused, tilting his head.

"Forget the Mastery for a moment. How many of the foundational Skills did you raise to Expert?"

"All six." Letting out a slow breath, the captain shook his head.

"Incredible. The path to Mastery isn't rigid, Valorn. There's no set number of Skills required. Get one Skill in a discipline to Expert and it can be enough depending on the person's aptitude. The more Skills you bring to that level in a related field, the more you stack the odds in your favor." He gestured vaguely.

"Most soldiers get one, maybe two of the First Form's Skills to Expert after years of drilling. Then they learn the Second and Third Forms to add more kindle to the fire, hoping for that spark. I've never known a recruit to get a single one of the basics to Expert in less than a year." Hatch stared at Cal as if seeing him for the first time.

"You did all six in a matter of months and managed to skip entire stages of development." He trailed off, muttering to himself.

"…and multiple decades…" Cal's breath caught. Hatch watched him closely.

"Tell me, Cal: what's different about Mastery?" His brow furrowed.

"I don't follow, sir."

"How do you gain Skills, Aspirant?" Cal wasn't exactly sure what Hatch was driving at, but he answered as best he could.

"I don't gain them - I earn them. The notification is just the Sys… Vox validating what I've already done."

"And what changed when you achieved Mastery?" Ohhhh, I get it, Cal thought, as he saw the connection.

"That process... it reversed. Vox started giving back information that I hadn't earned yet." He frowned.

"Why? Why would it just change like that?"

"Because you had already done the work, lad. When a smith folds steel, he takes many weak layers and forges them into one superior whole. Your practice was the hammer. Your six Skills were the layers. The battle was the forge, and you created a new weapon through that achievement. Unlocking Mastery is just the beginning." Eyes glinting, the captain continued.

"Have you noticed a difference? When you hold a spear now?" Cal took a moment before responding.

"Yes. It's like... new knowledge is just there. Techniques I was never taught."

"As an additional reward for forging Low Mastery with the spear, Vox has gifted you a basic understanding of all spearwork. You will discover it contains fundamentals that exist well outside the scope of the Legion's First Form. And as your Mastery grows it will gift you deeper knowledge." Hatch let the revelation hang for a moment as Cal processed it, then asked, "Why do you think that happened?" Cal hesitated for a moment, mulling his answer over.

"Because I proved to Vox I was worthy?"

"As good a guess as any. No one really knows for sure, but realize this: advancing your Mastery must be earned once again, and few find the path." He paused for a moment, looking contemplative.

"Which leads to a bigger question I like to ponder from time to time. Why does Vox act this way? Why withhold everything until you earn it, only to then gift you the basics for free?" Cal searched for an answer, but he had nothing. The System's logic was alien, its motivations inscrutable.

"Honestly, sir? I don't have a clue. Maybe some cosmic deity just decided that's how it should be." Hatch broke into a rare laugh. The sound was deep and unexpected, filling the small office. It was the first time Cal had heard him laugh, and the effect was startling. The captain shook his head bemusedly.

"A fair response. Those questions - 'What is Vox?'

'What does it want?'

'Where did it come from?' - are one of the great mysteries of our world. Scholars have debated them for millennia. No one has an answer." He leaned back, the humor fading but the warmth remaining as he looked at Cal seriously, seeming to weigh his words before continuing.

"Vox theory, Masteries, and Legacies aside… my exemption to allow you status as a Sovereign Aspirant came at significant personal risk. A gamble on the potential I saw." Hatch tapped a finger on the desk.

"If what you're saying is true, then you just paid out the jackpot on the first roll. Well done, Cal." Some of the tension that'd been building left Cal, but he still had something on his mind.

"Sir, I appreciate that. But I still feel like I failed." Hatch waited.

"Berrick died. I was right there. If I'd been faster, stronger, maybe I could have—""No." The syllable cracked like a whip, yanking Cal from his spiral. Hatch braced his elbows on the desk and stared intently.

"You can't save everyone, Valorn, and that's not your job besides. Your job… is to be a weapon deadly enough that the enemy bleeds harder than we do." Cal clenched his hands into fists behind his back as the captain continued.

"Berrick knew the risks. Every man and woman who takes the Legion oath knows them. Death is the price we pay for the privilege of standing between the monsters and the people who can't. Making that price worth it is the responsibility of every Legionary." Cal nodded slowly.

"Understood, sir." Hatch dismissed him with a wave.

"Now, off with you. I've more work to do, and you could use a bath." He smiled.

"You did well, son." Cal sniffed himself instinctively. The captain was right. He smelled terrible.

"Thank you, sir. Good night." Hatch grunted, already turning back to his reports. Leaving the quiet office, Cal stepped out into the chilly air of the crimson-lit evening. His mind buzzed with the implications of what Hatch had revealed, a question burning through the fog of his exhaustion. If weapon Skills can synthesize into something greater, what about my other, more esoteric talents? As his feet carried him home his thoughts raced ahead. He was looking forward to visiting the Golden Mortar in the morning.