The meal continued, but James ate quietly, mentally bracing himself. This wasn't just about physical strength—it was about discipline, endurance, and understanding the knowledge he'd spent weeks absorbing. Aria cast him a glance now and then, as if reading his thoughts, but she said nothing, letting the silence carry the weight of the decision he'd just made.
As the night deepened, James sat outside for a while, staring up at the stars, before he went to bed .
James woke before the first light touched the horizon, the quiet stillness of the early morning settling around him. The air was crisp, carrying the scent of damp earth and the faint whisper of leaves shifting in the wind.
He stretched slowly, testing his limbs, feeling the renewed strength in his muscles after weeks of recovery. His body was no longer fragile—though the true test was yet to come.
Stepping outside, he breathed in deeply, letting the cool air clear his mind. The forest stretched before him, dark but alive, and in the distance, he could hear the steady trickle of the river.
Just as James was settling into his early preparations, steadying his stance and testing his balance, the old man's voice cut through the quiet morning air.
"You're up early," he observed, stepping forward with the measured stride of someone who had seen many mornings like this.
James straightened, exhaling lightly. "Figured I should be ready."
The old man studied him for a moment, then gave a slight nod of approval. "Good. But don't mistake enthusiasm for endurance. Training isn't about rushing—it's about understanding yourself, your limits, and how to push them wisely."
James met his gaze, holding back the impulse to argue. He knew enough now to realize that this was a lesson in itself.
"Come," the old man said, turning toward the clearing. "We begin."
James followed, the weight of anticipation settling in his chest, ready to face whatever lay ahead.
The old man led James to a quiet spot in the clearing, where the morning light barely broke through the dense canopy above. Instead of giving him immediate instructions, he simply gestured for James to sit.
James hesitated. "I thought we were starting training."
The old man sat down himself, crossing his legs with practiced ease. "We are."
James glanced around, half-expecting some kind of physical task, but there was nothing—no weights, no weapons, no obstacle course. Just silence.
"You want strength," the old man said, his voice steady, "but strength without control is chaos. Power without patience leads to ruin."
James swallowed his impatience, settling into place opposite him. "So what do I do?"
"You listen," the old man said simply. "Feel the world around you. Let your mind settle before you try to command your body."
James exhaled slowly, closing his eyes. The distant hum of the forest filled his senses—the rustling of leaves, the faint murmur of the river, the steady pulse of the earth beneath him.
For a long while, there was nothing but that—just silence, observation, and the quiet discipline of learning how to wait.
As time passed, the initial restlessness in James' mind began to settle. At first, the silence felt like a barrier—an empty stretch of nothingness where action should have been. But slowly, as he listened, truly listened, he began to understand.
The rustling of the trees wasn't just background noise; it was movement, life, energy shifting in its own rhythm. The steady flow of the river carried a pulse, a natural momentum that had existed long before him. Even his own breath—the rise and fall of his chest—was a pattern, something controlled yet instinctive.
The old man hadn't given him instructions for a reason. This wasn't about learning through words—it was about feeling, about recognizing the world's rhythm and learning to move with it rather than against it.
James exhaled slowly, his body relaxing, his mind quieting.
The old man, watching him closely, gave the faintest nod. "Now," he murmured, "we begin."
The old man studied James for a moment, then let out a slow breath.
"Fighting is not the only skill worth mastering," he murmured. "To understand strength, you must first understand _life_—how it grows, how it heals, and how it is sustained."
James listened closely, nodding.
The old man gestured toward the nearby trees and undergrowth. "A warrior who knows only how to take life is limited. A healer, a _herbalist_, understands balance—the ability to restore what is broken."
James felt a shift in the weight of the lesson. This wasn't about sharpening reflexes or testing endurance. This was about patience, wisdom, and the ability to harness the power of nature itself.
The old man walked toward a cluster of herbs growing along the edge of the clearing. "Tell me," he said, "what do you see?"
James crouched, studying the leaves, the roots, the way they spread across the ground. He had read about plants before, about their uses, but now—standing here, watching them in their natural state—he realized the books had only shown fragments of the truth.
"Potential," James said finally. "Healing. Strength in a different form."
The old man gave a satisfied nod. "Then let's begin."
The old man watched James carefully before gesturing toward a small pouch of dried herbs. "If you want to learn, you must do," he said simply. "Prepare a basic remedy for a wound."
James nodded, settling in as he examined the ingredients. He had read about mixtures, proportions, and the process of extraction, but now—faced with the actual task—he realized how different theory was from practice.
He crushed the herbs, attempting to mix them with the right amount of water. His movements were slightly hesitant, his proportions uneven. Aria, watching from the side, raised an eyebrow as he stirred the paste together.
The old man remained quiet, letting him work, but James could feel the weight of his observation. When he finally presented the mixture, the old man took one look and let out a quiet sigh.
"This," he said, tilting the bowl slightly, "would help little. Your balance is off—too much water, not enough of the core ingredients."
James huffed slightly but didn't argue. He could see it now—the texture wasn't quite right, the scent wasn't as strong as it should have been.
Aria smirked. "At least it's _almost_ medicine."
James shot her a glance but refocused. "I'll get it right."
The old man nodded. "Then try again."
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