Date: August 19, 542 years since the Fall of Zanra the Dishonored.
The darkness that closed behind them was not like the outside. Here, inside the tower, there was no white light, no even radiance — only a thick, velvety twilight that, however, did not hinder vision. The walls, floor, ceiling — all were made of the same smooth white stone, but now lines appeared on them. Thin, barely perceptible, they stretched in all directions, intertwined, diverged, converged in nodes, resembling a giant map of blood vessels or the root system of an ancient tree.
The old man walked ahead. His black cloak almost blended with the shadows, only his gray hair, flowing behind him, betrayed his presence. He did not look back, did not check if they followed — simply walked, his steps silent as a ghost's.
Ulvia stepped carefully, feeling the smooth, cold stone beneath her feet. The vine on her left hand curled up, fell silent — in this place, even she, alive and sensitive, dared not show herself. Datuk followed, gripping his axe more securely, though he understood that weapons would likely be useless here. Sobra pressed against his leg, his fur, silver-striped, appearing almost black in the twilight. Rosh brought up the rear, his fingers folded in a protective pattern — just in case, though vectors here refused to obey. They died as soon as they formed.
"Don't try," the old man said without turning. "In this place, only ancient laws work. Your vectors are useless here."
Rosh lowered his hands but did not release the pattern. Habit.
---
They walked, perhaps, for ten minutes. The corridor gradually widened, the ceiling rose, and soon they emerged into a space that made them freeze.
It was a platform. Huge, boundless — so large that the opposite wall disappeared in the twilight. The floor here was perfectly flat, smooth, and along it, as along the walls, ran glowing lines. But now they were brighter, thicker, and some pulsed — slowly, deeply, like the breath of a sleeping giant.
The ceiling rose so high it was invisible. Instead — only darkness, in which occasionally the same glowing threads flared and died, resembling distant lightning.
In the center of the platform, on a small elevation, stood something like an altar. It was carved from the same white stone, but its surface was matte, not reflecting light. On the altar lay nothing — only emptiness that seemed to wait.
The old man stopped at the edge of the elevation and turned to them. His pale eyes, appearing almost transparent in the twilight, looked at each in turn.
"You are entering a place older than any civilization you know," he said. "Here, in this tower, long before the first spirits and the first users appeared, people and other races learned energy differently."
"Differently?" Datuk repeated, frowning. "How? What about spirits?"
"Spirits are a bridge," the old man replied. "Convenient, understandable, but not the only one. Before people learned to summon spirits, there were other ways. More complex. More dangerous. But also, in some ways, more effective."
He approached the edge of the platform, passed his hand through the air, and the glowing lines on the floor momentarily flared brighter.
"In the past, besides spirits, there were also advanced techniques for using energy," the old man continued. "Techniques that allowed one to accelerate oneself, strengthen one's blows, fortify the body, make it invulnerable to weak attacks. Techniques that granted advantages, sometimes indistinguishable from spirits. And sometimes surpassing them."
"Accelerate?" Rosh asked, and in his voice, for the first time, genuine interest sounded. "Like my vectors?"
"Different," the old man shook his head. "Your vectors change the direction of forces. That is work with the external world. The techniques I speak of work with the internal. With the user themselves. They do not redirect blows — they make it so the user has time to dodge without even thinking. They do not strengthen the shield — they make the shield part of the user's body."
He fell silent, letting the words settle.
"Body fortification," Datuk said thoughtfully. "Like when my Berserker Spirit speeds up regeneration?"
"Your Spirit makes you not feel pain and recover faster," the old man replied. "The fortification technique would make your skin as hard as steel before the enemy even struck. You would not receive wounds that need healing. You simply would not receive them."
Silence fell on the platform. Even Sobra, who usually snorted at such moments, froze, his ears flattened.
"And you can teach us this?" Ulvia asked. "These techniques?"
The old man looked at her. In his pale, almost transparent eyes, something like a smile flickered.
"I can show you the foundation," he said. "Start the path. Whether you can walk it depends only on you. Some may not have enough lifetimes to fully master this method. It requires patience that not everyone is given. And stubbornness, which you seem to have in abundance."
Datuk grunted but didn't argue.
"And how long will this take?" Rosh asked. "We cannot stay here forever. We have a goal — the Herald, the leaves, escape from the Tree."
"You will stay here exactly six months," the old man replied. "Not a day more, not a day less. In that time, I will show you the basics of the method. Enough for you to train on your own. And then — as it goes. Perhaps in a year you will master the first level. Perhaps in ten years. Or perhaps never."
"Optimistic," Datuk muttered.
"I do not sell hope," the old man said. "I offer knowledge. And knowledge, like power, requires sacrifice. Time. Effort. Pain."
He turned to the altar, raised his hand, and the glowing lines on the floor began to move. They flowed, intertwined, and in the center of the platform, right before them, an image appeared — not a painting, not a hologram, something else. It was woven from light and shadows, and in it, in this dancing pattern, figures were discernible. People? Or not people? They moved — slowly, smoothly, and each movement was precise, calculated, devoid of unnecessary effort.
"Watch," the old man said. "Remember. Not with your mind — with your body. Feel it. This is the first form. The foundation of everything you will study this month."
Ulvia watched, unblinking. She felt her vine, her living hand, begin to mimic the movements — unconsciously, by itself. Her fingers clenched and unclenched, and in this rhythm, in this pulsing, there was something ancient, forgotten.
Datuk stood with his arms crossed, his face, usually mocking, serious. Sobra sat beside him, his amber eyes fixed on the glowing figures. Rosh froze, his fingers, which moments ago had been ready to trace vectors, now motionless — he absorbed every movement, every turn, every exhale.
The old man lowered his hand, and the image vanished. The glowing lines on the floor calmed, becoming mere patterns again.
"Today — only an introduction," he said. "Tomorrow, the real work begins. For now — rest. There are sleeping quarters and food in the tower. Water in abundance. Make use of it."
He turned and slowly walked into the depths of the platform, where an opening was discernible in the twilight. His black cloak billowed behind him, and in a moment he disappeared into the darkness.
The group remained standing in the center of the vast, empty platform. The glowing lines pulsed beneath their feet, and in this pulsing, in this silence, there was something that made them speak in whispers.
"Six months," Datuk said, breaking the silence. "We'll stay here for six whole months."
"If it helps us defeat the Herald — we'll stay," Ulvia replied.
"He said some may not have enough lifetimes," Rosh noted. "Are you ready for that?"
Ulvia looked at her hands. Her right — in an old, worn glove. Her left — the living vine, green, with silver veins. She felt the green leaf pulsing inside her, the energy flowing through her widened channels, her body, hardened by battles, awaiting new trials.
"Yes," she said. "We are all ready."
Sobra snorted — short, abrupt. Datuk nodded. Rosh unclenched his fingers, and his hands finally relaxed.
They stood in the center of the ancient tower, surrounded by glowing lines, and knew — tomorrow, a new stage would begin. Difficult. Slow. But necessary.
Six months in the tower. And then — the meeting with the Herald.