(Planet Tithia, First Elder's private training arena)
The days bled into one another, each session no easier than the last, as Leo and Veyr supported one another through the endless cycle of cuffs, potions, and illusions, as they slowly learnt how to separate shadow from substance, until their paranoia no longer ruled them, and they began to respond less like cornered beasts and more like sharpened blades.
By the fifth day, both could finally stand upright even under the haze, their breathing steadier, their eyes clearer, their minds learning to embrace the instinctive warnings without being swallowed by them.
Of-course, the false alarms still came, whispers of death that never arrived, but now they could blink once, breathe twice, and decide which ones to trust and which ones to ignore.
The First Elder, however, was not satisfied.
"Paranoia is a child's game," the Elder said, his smile thin as he gestured to the assistant, who laid a fresh pile of blunt daggers at his feet. "It is time you learn the difference between illusion and reality."
A dagger split the air toward Veyr's chest.
His instincts screamed at him to move, yet his mind hesitated, remembering the countless hallucinations of flying blades he had dodged these past days, all of them false, as he did not move yet again.
"Veyr, this one might be real!" Leo prompted, but too late, as Veyr froze for half a second too long, the dagger slamming into his ribs before bouncing to the ground, leaving him groaning in pain as he staggered back.
"Wrong," the First Elder said coldly. "You hesitated. You questioned. And that means death."
Another dagger flashed, this one toward Leo, yet even as he saw it come towards himself, Leo did not move, as he did not see an intent line behind the attack, making him presume that it wasn't real.
However, he presumed wrong.
The weapon smacked against his shoulder, the dull ache spreading down his arm as he cursed under his breath.
"Wrong again," the Elder said, his lips curving upward. "Dont try to read into it Skyshard, trust your instincts, sharpen them into your most reliable weapon.
In the end, information can be faked, but instinct can't."
Daggers came one after another, some whistling harmlessly through the air only to vanish mid-flight, illusions designed to test their nerves, while others struck hard and true, punishing them whenever they chose wrong.
Veyr snarled, blood running down his lip where he had bitten through it, as he barely twisted aside from a real one, his movements jerky, torn between flinching at phantoms and trusting the faint tug of his gut.
"Motherfucker's playing mind games," he hissed, his chest heaving, sweat dripping from his temple. "How the hell are we supposed to know which is real?"
"You already know," the Elder said. "You just refuse to listen. Instinct whispers quietly. Fear shouts. Learn the difference, it's not that hard."
Another blade spun toward them, the air hissing with its speed as Leo's muscles tensed, but this time, instead of reacting, he closed his eyes for a split second, listening to the silence within the chaos.
'Not real.'
He stood still, and sure enough, the dagger flickered away a foot before reaching him, dissolving into nothing but smoke.
Veyr saw it too, his eyes widening.
"It sounds simple enough, but it's bloody hard to override decades of caution drilled into your bones. I can't do it, it doesn't come naturally to me."
Veyr complained, as the gruelling training went on for hours for the duo, the daggers piling on the floor, their bodies battered and bruised from mistakes, yet little by little their movements shifted from frantic guessing to calculated response, their instincts beginning to cut through the storm of illusions.
However, it was still not enough, the duo barely guessed correctly 20% of the time, and had a long way to go before they could proudly say that they had mastered the technique.
(Meanwhile, Raymond's POV)
After Mauriss found out his secret, the Great Deceiver gave him a 150 day time period to sort out his affairs, and formulate a strategy to attack the Cult, as he let Kaelith train his son on how best to fight a monster like Søron.
'I can't even predict where the attack is going to come from... for while I can perceive the fourth dimension, I can't manipulate it like Father—' Raymond thought, as the hairs on the back of his neck rose in warning, yet his body was already too slow, the blade slicing across his forearm and sending sparks of agony up to his shoulder as he stumbled, his grip on his sword faltering for half a breath too long.
The attacks came not as movements but as inevitabilities, Kaelith phasing in and out of mirrored fragments of space itself, striking from angles that should not exist, a cut from above that landed from below, a fist from the left that shattered ribs on the right, as although Raymond's instincts screamed at him to move, his body could not adjust to the pace of the battle, as the manipulation of dimensions unraveled every attempt he made at defense.
'He isn't even fighting seriously... he's toying with me, showing me the difference between perception and control, reminding me that seeing another layer of reality means nothing if I can't bend it to my will,' Raymond thought, as he spat blood to the floor and lunged forward with a desperate thrust, only for Kaelith's figure to split into three, one stepping back, one sidestepping, and the real one pivoting inside his guard to slam a palm against his chest, the impact detonating like a hammer as he went skidding across the broken ground.
Every bone rattled in his frame as he forced himself up, his knees shaking, his arms burning, his vision doubling and then fracturing into kaleidoscopic shards as the mirrors bled together.
"I can't track him... every attack feels like it comes from everywhere at once," he hissed under his breath, his blade trembling as his lungs clawed for air, his thoughts racing even faster than his ragged heartbeat.
A blade of dimensional force grazed his cheek, the cut shallow but cold, as though space itself had burned him, and Raymond knew that if Kaelith had willed it, his head would have rolled to the floor.
"Instinct without control is like a candle in a storm," Kaelith's voice whispered from the walls, the ceiling, the floor, his presence smothering as Raymond spun, searching, striking wildly into illusions that dissolved into smoke and light.
A knee found his ribs, a backfist split his lip, and a kick sent him sprawling once again, his body a ragdoll under the storm of blows.
'I can perceive the distortion of space... I can see the angles bending... but every time I try to react, he's already three moves ahead, already waiting for me in the place I thought was safe,' Raymond thought, as frustration and despair mingled into a bitter lump in his throat, his body too slow, his mind too inexperienced, his will the only thing keeping him upright.
Kaelith emerged at last, walking casually from the wall as if strolling out of mist, not a single mark on him, his expression calm and unreadable as Raymond staggered back, blade half-raised, chest heaving, face battered and bloodied, his entire frame screaming in pain.
"You fight like a child who has been handed a weapon he cannot lift," Kaelith said, his tone flat as his gaze raked over his son's broken stance. "If you cannot even defend against these simple attacks, then you will not last five minutes against your uncle, that is for certain..."
He warned, as Raymond felt his chest sink in despair.
If possible, he really did not wish to fight his uncle.
However, he had no other choice.
If he did not fight his uncle, it would be his own father who would end his life, and hence, all he could do was prepare as best as he could, for the last battle of his life.
(More chapters in Buyers Club for TMT)