Khaal realized that everything was not going according to plan right from the start. It was foolish to expect that he could achieve apprenticeship in the same way as with Southern Wind. One could "talk" with the scholar, demonstrating mental abilities, but warriors were people of action. They definitely needed something to be demonstrated.
Alas, the prince had little to demonstrate. He didn't possess innate abilities for martial arts. He wasn't one of the legendary adepts, born immediately with open meridians or nodes. He didn't have a divine physique, where a five-year-old child can lift an adult horse into the air. And certainly, he wasn't born with innate techniques, whatever the word "technique" meant.
Nevertheless, hope smoldered in him that he could overcome this obstacle with perseverance. As, in fact, always. Perseverance – that was Khaal's strength. Whether in his past life or in this one – he would not stop until he achieved his goal. Through pain, boredom, or loneliness – it didn't matter. There was a goal, so he would find a path leading to it.
That's why, feeling an ocean of pain blazing in his chest, he only regretted the fallen cup more. The water had leaked onto the sand, which meant he would have to start the whole journey again. And only after that did he pay attention to the string of messages received from the neural network.
[Critical message: ...analysis not possible... recording not possible... error: 1434@%!/5]
It was screaming about danger to the bearer in the form of sharp pieces of metal.
Pieces of metal?!
Khaal, turning over, noticed that he was flying straight onto a rack of swords. Damn, he might not have a second chance! He risked becoming despised shish kebab, not an astounding adept-hero at all!
The prince waved his arms as best he could, but it didn't stop the flight. The blades, carelessly reflecting the sun's rays, were already in front of his nose when suddenly he felt a gust of wind again.
It tangled in his clothes and stayed to rest in his hair. What did it bring him this time? A story about distant lands? About great battles? About amazing heroes and villains?
No, this time it brought him calmness.
If someone at that moment had been looking not at the Master and the queen, but at Khaal, they would have seen a complete absence of fear on the boy's face. He flew toward the swords as calmly as a sparrow on a clear summer day flying to a birch branch.
When he crashed right onto the blades, the training ground was flooded with Elizabeth's scream. The Master already heard the executioner sharpening the guillotine that would cut off his head. Or the enraged queen would finish him off on the spot. And it didn't matter that she was weaker than him. An angry mother who has lost a child is as terrifying as a wounded tigress.
And yet the Master couldn't notice a fountain of blood. He didn't see even a single drop.
With a clang, swords fell onto the sand, and among them, as under harmless rain, stood Khaal. He looked at the falling blades and couldn't contain his amazement. Among the polished blades, sun bunnies ran. Guards raised small air vortices. And the steel sounded like his music never could there, on Earth.
Suddenly he stretched out his hand, and the handle of the lightest and thinnest weapon fell into his palm. Flexible, short dirk, it was needed only for demonstrations of various techniques with daggers.
For a two-year-old child, this "toothpick" seemed like a heavy giant. And yet Khaal took it firmly but lightly, carefully but commandingly.
The Master and the queen stopped nearby. They froze, trying to understand what they were seeing.
The warriors also froze. Even the blunderer who had hit the prince could peel himself off the wall and, through the blood that flooded his face, make out what was happening.
The swords crashed to the ground, and not a drop of blood fell from Khaal's skin. He stood, immersed somewhere deep within himself, holding in his hands a dirk that had become his first sword in life.
Elizabeth was about to dash to the child, but the Master held her back in time.
"Moment of inspiration," he whispered, as if it meant something.
But judging by the fact that these two words stopped the angry and worried mother, apparently, they carried a truly amazing meaning. More than a thousand people carefully watched the small child. He stood calmly, serenely turning his face to the wind blowing from the east.
Suddenly Khaal opened his eyes, and they glowed for a moment with a steady, clear light. Then he took an imperceptible step forward and barely noticeably swung the blade. Suddenly the wind blew, and from the tip of the blade came a crescent barely visible to the eye. It was noticeable only due to the whirling sand in this sickle of wind.
The sword strike, sliding off the tip of the blade, crashed into the wall and left a small cut in it. No longer than Khaal's little finger and no thicker than a woman's hair. But still – a cut.
A strike made at a distance of two steps.
A two-year-old child whom the swords did not touch.
[Attack performed:...analysis impossible... recording impossible... error: 1434@%!/5]
"May the demons curse me," exhaled the Master. "May the core of my power return to the boundless universe if this is not 'one with the sword.'"
"One with the sword," repeated Elizabeth. "My son is one with the sword?"
Suddenly the old man fell to his knees and touched his forehead to the queen's feet.
"Your Majesty, allow me to take the prince as a student."
This time none of the warriors allowed themselves even a thought of class inequality. Who would dare to think of such after seeing what they had seen? Such a person would not only lack honor but basically – brains.
To reach the mastery stage "one with the sword," many adherents of the sword path spent decades. Khaal needed only a moment and just one threat to his life. If there were geniuses in the world, then Khaal was not a genius.
He was a monster hiding in the body of a two-year-old child.
On Elizabeth's face was reflected anxiety, replaced by doom, and then determination.
"A carp that has become a dragon cannot be made a carp again," she sadly pronounced an old saying of her people. "Rise, honorable Master."
The old man rose but did not dare to answer Elizabeth's gaze with his own.
"I think a long dispute with Southern Wind awaits you, but if you can come to an agreement – you have my permission to teach Khaal."
With these words, the queen finally ran to her son and enclosed him in steel embraces. The boy, dropping the dirk, closed his eyes and... fell asleep. For his body and mind, this was too heavy a trial and no less exhausting an adventure. And although he didn't know what had happened, at that moment, falling asleep, Khaal understood one thing – he had achieved his goal.
Now he would be taught not only by the best scholar of the kingdom but also by the best practitioner!
==
Four years flew by as quickly as the flap of a raven's wing. And now, lying under two boulders weighing ten kilograms each, Khaal was selflessly doing push-ups from the hot sand.
Nearby, in the shade, sat Southern Wind. He fanned himself with a white fan and kept adjusting his white clothes.
"Where can I find the trees of five lives?"
"In the Plain Valley, near the Buffalo River," answered Khaal, mentally counting the third dozen repetitions.
"Which star will lead you to the Mountain of Strong Whisper?"
"The fifth from the Bow constellation."
Southern Wind nodded and turned to the Master sitting nearby. He, with his eyes closed, was muttering something to himself.
"It's your turn, colleague," the scholar hurried.
He was eager to continue the questioning, but he could only do it in order of turn. Such was their agreement.
"How are your successes, prince?" asked the old man, approaching the sweaty, teeth-clenching boy.
"Thirty-two... thi-i-irty thr-ree," Khaal stretched.
"Excellent," nodded the Master.
He approached a stack of flat boulders. The same as the two that now lay on the prince's back. The Master personally carved them from stone that had been blown by the northern wind for two hundred years. Its energy had soaked the rock and was supposed to strengthen the prince's weak body.
No matter how proud the Master was of his student, he had to admit a simple fact. As strong as Khaal's spirit and his talent for the sword were, his body turned out to be just as weak.
As if a hero's soul had been placed in a peasant's body.
The heavens were amazingly unfair to the prince, but his perseverance could break even their will.
"Then some help won't hurt you," and with these words, the Master placed another boulder on Khaal's back.
The weight now exceeded thirty kilograms, and sweat poured in streams from the prince's forehead. His elbows trembled, and each new repetition caused unimaginable pain. But only in this way could he manage to reach the necessary level by sixteen and go to the Black Gates sect exam.
One only had to relax for a second, and he would forever remain a prince of a small kingdom on the outskirts of a boundless world. This way, he could forget about freedom and adventures and the wind calling him into the distance.
"Name me the three stages of sword mastery," the Scholar suddenly asked.
The Master nodded approvingly.
"One with the sword. One with the world. Master of the sword."
"That's exactly why not everyone, far from everyone, can say that they master a sword or spear," explained the Master. "Many, only after reaching the stage of Heavenly Soldier, are able to reach the pinnacle of mastery and master their weapon."
Many, but not Khaal. It turned out that he did possess one talent. And although fate had endowed him with a weak body, his talent for the art of the sword was difficult to overestimate. At the age of two, he was able to step onto the level of "one with the sword." He could feel its blade as well as his hands and feet.
What many learned and understood through sweat and pain, he possessed almost from birth.
Funny, if not for that incident that left him with a bruise on his chest for a month, he might never have found out about it.
Now he aroused envy in many courtiers, the so-called "geniuses." Some of them also reached "unity" at an early age. Early for them – about twenty years old.
"One with the sword can strike an enemy at a distance of up to five steps," the Master lectured. "One with the world can use the energy of the world itself and, combining it with the blade, strike an enemy at a distance of twenty steps. Those who have fully mastered the sword no longer need it. The sword is in themselves, and everything around them is a sword. Even in a blade of grass or a drop of water – everywhere they see the spirit of the sword. And with this spirit, they can strike an enemy at a distance of fifty steps."
For an Earthling, this would have sounded like an old Eastern tale. But for Khaal, it was a quite achievable goal. After all, he had seen with his own eyes how the Master's sword strike cut a wooden doll at a distance of sixteen steps.
Thus, combining the lecture with physical exercises, Khaal spent the rest of the day. And the next day. And the day after that...
At least, that's how it was supposed to be.
But below, to the palace, bypassing the two hundred-meter lions – guardians of the palace gates, Primus was galloping on horseback.
He was hurrying to deliver both amazing news promising many riches, and news that would bring great troubles and forever change the fates not only of Khaal but of the entire kingdom.