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Cultivating Ink 10
🕑 Added 2025-04-13 06:49:59 +0000 UTC“Break for camp,” a shout arrived, breaking the monotony of the trip once more.
Alaric followed the order just like everyone else, shouting happily. “It’s hard to believe that it has been five days since our recruitment,” Lucian said near him. “I expected it to be more exciting, though. Maybe some fighting.”
“Monotony is good,” Alaric answered even as they lined up, waiting for the instructor of the day. Every day, they received two lessons, one at noon, one during the evening. They were yet to assign them any tasks, which was not something that filled Alaric with optimism.
But, there was nothing he could do. Instead, he lined up, with Lucian next to him, they both repeating the same movement.
As he looked at Lucian, Alaric couldn’t help but feel a twinge of jealousy. He memorized every movement perfectly long ago, but even as he pushed himself, his body refused to listen to him to correctly deliver the blow. Meanwhile, Lucian managed to learn the moves perfectly during the only other time Sergeant Barit had taken the role — who turned out to be the only one who taught the correct technique instead of sabotaging them despite his gruff exterior — and even taught the others.
Alaric tried. He did his best. But, he was not as strong as them. After an hour of practice, his arms started trembling too badly for him to continue practicing, and that was with him practicing once for every five attempts Lucian made.
Yet, he was able to practice endlessly.
Yet, it wasn’t t he biggest problem. No, he could see that, even as he practiced, he was lacking an instinctual understanding. It wasn’t just Lucian, but the others. Half of the ones that Lucian had taught was showing the same thing that Alaric lacked.
Their spear strikes were somehow stronger, just like how the soldier's attacks were stronger.
“Line up,” Sergeant Barit shouted from a distance, his voice booming enough. His appearance caused a number of reactions, mostly distaste, with some enthusiasm. Alaric had heard Lucian spreading his perspective about being sabotaged — carefully, as while he was open and trusting, it was only relative to suspicious bastards like Alaric — to almost everyone, but most of them dismissed him.
Maybe it was Lucian’s youth that created that disbelief, or maybe jealousy. Though, considering almost none above twenty listened to him, Alaric was willing to believe it was the former.
That made him glad that he didn’t try to speak. Even if they didn’t like Lucian, considering he could take down most of the grown-ups in a fistfight with ease, they didn’t retaliate against him. Alaric was very young when learned the value of punches as a slum currency — a form of wealth that he had always lacked.
Once the sergeant stood in front of them, Alaric focused on the moment, not wanting to miss even a second. Finding what he was lacking was only possible by watching the sergeant, who was the only one who actually tried to teach them, however reluctantly.
Alaric expected him to do just like the previous days. Shout a few commands, show the attack several times, then leave after ten minutes.
“You are learning for five days. Show me that I’m not wasting my time. Impress me, or I’ll personally petition the prince to stop teaching you. If you can’t make even the slightest progress after five days despite being instructed twice, you don’t deserve to learn the Storm Spear.”
A grumble passed through the crowd, their panic apparent. Alaric had to admit, if it was a threat, it was a very good one, as he believed it. He wondered if Sergeant Barit was aware that his own soldiers were sabotaging the trainees, but his curiosity wasn’t enough to make him speak.
Instead, he raised his spear, doing his best to repeat the attack perfectly. Ordinarily, it was not his personality, but he trusted his own observations, which told him that, despite all his efforts, he was not notable among the crowd.
It was proven by the way the sergeant’s gaze passed over him without even slowing down, unlike others, where he paid at least momentary attention.
All except Lucian, who he watched carefully.
Not for no reason, Alaric admitted. As Lucian tried to prove himself, he pushed himself far more than he did during the training, and it was working. The subtle presence of his attacks was changing rapidly.
A change that culminated with a soft crack, one that was similar to the attack of the sergeant. Alaric immediately turned to the sergeant, trying to gouge his expression to understand how big of a deal it was. The widening of his eyes was the biggest expression Alaric had seen on his face.
It was a big deal. Very big deal.
“Alright, follow me,” the sergeant said even as he grabbed Lucian’s shoulder and dragged him, though, after several steps, he stopped and turned, pointing several people, nineteen out of three hundred, all from the ones that had been taught by Lucian. With him, reaching twenty.
A group that didn’t include Alaric.
“Continue practicing,” he said as he looked at the rest of the group. The sergeant brought them slightly away and started guiding them far more carefully.
Alaric didn’t pay too much attention to his practice. He was already exhausted, ,and he couldn’t learn much from the practice. Instead, he turned his gaze toward the twenty that was being taught by the sergeant.
Though, unlike most of them, Alaric wasn’t looking at them with jealousy. No, he much rather stay in the more crowded group, avoiding the attention as he slowly learned at his own pace.
He was watching them to see if he could understand what he was missing. The sudden lack of attention from the sergeant was valuable, and soon Alaric drifted toward the shadows, watching the twenty that was practicing.
“Is it worth the risk?” he muttered even as he reached under an armor, not sure. Looking around, he saw everyone watching the twenty that were being trained by the sergeant. It was the best chance he got. He pulled out a small stack of misshapen paper and a charcoal stick, both he stole during the travel, but didn’t dare to use.
The act of drawing allowing him to focus more intensely.
His crude charcoal stick danced over the crumpled paper, doing his best to capture the twenty that was being trained. It wasn’t a lifelike drawing. It looked more like a smudge that anyone but Alaric could decipher. It wasn’t an attempt to keep the contents hidden.
No, it was merely a combination of horrible quality of the paper, not helped by being carried stuffed in his cloth armor for two days, and low quality charcoal stick that he managed to prepare next to the fire while trying to avoid the attention of the others.
Though, as his charcoal danced, he noticed the way the sergeant was teaching. He was very careful when teaching the other nineteen, but deliberately focused on trivial things while teaching Lucian. Alaric might have suspected jealousy, but if it had been the case, the sergeant would have simply executed Lucian by claiming … well, Alaric doubted that he had to claim anything in the first place.
No, Alaric might not learn the martial technique quickly, but it didn’t stop him from reading what was going on well. The sergeant was trying to hide Lucian for some reason, and he had to admit, he was doing it in a good way.
Lucian managed to learn the martial technique despite substandard teaching — probably even worse than the sergeant realized — but once a few more people learned it, no one would really think that it was Lucian’s exceptional attitude.
It would work.
People were inclined to undervalue anything that they saw as lower than themselves … and there were no lower than people destined to live in the slums.
Alaric couldn’t help but smile sardonically, drawing a dark amusement from the fact that their biggest curse was also turning out to be their strongest shield. He had wielded that shield many times, just like Lucian was about to do.
Even as he thought that, his fingers continued to dance, using the charcoal to capture everything he could see and feel. The little black piece turned into an extension of his arms as he did his best to immortalize every change he could see on the nineteen under the instructions of the sergeant, feeling that the key to what he was lacking was there.
However,, he didn’t try to analyze them for the moment. Instead, tried to capture the changes as well as he could, not just the physical movement, but also the emotional changes, the layered lines over smudge somehow still turning alive on the parchment.
It surprised Alaric. He was aware of his own limits, and this was not something he could achieve … then, he remembered the way he felt when he had been painting the mysterious lord who turned out to be an actual prince, and how he was lost in a trance as he painted, enough to lose a couple of hours in the process.
It looked like that time hadn’t only given him a troubling glowing stone.
A while later, Alaric stepped back to examine his work. The interplay of lines created a visual rhythm, guiding the eye along the path of the spear and through the body's motions … and more, almost a heartbeat.
No, Alaric realized with a widening of his eyes. It was not the heartbeat, but the breath. It was subtle, very subtle, but from the way their posture shifted, he could see something mysterious in the way they breathed.
He wasn’t able to penetrate the secret, but it was progress.
Alaric carefully folded them to prevent smudging before he put them back under his armor, afraid of being noticed. Once he packed, he returned to the edge of the crowd, doing his best to copy the attack. He failed, but for once, it didn’t frustrate him. He knew how to fix it.
What frustrated him was what followed. Once the training had finished, the sergeant had led the twenty he had chosen to the inner part of the camp, where the soldiers ate.
Alaric didn’t need to see the sudden vicious gazes of the others to know his life in the camp would get much harder. Lucian was gone, alongside many that he trained, seemingly elevated out of their world. A fact that would breed resentment.
And, as one of Lucian’s friends who stayed behind, Alaric would be the one to suffer for it.
