Cultivating Ink 9

Alaric wasn’t surprised to see everyone doing their best to repeat the strike again and again, just as he wasn’t surprised by the wide variance in their moves, trying to achieve a miracle through sheer persistence. 

His gaze fell on Lucian, whose move was shockingly similar to the attack of Sergeant Barit. It looked like he had taken his advice about the footwork seriously. Though, even though it was similar, it lacked … something. What, Alaric had no idea. 

Alaric repeated the move a few times to look just as enthusiastic, but he knew that it wouldn’t work. He couldn’t even come close to Lucian’s proficiency. It was one thing to see something, but copying it was completely different. He didn’t have Lucian’s aptitude. 

However, it didn’t matter. If there was one lesson painting had taught him, it didn’t matter how much one worked if the initial sketch was askew. He practiced just enough to give an excuse for his ‘exhaustion’, then retreated to the edge of the camp. Admittedly, he didn’t need much excuse. His body was still aching from the events of the day before. 

It was time to put his drawing skills to work once again. 

He didn’t have any paper to work with, but it didn’t stop him. As a slum rat, paper never had been an easy commodity for him to access, and he learned how to draw on dust and mud, using broken branches as brush. 

He could have done that as well, but crouching down and drawing things would have got undue attention, let alone actually finding a piece of paper and working on it with charcoal. Instead, he leaned against a large rock at the edge of the camp like he was exhausted, his spear pressing on the ground as he worked. 

A spear wasn’t the greatest tool to sketch, but Alaric was skilled enough to compensate for it. Especially since he wasn’t trying to actually draw a lifelike representation, but drawing lines. 

First, he drew six figures: the initial stance, the shift before the movement, the actual movement of the stab, the apex of the hit, the movement to pull back the attack, then back to the initial stance. To anyone else, it might be just a bunch of pointless lines, but Alaric had been fascinated by drawing since he was merely a child. 

Looking at the faint sketches, he was able to evoke the finished drawing in his mind with no effort. 

He frowned as he examined the drawings. Unfortunately, the pictures that were evoked in his mind were static pictures, showing the stances without capturing the fluidity between them. “No impatience,” he muttered, instead started mapping the footwork in greater detail, drawing and erasing the same figures again and again, with only the most minor corrections. 

Even as he drew them, he knew that he lacked something, but he didn’t waste his time pondering about it. He would have enough time to work on it in the future. 

For now, he wanted to do his best to memorize the steps perfectly rather than delving into the mysteries behind them. Ideally, it shouldn’t be the only time they have been taught such a method. While Alaric didn’t know much about martial arts, he knew that, unless one was a true genius, learning them required months of careful guidance. It was unfair to expect a bunch of slum rats that had never come in contact with proper martial arts to learn after one demonstration. 

But then, when life had been fair to them. Alaric did his best to memorize the moves, not willing to miss the opportunity. 

When the guards ordered them to march, he carefully erased the lines. He didn’t expect anyone else to read them, but there was no harm being careful. The last thing he needed was a guard noticing him and blaming him with leaving a signal for bandits or equally asinine. 

“You should practice more,” Lucian said once he took his side. 

“I will, once we stop for the evening,” Alaric responded. “Not everyone can handle marching and practicing at the same time.” 

“You should have stopped playing with your sticks and joined us while hunting, then,” Lucian replied. 

“Not all of us can afford to replace our brain with muscles,” he responded. 

“It’s better than having a brain filled with rotten bugs,” Lucian chuckled as he responded, and they fell into a pattern of casual insults, their smiles getting wider as the insults got better. It was a fun way to pass the time. 

However, even as Alaric went through the insults, he used his index finger to sketch the ghost of the stances again and again on the back of his spear, doing his best to memorize them all. However, his statement about exhaustion proved to be more than accurate. About half of the people who practiced with enthusiasm started to drag their feet, struggling to keep up. 

But under the angry glare of the guards, none fell behind. They ignored the pain and followed.  

When the call to set up the camp arrived, they lined up to receive their meals. Alaric smiled sardonically as he realized the bread slide was just a bit thinner, and the stew was more watery. They were already cutting corners. 

From the frowns around them, Alaric could see that he wasn’t the only one who noticed the subtle reduction or the implication behind it, but everyone kept their mouth shut. 

Once the dinner had come to an end, another royal soldier came toward them. “Gather around,” he shouted. “I’m here to teach you the Storm Spear.” Everyone did, enthusiastic about learning. “First, make sure to position yourself correctly,” he started, and went through the same stances Alaric identified, going more into detail.  

But, even as he completed the first display, Alaric frowned. Something was wrong. He just wasn’t sure what. 

He watched the demonstration again. Outwardly, everything was the same. The attack of the soldier looked even smoother than the sergeant earlier, but the feeling it radiated was different. 

Empty. 

He looked around, only to see people copying the move, not noticing anything wrong. Maybe it was him being paranoid to a degree that was excessive even for the slums, but he decided to listen to his instincts. 

For a moment, he tightened he loosened his grip on the spear and leaned against it like he was exhausted, and watched the soldier, not as a student trying to learn from him, but as a painter. He ignored the nature of the movement, and the impressive aura of dominance, and tried to bring out the emotions. 

What he saw was cruelty. Ugly, self-satisfied cruelty, no different from children pulling off the wings of a bug, only to watch them struggle pointlessly. 

Alaric wanted to say that he was surprised by it, but he was not. Why should the royal soldiers be any different than the guards who kicked them for no reason other than to relieve their frustration?

As he started to practice again, he ‘accidentally’ tapped Lucian’s shoulder, and when he looked at him, he gave him a signal they used when they were still children trying to steal fruits from the merchant carts. A signal that told him to be careful, then a nod toward the trainer. 

He couldn’t risk saying anything else. Especially since he didn’t even know anything other than a feeling that they were being sabotaged. Lucian might believe him, but no one else would. 

The practice lasted for an hour. “Make sure to practice well, brave citizens,” the soldier said, the mocking tone in his statement was hidden enough. As he walked away, Alaric could already hear the discussions about just how better he was compared to Sergeant Barit, and how much they had learned. 

Alaric had to admit, if it wasn’t for his painting skill somehow allowing him to see … intent … he would be more likely to believe that the gruff and hurried sergeant was the one that taught them wrong. 

Admittedly, it was reaching the point that, even with their almost-friendship, it was touching dangerously close to his secrets, but with the upcoming danger, he couldn’t afford to be too careful of them. 

Lucian walked toward him, but when he opened his mouth, Alaric shook his head, gesturing him to keep silent. He walked around, trying to find a secluded spot … well, not exactly a true secluded spot. That would only make people curious. He wasn’t trying to keep out of the other recruits, or even the city guards. 

He just needed to be hidden from the soldiers. 

He decided one of the supply carts filled with water barrels made a good concealment. “What was that?” Lucian said. “What he was teaching us was … wrong.” 

Alaric’s eyes widened in surprise as he heard the certainly in Lucian’s tone. He had done his best to understand what was going on, but even then, whether the soldier was teaching them correctly was more of a deduction than anything. 

But, Lucian sounded confident. 

“Yes. He’s doing something wrong,” Alaric said. “I think we need to only practice what Sergeant Barit teaches.” 

“Do you remember the differences?” Lucian asked. 

“No. You’re much better when it comes to martial arts. We just need to be more careful when watching Sergeant Barit, I suppose,” Alaric lied, not ready to admit even to Lucian the truth. He was already pushing his limits too much tell that much. As much as he liked Lucian, it was a lesson he learned young age. 

It was not wise to trust desperate people, not from a position of weakness. 

He had done all he could. Lucian nodded, and after some more talking, he went to talk with some of the other friends he had — as he was markedly more popular than Alaric among their compatriots. 

Alaric started to practice the spear slowly, based on what he remembered. 

The rest was up to him.