Deuce didn't sleep. Not really.
After dragging himself into the cave, after drinking, after eating just enough to dull the ache in his stomach, he had collapsed near the cave wall. But sleep didn't come easily. His eyes closed, sure, but his mind wouldn't shut off. It kept replaying the fight. The way the creature moved. The helpless way his arms had flailed. The sheer luck that saved him. His fingers gripped the sword even in his half-sleep.
So when his eyes opened again, he was already on edge.
The cave was still dark. Cold. The wind outside howled like it was hunting for him. But the inside was quiet. Familiar now.
The phantom was still there.
It repeated the same motion it had been doing when he first arrived: a clean, simple downward slash. Over and over. Slow. Deliberate.
Deuce sat up, rubbing his sore shoulder. It throbbed with dull pain. He moved it carefully. It wasn't healed, not fully. But the ache was familiar now, and he'd worked around it before.
He stood, stretched a little, and walked over to his practice spot. The sword felt less foreign today.
He mimicked the motion. Poorly.
The blade wobbled. His feet were off.
"Okay," he muttered. "Not dead yet. So... try not to die later."
He reset. Did it again.
This time it was better. Still not good.
He glanced at the phantom. It hadn't acknowledged him once, but its movement was steady. That same slash.
Time passed without any cue to mark it. No sun. No clock. Just repetition.
Deuce practiced until his arms hurt too much to lift the sword.
He rested. Ate a few berries. Drank from the wall.
Then he started again.
When his arms failed him, he began push-ups. Sit-ups. Squats. Painful at first, especially with the injured shoulder. But he adapted, careful to favor his left side and never overextend. After each session, he'd collapse against the wall, sweat dripping, chest heaving.
Then he'd stand again. Sword in hand. Repeat the slash.
One day, while lifting a stone out of the way to expand his movement space, he noticed something odd. A week ago, that stone would've been too heavy. He tested his grip again, curling his fingers and flexing his arm.
He was stronger.
Later that evening, while chewing the bitter root he'd deemed safe after several cautious tastings, he sat facing the phantom.
"You know," he said aloud, "if I die here, no one's even going to know."
The phantom kept slashing.
"I don't remember anyone. I don't know what I lost. But sometimes I wonder if that's worse. I could've had a family. Friends. A past worth something."
Silence.
"I don't even know if Deuce is my real name." He stared into the faint blue glow of the sword blade. "If I vanish here, will the system just delete me?"
No answer. But saying it helped.
He stood again. Sweat rolled down his back. He moved through the slash.
Eventually, after what must've been a week of repetition, the phantom changed.
It wasn't the same downward motion anymore. Now, it stepped forward during the swing, adding weight and follow-through. A transition between attack and movement.
Deuce stared. That wasn't just a strike. It was an intention.
He followed along. Step. Swing.
Again. Again.
It felt clunky at first. His timing was off. But eventually, the motion made sense. Less wasted movement. More control.
Each day he followed the rhythm. Sword drills in the morning. Push-ups, sit-ups, squats in the afternoon. More slashes. More reps.
He scratched tallies into the cave wall. He wasn't counting days. He was tracking progress.
Fifty strikes without wobble. One hundred squats without collapsing.
He talked to the phantom more often now. Sometimes to keep sane. Sometimes just because he was lonely.
"Hey, if you were a warrior, were you always this quiet? Or is it because I'm not ready yet?"
The phantom didn't answer. But once, when Deuce completely nailed a forward step and slash with clean balance, the phantom paused. Just for a moment.
It was enough.
A few nights later, the slash changed again. This time, a basic horizontal sweep from the high guard. Smooth. Tight.
Deuce followed. One move into the next. Downward. Step. Sweep.
He fumbled the transitions. Misjudged his footing. But each time, he corrected faster. His breathing became steadier. His muscles burned less.
Then he noticed something else.
His body. It was harder. Denser. His endurance stretched longer. The shoulder still ached, but it didn't slow him like before. Whatever being Marked meant, it was changing him. Not rapidly. But enough.
One evening, mid-drill, a tone rang out.
[SWORD PROFICIENCY UNLOCKED] Basic Swordsmanship (Novice): You have grasped the fundamentals of blade movement. Your strikes are no longer wild.
Deuce exhaled slowly.
He looked at the phantom. It kept going. Never looking at him. Never acknowledging him. But the timing of its changes... it wasn't coincidence.
The thing was watching. Guiding. Teaching.
Not with words. But with action.
Deuce set his feet again. Raised the sword.
Then it changed again.
The phantom's motions grew defensive. A shift in weight. A step to the side. A turn of the wrist to deflect an invisible blow. The blade moved in tight arcs now, guarding more than striking.
Deuce squinted. A new lesson.
He mimicked the motion. Poorly, at first. His instinct was still to attack. But little by little, the movement became smoother. Guard, deflect, return. He moved from one sequence to another.
One morning, after having practiced the new form for what felt like another week, Deuce finally understood the purpose. The flow wasn't about overwhelming your opponent—it was about staying alive. Every angle mattered. Every deflection bought you time. These were survival techniques. A blade wasn't just for offense. It was a shield too.
Then it happened.
Mid-drill, after a flawless flow from vertical cleave to horizontal sweep, ending in a compact deflection, the phantom stopped.
It faced him for the first time.
There were no eyes. No mouth. But somehow, the acknowledgment was clear.
It nodded.
And vanished.
Deuce blinked. The space where it had stood felt colder now. Emptier.
[SOUL TRACE RECOGNIZED: PHANTOM OF THE FORGOTTEN BLADE] You have inherited the echoes of a warrior who once walked this trial. A foundation has been laid.
[NEW SKILL ACQUIRED: ZERO ARTS — FORM I] You remember the rhythm of three key techniques:
Vertical CleaveForward StepGuard Sweep and Deflection
Minor boost to balance, reaction timing, and strike consistency. Combat awareness slightly increased.
[ZERO ARTS — FORM I: ORIGIN] It is said this form was created by a long-forgotten swordsman who stood at the edge of the world, blade in hand, defying an ancient dragon. Though he fell in battle, his soul refused to fade. Within the echoes of Veritas, his final teachings live on.
Deuce let out a shaky breath.
"Didn't even get your name."
The cave felt heavier now. The quiet, deeper.
He sat down and stared at the embers near the cave wall. The ones he'd nurtured carefully from bits of moss and friction-heated twigs.
Tomorrow, he would leave.
He would test everything he'd learned.
But tonight, he allowed himself to feel the loss.
He was alone again.
But he wasn't the same.