Meditation the Sword and the Shadow

Christopher began the second round of meditation with a steadier mind. The conflicting emotions that had previously distracted him fear, doubt, and longing for his old world seemed distant, as if the plateau itself was shielding him from them. Everything around him was silent, except for the whispers of the wind through the tall grass and the faint trickle of a distant stream.

He fixed his awareness at the center of his chest. There, where he had felt that cold point. He didn't try to force it to appear, but simply listened... waited patiently, like a hunter anticipating the breath of his prey.

Minutes passed, perhaps an hour, with no one observing him but the silence. Suddenly, he felt it again. This time, it wasn't a single point, but several hazy threads... light, invisible, yet flowing toward him from the air, the earth, from every direction.

"This is it... this is what I was missing," he muttered in his mind.

Fourth: Slowly draw in mana.

He began to imagine those threads being drawn into him. It wasn't a forceful pull, but like opening a window to let the breeze in on its own. But as soon as the mana touched the edge of his body... the pain began.

At first, it was like a cold sting in his fingertips, then it gradually turned into a painful prickling spreading through his veins. The mana he absorbed wasn't pure it was tainted... as if it carried shards of glass flowing through his blood.

He clenched his teeth, trying to endure, cold sweat dripping from his forehead. His chest tightened, his breathing quickened, but he did not stop.

Fifth: Purify the mana.

Time for the hardest step. He began to channel the mana through the mental visualization of the "Great Sky Refinement" technique, imagining a filtering network carving its path through his body. As each thread of mana passed through it, the pain lessened a bit... but did not vanish entirely.

He felt the mana resisting, like a foreign entity refusing to submit, but even partial purification dulled the intensity enough for him to continue.

Sixth: Form the seed.

Slowly, the purified mana gathered in the center of his chest. It was unstable, fluctuating, but it began to condense into a small point of light. The pain receded, leaving behind a sense of warmth and pulsing... as if a new heart had been born inside him.

Three hours had passed since the session began, and when he finally opened his eyes, the sun was leaning toward sunset, painting the sky in stunning shades of orange.

But he barely noticed the horizon; his attention was fully captured by the strange sensation in his chest. It wasn't a true seed yet, but something like it... an unstable clump of purified mana, pulsating and weak, like an incomplete fetus.

"A pseudo-seed..." he whispered, pressing his fingers to his chest.

He knew from the lesson on the disc that this stage was extremely delicate. He couldn't remain in this state for long. The remnants of tainted mana he couldn't fully purify would accumulate in his veins, flowing slowly like a hidden poison. If he didn't complete the seed formation within a month... he would die.

He stood slowly, the pain somewhat eased, but the burning sensation in his veins still lingered.

He would have to repeat the technique daily, without interruption, to purify enough mana, then compress it until it condensed and stabilized into a true seed.

He pulled his small notebook from his bag and recorded his first note:

Day One of Seed Formation Attempt – Western Plateau

Partial success: Formation of a pseudo-seed.

Pain persists. Residual tainted mana causing internal burning in veins.

Critical stage – full seed must be formed within a month, or the buildup of tainted mana will kill me.

Christopher finished writing his first note with a trembling hand and cast a final glance at the horizon ablaze with the colors of the setting sun.

Despite the fatigue weighing down his body, and the scent of sweat and blood clinging to his clothes, his eyes were gleaming... the pseudo-seed had formed.

But he was not ignorant of the danger.

He knew from the information he memorized from the "disc" that the buildup of residual tainted mana could be deadly, especially if he failed to continue. He had one month.

And so... he made his decision.

"I'll stay here... on this plateau, until the seed is complete."

He began setting up his small tent on the eastern side, where a large rock shielded him from the harsh winds.

He carefully fixed the stakes, tested the fabric's resistance, then tightened the ropes, making use of his prior knowledge.

When he finally entered, his body groaned from exhaustion.

But the smile on his lips was not from fatigue... but from his decision.

A decision of isolation.

A decision of confrontation.

Here, on this forgotten plateau, he would be reborn.

---

Day Two on the Western Plateau

Christopher woke just before sunrise and slowly emerged from his tent.

The plateau was still shrouded in fog, the cold creeping into his bones, but that didn't stop him from sitting once again in his usual spot, on the flat rock.

His body was stiff, and a faint heat ran through his veins from yesterday's session, but he ignored all that.

He sat firmly and began the second round of the "Great Sky Refinement" technique.

Breathing… calming the mind… centering awareness in the chest...

The cold point was still there, pulsing.

As he began to draw mana, light threads crept toward him from all directions.

And as soon as they touched his body... the pain began.

It was sharper than yesterday.

Like fire, but cold. As if thousands of ice needles were slicing through his veins.

His face sweated, his limbs trembled, but he didn't stop the technique.

Slowly, he passed the mana through the mental "filter," imagining a transparent mesh purifying every thread that passed through it.

The pain continued... but it was now familiar, bearable.

Then... something strange happened.

While the purified mana was gathering in his chest, preparing to support the pseudo-seed...

He felt a sudden deviation in one of the threads. It didn't go inward... but slipped toward his shadow.

Christopher opened his eyes without moving.

His shadow was before him, cast long by the rising sun... it looked normal.

But he felt it changing.

The mana had entered it, as if the shadow had moved.

One second... then the sensation vanished.

He sat there stunned, placing his hand on the ground beside him, as if trying to confirm what he felt wasn't an illusion.

"What was that? Did I make a mistake? Did the mana leak?"

He felt a strange uncertainty, but there was no pain or visible harm.

Everything returned to normal... and the pseudo-seed was still pulsing in his chest, even seeming a little stronger.

He pulled out his notebook and quietly wrote:

Day Two – Seed Condensation Attempt

Continued meditation. A new quantity of mana successfully purified.

Pseudo-seed more stable.

Unexplained note: One purified mana thread was drawn to the shadow.

No visible physical symptoms. Monitoring continues.

He slowly closed the notebook, staring at his shadow, now fading as the sun rose.

---

Christopher stood on the plateau, pulling his light sword from its leather sheath, leaving the scabbard beside him on the flat rock. The cold air brushed his face.

He gripped the hilt with both hands, trying to recall what he had seen of sword training in his previous life, in movies or old martial arts shows he had watched. He wasn't a warrior, had never received formal training, but the desire to learn made him remember the details... foot positioning, trunk balance, and strike angles.

He stood firmly on the plateau ground, feet slightly apart, knees slightly bent.

"Start with the basics..." he muttered to himself.

He raised the sword in front of him, practicing the four simple strikes he knew: a diagonal slash from top right, another cutting from left to bottom, then a horizontal strike from the right, and another from the left. The movements were rough and lacked fluidity, but he kept going.

After each strike, he paused for a moment, adjusted his stance, observed the shadows the sword cast on the ground, then repeated. His goal wasn't speed or power, but understanding... kinesthetic understanding born from repetition.

As time passed, his body began to grasp the rhythm.

Twenty minutes of slow movements, then he stopped, panting. His hands ached, especially at the wrists. The sword, though light, still required muscles he wasn't used to using.

He sat on a rock, breathing deeply, then resumed his practice.

Then he stood again.

"Second round, but this time... with movement."

He began moving forward and backward, trying to coordinate steps and strikes. His steps were hesitant, the sword sometimes trembled in his grip, but something inside him was enjoying this new challenge.

Every movement was a lesson.

When his foot slipped in a small hole, he fell to his knee, the sword's tip clashing against the rock and sparking faintly. He cursed under his breath.

"Damn it!"

He used the sword to push himself up and continued training, dedicating the final ten minutes to attempting defensive mimicry—raising the sword at an angle to block an imaginary strike, then imagining the recoil, following it with a counter movement.

When he finished the first hour of training, he sat on the ground, sweating, panting, but in his reddened eyes was a hint of satisfaction.

Christopher sat on the edge of the rock, gazing at the now-coloring horizon. His muscles were stiff, his hands trembling from exhaustion, but a faint smile curved his lips, as if the pain itself had become familiar... as if his body had begun to accept this new reality.

He took a deep breath, then returned to his tent.

He grabbed his water flask and a cloth, dampened it, and wiped his face, trying to remove the salty sweat. When he was done...

He leaned his back against the tent's fabric wall, listening to the sounds of nature outside. The soft stream, the wind whistling through the grass, the distant caw of a crow... all sounds that had become familiar, as if the plateau itself was beginning to accept him.

But he hadn't forgotten what happened during meditation.

His shadow.

Those threads of mana that had been drawn toward it.

But he decided to let things take their course.

He closed his eyes and went to sleep.