"Theory Of A Kni- Hunter, I Meant Hunter. Yes, Nothing Else"(￣▽￣)" Part(IV)

'Dark and roaming forest,

Casting shade of silence.

Boots crunch through the frozen field,

Solemn deer travels in the enchanted forest,

Coveting snow-white tomb.

Silence does not come for it,

For it is deaf to every tune it hears.

Blind to search for the snow-white tomb,

Scarlet petals show the way,

To the pale man who dances.'

_______________

[It is a song, sung by a locust and a bird who burns and is reborn from its ashes. The consuming horde of locusts sings no mercy, and the burning bird's throat burns as it tries to sing out of love and mercy. They are the finality of all, destroying and consuming.]

"Poor boy," two voices pitied, of a man and a woman, oddly familiar. Their voices tone tinged with something unreadable.

El Ritch stirred, his body still heavy with the pull of sleep. The world around him felt dim and far away, but as he sank deeper, a sharp sting jolted him back to the surface. The pain surged through him, creeping up his arm until it flared with such force that his eyes snapped open.

He gasped, groaning as he shifted closer to the makeshift fire pit he'd built with the torch, some scraps of leather, and animal fat oil he'd scavenged from the storage room. His heart raced as he stared into the fire, its flickering light casting jagged shadows across the walls.

He glanced down at his hands, flexing his fingers tentatively. Blood had stained them, the memory of his broken wrist flashing in his mind. Yet, as he turned them over in the firelight, he found no injury. No swelling, no bruises—nothing to mark the break he was certain he had suffered.

How…?

His mind churned with strange thoughts, trying to piece together what had happened. He remembered the searing pain, the desperate cold, and the frantic pounding on the hut's door. And now this. Warmth had returned to him, his body free of injury, though a faint burning sting still lingered, clawing faintly up his arm.

He sighed heavy, trying to quiet his racing thoughts. Time felt meaningless here. How many hours had passed since he stumbled into the hut? He didn't know. The fire burned steadily, consuming the scraps he fed it, but the night beyond the door remained unchanged. He pulled back the leather that he had put, covering the door's chinks and peered out into the frozen dark. The cold was still there, vast and unyielding, the snow lying heavy and untouched.

With a sigh, he put the leather back into place and returned to his fire. He wrapped himself tightly in what scraps he could find, his body warm but his mind restless. Sleep eluded him, his thoughts running in endless circles.

He stared at his hands again, his fingers tracing the lines of his palm as if searching for an answer. His breathing slowed, and a single word floated to the forefront of his mind, unbidden but certain.

An essence.

The thought struck him like the first chime of a distant bell. He closed his eyes, trying to recall the moment of desperation when the cold had nearly claimed him. His breathing then had felt different—measured, deliberate. Inhale, pause, exhale. The rhythm had not been his own, but something instinctive.

He tried it again now, his body steady as he drew in a breath. Inhale. Pause. Exhale.

_____________

Three movements.

The thought turned over and over in his mind as he gripped the stick he'd found in the storage room. He closed his eyes for a moment, breathing steadily. He couldn't control everything—he knew that much now—but he could control what he did with those three voluntary movements.

He wouldn't just try to mimic Julian's fluid rhythm all at once. He couldn't. Instead, he would break it down, carving the sequence into manageable pieces. Three steps. Then another three. He would build the full set of eight without letting himself stumble.

El Ritch adjusted his stance, the stick feeling heavier in his hands than it had before. The firelight flickered, casting long shadows as he began.

[First Set: He began with a horizontal arc, sweeping from right to left, a clean and deliberate cut. His left foot stepped forward, firm and measured, anchoring him for the second motion. Then, the thrust—a sharp, direct jab toward the invisible enemy before him. He paused, his body resetting.

Second Set: He stepped back, his left foot retreating as he brought the stick upward in a vertical block to ward off an imagined blow. His right arm extended, twisting the stick in an upward arc to deflect the phantom blade, followed by a pivot of his hips, his body shifting to the left to reposition.

Third Set: He spun with precision, the stick slashing horizontally again, this time from left to right. His right foot slid forward to regain control of his stance, and the stick swept down in a diagonal slash, aimed low, as if to cut at an opponent's legs.

The eighth move came unbidden, the natural close to the sequence—a step forward, his body upright, the stick raised before him in a guard. It wasn't planned, but it felt right, the rhythm completing itself as if his movements had found their own conclusion.]

El Ritch froze, his arms lowering slightly as he stared at the empty space before him. His breath hung in the cold air, his chest rising and falling in stunned silence. He had done it.

A nervous chuckle escaped his lips. He adjusted his grip and tried again, moving with deliberate care. This time, there was no hesitation, no stumble. He completed the sequence, the eight movements divided into their sets of three, with one extra movement tying it all together.

He stood there, panting softly, the stick hanging limply in his grip. He had succeeded. But as the elation faded, another thought crept in, a quiet whisper that burrowed into his mind.

They weren't meant to be broken apart.

The realization hit him like the chill of the wind outside. Julian's movements were seamless, each flowing into the next without pause or interruption. Dividing them into sets of three had allowed El Ritch to learn, but it had also fractured the rhythm, leaving the sequence slower, more deliberate—and weaker.

Sloppy. Erratic.

He tightened his grip on the stick, his brow furrowing. The thought nagged at him. If he could perfect three, then another three, then the final two, why couldn't he string them all together? What was stopping him?

El Ritch sat down, cross-legged, his small frame illuminated by the soft flicker of his makeshift fire. He wouldn't throw a tantrum this time. The memory of the last one—nearly freezing to death—was enough to quell the temptation. Instead, he closed his eyes and breathed, steadying his mind.

'Why were my movements erratic? Sloppy?'

The question echoed in his thoughts as he gripped the stick, running through the sets in his mind. It wasn't just the fragmentation of his movements that troubled him. His precision was off too, the strikes lacking the sharpness and clarity he had seen in Julian.

He began again, repeating the sets over and over. Without anger or frustration clouding his thoughts, he analyzed his form, each motion deliberate. Dozens of repetitions passed, and then—finally—something clicked.

A smile spread across his face as the realization settled in. It wasn't the pause between sets that broke the flow. It was what filled that pause.

He needed an anchor—something to reset himself, or fix his position as he moves along with the sets, it could be anything: a voluntary movement that would connect the fragmented sets and stabilize the sequence. The anchor would give him rhythm, balance, and a sense of continuity.

[But precision? For now, he set that aside. There was no clear answer yet, but he would get there.]

[First Set (with anchor):

He began with a horizontal arc, sweeping from right to left, a clean and deliberate cut. His left foot stepped forward, firm and measured, anchoring him for the second motion. Then, the thrust—a sharp, direct jab toward the invisible enemy before him.

Anchor: He stepped back, his right foot retreating slightly as he brought the stick close to his chest, his body coiling in preparation for the next set.

Second Set (with anchor):

He stepped back further, his left foot retreating fully as he brought the stick upward in a vertical block, warding off an imagined blow. His right arm extended, twisting the stick in an upward arc to deflect the phantom blade. A pivot of his hips followed, his body shifting to the left to reposition.

Anchor: He lowered the stick briefly, shifting his weight to his back foot as his left hand brushed along the shaft, steadying his grip.

Third Set (with anchor):

He spun with precision, the stick slashing horizontally again, this time from left to right. His right foot slid forward, regaining control of his stance. The stick swept down in a diagonal slash, aimed low, as if to cut at an opponent's legs.

Anchor: He paused, planting both feet firmly as he straightened his spine, rolling his shoulders to release the tension before stepping forward.

Eighth Move:

The sequence concluded with a final motion: a step forward, his body upright, the stick raised before him in a guard. The move was unplanned, but it felt natural—an instinctive finish that brought the rhythm full circle.]

El Ritch's grin widened as he realized what he had done. His movements, while far from perfect, now felt fluent. The awkward pauses and erratic stumbles were gone, replaced by a rhythm that flowed from one set to the next.

He tried again, and again, his grin growing with each successful attempt. It wasn't flawless, and precision was still a distant goal, but for now, that didn't matter. His joy at achieving this small triumph drowned out every other concern.

He spun the stick once more, his breath steady, his heart light. For the first time, he felt as though he had truly begun to understand the dance of the blade.