The training ground resembled a sandy parade ground. A huge sandy parade ground. At least a thousand warriors trained here in sparring pairs. Under the scorching sun, wearing only short pants (and with bandaged chests in the case of women), they passionately pummeled each other following the instructions of the pacing Master.
Some waved their arms, parodying actors from famous Chinese fantasy films. Some crazy jumps, contradicting the laws of physics, were the norm here. Someone, pushing off the ground with their palm, recovered from a fall as easily as a feather in the wind. Others quite freely, in passing, shattered wooden shields to splinters.
Some fought with various weapons. There were so many that one's eyes would wander. Khaal didn't know the names of most of them, but fortunately, there were familiar staffs, rods, swords, bows, sabers, axes, and hammers. Sometimes, however, some girls waved ribbons.
Sounds funny, but only until such a ribbon leaves a scratch on the stone masonry of the wall.
And, of course, all their characteristics were gradually studied by the neural network, building an information array for detailed analysis.
For example, it could already provide something like this:
Name: Training sword
Quality level: Non-artifact weapon
Durability: ????? (lack of data)
Damage: ????? (lack of data)
Energy points: 0
The prince walked along the edge of the training ground, listening to the Master's shouts. He was throwing around incomprehensible words like "energy circulation," "external technique," "internal technique," and so on. Sometimes the old man would stop pairs and show "how it's done." Then the unlucky, or perhaps lucky, student would fly off to the side, and it was good if they didn't leave a body-shaped imprint on the wall.
That wall was probably rebuilt every season, because right now it looked like it had been through artillery fire.
When someone noticed Khaal, they would stop their fight and bow. And so it continued until the Master himself noticed the toddler wandering around the training ground in the form of the prince.
"Your Highness," he bowed slightly. "May I ask who let you in and where is your nurse?"
"I asked Southern Wind for permission," answered Khaal. And judging by the old man's face, he was wondering where the scholar himself had obtained such permission. "And the nurse is busy with Elaine."
"And feeling abandoned, you decided to come to us?"
Khaal tilted his head to the side. Yes, despite all his peculiarities, the Master looked at him as a small child. A child whose uncle and father had gone to war (and how do they cover such distances at such speed?!), mother had gone to a neighboring city to execute some corrupt governor, nurse was busy with his sister, and teacher wouldn't come out of seclusion for another month.
Southern Wind was now meditating over a new medicine that he intended to use to accelerate the development of nobles. Probably, in case of success, it would bring him a lot of money and, more importantly, fame.
The scholar, even being a cripple, did not abandon attempts to draw the sect's attention to himself.
So to the Master, Khaal looked like a lost child.
"No, Master, I came to learn."
"To learn?" the old man was surprised. He even scratched his long, thin beard. "And what do you intend to learn here?"
"Martial arts," Khaal proudly stated.
He had to keep up appearances.
The Master laughed, and dozens of nearby warriors joined his laughter.
"What makes you, Your Highness, think that you can study the arts?"
"Because I decided so."
The old man twitched slightly, noticing the gaze of blue, almost navy eyes. Damn, he could swear that this gaze could bend iron.
"Your determination is worthy of attention, my prince," the Master nodded. "But..."
He came closer and touched the child's wrist. For a second, he listened to something, and then opened his eyes and shook his head.
"Undoubtedly, you have talent, but..." he sighed, "not strong enough to achieve true greatness on this path. Perhaps you should return to Southern Wind's scrolls."
This news would have broken or shaken someone else, but not Khaal. His whole life, he had been told that he couldn't do something, that he couldn't handle something. But out of spite, he achieved his goals. He went through, breaking any obstacles. He knew that hard work and diligence were worth much, much more than talent.
"I have decided," he repeated.
The Master suddenly realized that he couldn't dissuade this two-year-old boy.
"Then I will take you as a student," the old man straightened up, blocking the sun.
Silence fell over the training ground. People froze, remaining in the positions they were in a moment ago. Some even with a leg raised above their head. If Southern Wind, having lived two thousand years, never took a student, then the Master was almost twice his age and also never taught anyone. Personally taught, of course.
Apparently, they're right when they say that luck is also part of an adept's power. Khaal had only to be born into the king's family, express a desire – and here he was already a student of the Master.
"But for this, you will have to pass one small test."
"What kind, Master?"
The old man smiled and pointed to the opposite part of the training ground. There stood a large barrel of water, with a wooden cup floating on the surface. Warriors often approached it to rinse their mouths. They were allowed to drink only a few times during training, and the Master monitored this very strictly.
He said that the energy of the sun (fire) should not be mixed with the energy of water. Whatever that meant.
"Do you see that barrel, my prince?"
"Yes."
"Then your test is as follows: you need to pour water from it into this barrel," he patted an empty one standing next to him. "And not spill a single drop."
Khaal assessed the distance he needed to cover. From one end of the grounds to the other – almost half a kilometer. Considering that it was difficult for him to take even a hundred steps, here there were probably a thousand times more.
Under the scorching sun, with a cup that was his own size, he needed to pour an entire barrel of water.
The warriors hid smiles in their fists. Yes, they loved the king – strict, strong, but fair. And yet, they were pleased that the little prince had been put in his place. They expected that, being a well-mannered boy, he would simply turn around and leave offended. He wouldn't make a scene, as the spoiled children of minor nobles would do.
Neither the nurse nor the queen would pat him on the head for such behavior.
"Fine," nodded Khaal, clenching his fists.
No one expected that. Nor did they expect that the boy would pick up the heavy cup from the ground and drag it across the grounds.
The Master blinked a couple of times, rubbed his beard, and shouted:
"Why are you standing?! Back to work!"
No one moved – the prince was walking between them. The son of Haver and Elizabeth. The very thought of touching him caused them panic trembling – let alone accidentally hitting him during sparring.
"But, Master, we could..."
"The prince is doing his task, and you are doing yours. Whoever slacks off can forget the way here!"
Forgetting the way to the training ground meant missing the opportunity to train with the best mentor in the country. No practitioner could afford this. They all thirsted for power, and dangers on the path of development did not scare them – they only ignited their excitement. So it's not surprising that after just a minute, Khaal had to dodge other people's heels and shield his eyes from sand splashes.
He dragged the heavy cup, staring unblinkingly at the barrel ahead.
The Master watched the little prince. At any moment, he was ready to save his life, but the oafs he trained also made sure not to hurt the boy. Because of this, their movements became calmer, more measured, more calculated.
Well, little Khaal's stubbornness brought considerable benefit. He – the Master mentally grinned – became an excellent training device. Perhaps someone today, immersing themselves so deeply in their movements, might catch the bird of inspiration and break through to the next level.
Unlikely the final level, but hope remained.
He just had to wait and see how long the prince's willpower would last. Could he even reach the barrel?
Crossing five hundred meters under the scorching sun among flickering bodies was already extremely difficult for a two-year-old child. And if you add a heavy cup and hot sand?
And yet Khaal covered the first hundred meters, then two hundred, and after a quarter of an hour, all five hundred. He had already surprised the Master by this. But simple surprise was not enough to make the old man take him as a student.
And as soon as Khaal scoops the first cup and starts back, he will understand that it is impossible at his age to pour two hundred liters of water without spilling a drop. Even at two years old, such an exam was used in the army for acceptance into the ranks of ordinary infantry. And not every adult villager could handle it.
And yet the prince reached the one-and-a-half-meter barrel. Putting down the cup, he, puffing, dragged over a small ladder. Small for an adult and huge for a toddler.
Climbing up, he scooped up the cup and carefully descended. Turning, he started walking back.
The Master saw how difficult it was for the boy. He was practically on the verge of fainting, but that gaze... Those blue eyes made the Master, who had gone through thousands of battles on the edge of life and death, fidget. There was something unyielding and boundless in them, like the sky itself.
The boy went back. Staggering, almost falling, he held the cup with both hands, not allowing a single drop to fall on the sand.
"Khaal!" came a shout from behind.
The Master turned to freeze. On the stairs leading from the palace stood the queen. Her spacious amber-colored clothes fluttered in the wind. Her flying hair framed her beautiful face, and fire burned in her green eyes.
"Careful, Khaal!" Elizabeth pushed off from the stairs.
From her to the training ground was about twenty meters. For an adept of her level, no more than a step for an ordinary person. And yet, no matter how swift and strong the queen's dash was, the foot of a hesitating warrior was much closer.
The master himself only managed to turn back and reach out with his power to the blunderer. With just a glance, he threw him aside, but it was too late. Khaal was hit with full force by a blow intended for an opponent.
The boy was tossed into the air like a helpless doll and carried right toward a rack of bare swords.
The Master and the queen flew through the air after him, but it was clear – they wouldn't make it.