Solo You Have (Not) Become Strong

Schilva Flasch · Oct 24, 2023

...om...

Sitting under a rushing waterfall that descended from the thicketed woodlands of Western Brisshal to crash upon both himself and the rocks below, wearing nothing but a plain fundoshi, Schilva Flasch was...what was he doing?

...omm...

The tributary of the Blue Rapid continued to pour down relentlessly upon him, sending streams and rivulets of water running down his wet hair. Adhering to his forehead and draping down across his face like floppy sheets of kelp, the dark strands obscured eyes that had been closed for quite some time now, with no intent to open anytime soon.

...ommm...

One syllable continued to issue from Schilva's barely-opening lips. One syllable, over and over, almost soundless in the crash of water that lapped at his crossed knees and his stilled hands upon them. One syllable that encapsulated many and many more; consciousness, the absolute, creation, the first, all.

...o-uuaaaAACCCHHHOOO!

The sanctitude of the mantra is broken, the illusion of tranquility dashed to pieces. The piercing sound of a resounding failure to hold back a sneeze interrupts the sounds of nature, as well as the monotone that the same voice had been repeating over and over so many times. It was beginning to take on the qualities of an accompaniment to the placid surroundings, as though it were the mournful call of an exotic bird, but evidently not anymore.

Gah, I can do this! I can! This is fine!

Following that, more sounds. This time, it is clear to any listener of the natural world; the waterfall is not enough to completely mask this new utterance of frustration. Though the swordsman under the thundering flow moves not an inch, chilled to the bone and immobilised by cold-locked muscles, his voice betrays the animus behind his ascetic training.

Focus. Focus again, now. Focus on...om...

Again, the syllable begins to ring out, one breath at a time. Continuous like the thrum of a bell, calling for the concentration of will and body alike. Despite the cold and growing dark, Schilva Flasch faltered not. Only he knew how long he had been sitting here for - he and the pruned skin at his extremities, that was.

Soon, night began to edge in upon the evening, lengthening the shadows that the ringed rocks about the isolated pool had been casting. A rushing wind, uncharacteristic of the season, swept through the forest hollow in which this scene was taking place, carrying with it a light chill. Visibly shivering, the swordsman perched on the purpose-built rock platform made no other sign of acknowledgement nor protest for his wellbeing, still silently enduring the assault of cold water.

So it was that the not-quite-silence continued to be steeped in the growing night, until at last nothing could be made out of the hidden grove in which Schilva Flash continued to sit, alone and unbothered, beneath the waterfall.

...

It has been some time now. At least an hour, perhaps more. Such things are hard to discern with merely cues of light and dark to guide one's closed eyes, as is the case now.

That should be a wrap.

Finally working up the strength to uncross his legs and emerge from beneath the rushing falls, Schilva takes a short breath before slipping into the chest-deep waters, frothing all about from the whitewater spray. Eyes still closed as all sound is suddenly reduced to a muffled roar beneath the roiling surface, feeling smoothly eroded pebbles and soft mud, Schilva holds his breath and calmly swims his way between rocks that had been strategically knocked into formation some time prior to this.

With a gasp at both the fresh air and the fresh frigid sensation of being exposed to it, Schilva plonks himself down on the low mossy rock ledge and draws aside the curtain of wet hair across his face. Maybe he should have just worn a hair-tie.
Shivering and bristling in the cold, a few glances about him later and Schilva is drying himself off with a rough linen towel that hangs off the lip of a tall wicker basket, sliding his moisture-wrinkled feet into a pair of slippers that he'd left by the pondside earlier.

Vision adjusting to the dimmer light of the moonlit night, Schilva squints a bit after towelling off and goes about first lighting the lantern set down a safe distance from the water's edge. Picking it up with eyes adjusting to the gloom, he goes about and silently lights up the others placed about the clearing, until firelight rings the area all around. Once all the lanterns placed about have been lit, he steps back to admire again the handiwork borne of his localised remodeling.

Here and there, the aforementioned lanterns hang off tree branches, sit atop short stumps and perch upon rocky outcrops, having been set out hours in advance in anticipation of the dark hours. Reaching into the wicker basket, Schilva retrieves his robes and dons them once more, making sure they aren't wet, then strides over to the cleanly cleft boulder upon which his swords are waiting upon a crudely hand-carved stand. Again, he carefully lifts his swords from their place, affixing them to his uwa-obi with meticulous care.

Turning about-face, he faces the thicket of thatch dummies assembled along the far edge of the clearing-turned-training-ground, counting off aloud the ones that he would strike down today. Across the ground, lying in a heap, are the broken remnants of past visits to the dummy range.

...and you.

With the headcount over, it was time to begin.

Schilva Flasch · Oct 25, 2023

Left foot, right foot. Back straight. Head up and chin level. Shoulders squared. Breathing constant, unhurried.
Well aware that he would ordinarily never have the chance to prepare himself and steady a stance like this in an actual conflict, Schilva nonetheless resolves to perfect his peak condition. After all, no fortress could stand tall without sturdily built foundations, that much he knew.

Thus, it was now that he would shore up the cracks, renew the mortar and refurbish the stonework.

With one hand on each blade, unblinkingly focused and breath sharpening for an instant, Schilva prepares to draw...

SILVER FLASH!

...and it is over.

Cracking splinters and the sound of broken twigs. Now with his back facing the line of decimated dummies, Schilva sheathes the blades that have seemingly phased from their scabbards in the span of a mere blink. Taking a moment to stroke his chin and rebalance his form, he turns about-face and begins to count the amount of thatch bodies.

...two, three, four...

Not a lacking amount. But his blade has claimed more before, and this is not an improvement. Clicking his tongue and prodding the felled dummies with his foot, Schilva lets himself relax for a moment, just long enough to reflect on what purpose all this served.

Since the Szofrit incident and everything prior to that, what with the rescuing of King Astor (only for him to tank his approval ratings immediately afterwards; but that was a different story) and his role in crippling the DEAD.naught as well as the...mortifying events that followed, Schilva had come to a similarly mortifying realisation.

That he had been neglecting his term finals preparation was certainly one thing, of course, but another and more important realisation - he was not everything that he promised others he would be. He was always talking big and swaggering about, proclaiming that he alone could claim to be the master and pioneer of the Godspeed Slash, Divine Kengo, Veteran of Fever, Evil-Rending Blade and such, but when push had come to shove and the fate of Astorea - nigh the world - had been on the line...

Ultimately, all he could do was swing his sword artlessly like some foolish amateur, a trifle of a fledgling in competition against the innumerable soaring greats that dominated this world of the Starcalled; the 'Veterans' of Terrasphere. His only crowning achievements outside that, perhaps, was that his speed and agility had been key to saving lives, manoeuvring others into key positions and assisting those who fought alongside him. But neither of a pair of binary stars may shine brightest.

Mylar Ouyang. He could not bear his own mediocrity.

He had felt that it was impossible to surpass, the sheer paralysing terror of that final confrontation, of the moment wherein he'd been forced to confront not just the Mother of Machines, but also his own mortality and motives. He had never felt more terrified, more sure of his fate, of his demise. How bleak, how terrible, how endless that moment had been. He now correctly feared that he would not forget that feeling.

Mylar Ouyang. For the sake of his selfishness, he had only been a hindrance.

It still stung, at times. Those places where his blade had bit into his own flesh, shattered by the goddess' unimpeached, unblemished form. It was madness, even hubris, but how else was he to survive in that moment? That lay in the words of the phantom in the mirror, for it had cast forth an impossibly valiant vision to him in that dire hour that bordered the will of a deus ex machina. Nay, an answer.

Mylar Ouyang. Not enough. Wasn't that why this had happened in the first place?

Schilva Flasch opens the clasp of the Hero's Reflection and Schilva Flasch gazes back. It may as well have been as ephemeral and half-remembered as the rest of that nightmarish experience, the abysm of despair that had opened to swallow him whole as Schilva Flasch, however briefly, became no more.

Facing the dummies from behind now, Schilva steadies himself and closes the clasp once more. Reminiscence would do no good with absence of action. That was why he had dedicated every possible moment for several months now to a singular purpose - the accruement of discipline unparalleled, the cornerstone of every excellent swordsman's career.

Right. Do it again.

Sharp breath in. Hold. Feel the air swell with anticipation.

SILVER FLASH!

Again, he slashed forth and, again, a swathe of the motionless thatch mannequins fell to pieces. But when he sheathed his sword once more, he found that the amount he'd cut down did not in fact increase.

Hm.

This was the solution.
Schilva Flasch must become indelible. Schilva Flasch must become entirely of his own being.
Weakness of spirit cannot be afforded.
Fading into memory cannot be afforded.
An indecisive swordsmanship cannot be afforded.
Schilva Flasch must become stronger. Strong enough to stand upright and hold his blade with pride,

So it was that he had taken great labours to construct a private training-ground in this hidden waterfall clearing, careful to clean up after himself each time that he logged in and out to study the blade. The place had once been intended for the recruitment and testing of prospective disciples, but now Schilva realised that perhaps, a little more mettle in his abilities was required.

Although, was another trajectory necessary?
As he took up a broom and swept aside the kindling his swords had created, Schilva cannot help but sigh deeply, rolling his tight shoulders and shivering in his scant robes. Ascetic training to withstand the extremes of all elements, repeated drills with his blade arts to hone his skills, meditation to harden his mind against the ill shade of doubt...had any of that really made a difference?

He had vowed that he would not return to the world of Terrasphere at large until he had become strong. But now, progress had all but stagnated - he could no longer sense any palpable improvement to his faculties nor observe any rise in efficacy with his blade arts.

Returning the broom to his UI inventory and then doing the same with each of the lanterns he had set up, Schilva yawned and counted the hours again. Four spent under the waterfall in meditation, as many again building up these dummies only to slice them back down again, then two more to meticulously maintain his weapon and ensure it would always be at its peak cutting power. But what did he have to show for it?

Perhaps...I have not become strong.

As the last light was snuffed out and the lantern stowed away safely, the hollow once again becomes a darkened glade steeped only in moonbeam and shadow.
In silence did the figure of Schilva Flasch stand still for a minute or so, a monolith to his insubstantial efforts, before once more logging out with a heavy but resolute heart.

Perhaps you cannot become strong-
...
No, you cannot become stronger...not in this way.