Chapter Twenty-Eight: The Age of Ice Implements

Vaid dug three small holes in the ground, took three thorn branches, and laid them diagonally across the edges of the pits, connecting the upper ends to where the ice blocks sat. He was doing this to collect the melted water; once the ice thawed, the water would follow the thorn branches and gather in the small holes below.

The cave soil was not pure sand; sand alone couldn’t form a natural hollow that shielded one from fierce winds. The earth’s permeability wasn’t so strong, so he didn’t have to worry about all the water seeping away. By tomorrow, those pits should hold a little murky water.

The water collected in the scales would be used to irrigate the glowing moss; the water in the pits, Vaid had other plans for.

With his plan settled, Vaid spent some time organizing his spoils. He folded the mage’s robe and placed it neatly in a corner. The rings and gemstones went into a pouch together. The boots, unneeded for now, were removed and placed beside the robe.

Mia lay on Vaid’s skull, watching him bustle about. It had been an eventful day, and Vaid felt the fatigue. Before sleep, he inspected his melon hammer and small round shield—his only weapons and armor, which deserved careful maintenance.

Once the cave was tidied, Vaid lay down on the shroud, everything in its proper place. The little ghost drifted into his palm; as he settled in, she quieted as well.

“Goodnight,” Vaid pressed his finger gently to the little ghost’s forehead.

The newly transplanted moss glowed mysteriously and silently, the orderly thorn branches formed prickly walls, and the set of robe and boots rested together. The cave now truly resembled a home—yes, like a troglodyte’s dwelling.

Tomorrow he’d make further improvements. For now, Vaid was tired and ready for sleep; Mia did not disturb him. Perhaps because she’d absorbed new magic, the little ghost was brimming with energy and showed no sign of sleepiness. Yet she didn’t hop about his bones; instead, she curled up in his palm, hugging one of his fingers.

The wind and sand outside perhaps made her uneasy. The muffled rumble of thunder could be heard, and tonight’s wind was fiercer than the past few days.

Sensing danger, all but infants needing to cry for their parents would instinctively keep silent and hold their breath.

The little ghost seemed a bit scared. Vaid teased her gently with his finger, then turned onto his side, cupping his hands together.

His palms became a closed shell, with only a gap between his left index finger and thumb. The little ghost nestled in his palm, peering out quietly.

“Sleep,” Vaid sent his thoughts to her.

Obediently, the little one squinted her eyes, and Vaid drifted into slumber.

...

Vaid’s consciousness entered the dream. Before him floated a twenty-sided die, the heart-engraved face still being stained red. He glanced at the progress and continued to battle the remnant image of Swen, honing his skills.

Pragmatic fighters most easily develop practical swordcraft; and in the art of killing, only real combat brings improvement and refinement.

Without a sword master to correct his form or instruct him in the basics, Vaid learned through repeated deaths. It was far deeper than sparring with a wooden stake.

After three nights of dream battles, Vaid’s swordsmanship had improved considerably.

Swen’s sword strikes were always heavy. To face such force, Vaid forced himself to employ technique, learning to deflect and absorb blows.

Swen was a seasoned warrior, not only strong but cunning, often feigning openings to lure Vaid’s attacks.

Gradually, Vaid learned to discern real feints from true threats. He began to grasp the rhythm of combat, the clang of steel echoing through the burning chapel.

Slash, chop, sweep, parry, thrust—simple motions combined into hundreds, thousands of possibilities.

Among them, Vaid kept searching for combinations that suited him.

Another night of refinement passed, and he left the dream, waking in the cave.

Mia was still asleep; she must have drifted off later than Vaid. He placed her gently on the soft robe, rose, and bent to inspect the thorn branches.

Good, nothing had loosened. These two “walls” bore the weight effectively. The wind still howled outside, but within the cave, there was little disturbance.

He checked the scales and pits next; both had collected some water.

Carefully, he picked up the scales, pouring the relatively clean water onto the moss inside the fence.

The moss seemed pleased; their glow brightened, and the flow of magic quickened.

He hoped these glowing mosses would adapt to the cave environment.

Vaid nodded, finished his early inspection, and crawled to the cave entrance, pushing aside a stone to leave a narrow slit to peer outside.

Still nothing but swirling yellow sand—no possibility of going out.

He closed the “door,” picked up a thorn branch and the melon hammer, and broke a brittle thorn branch into small pieces with careful blows.

He waited patiently for Mia to awaken. Once she floated up from the robe, Vaid was ready.

He called the little ghost over, and inserted the small wooden sticks into the water-filled pits.

He had decided yesterday to collect water for a trial. Picking up a twig, he drew the shape of a knife on the ground—a three-dimensional sketch. Through the exchange of thoughts, Mia seemed to understand his intent.

As a northerner, knives and bows were everyday tools; Mia naturally recognized the drawing.

The little ghost approached the pit, stretched out her tiny hand, and released her magic.

Vaid didn’t interfere; this was a moment requiring utmost concentration, like painting—no one likes a chatterbox hovering while you sketch.

Chill rose from the pit, and the murky muddy water froze, molding itself into shape, fused to the wooden stick.

Vaid gripped the stick and drew out a brand-new ice blade.

Success. Mia’s control was even better than he’d hoped—she fully understood the shape of a knife and recreated it by freezing.

No need for grinding; it was already an exceptionally sharp dagger.

The thin edge gleamed coldly. Vaid couldn’t wait—he picked up the robe and tested the blade.

Starting from the collar, he sliced along the threads, smoothly cutting the fabric, the incision neat and clean.

He tried shaving the thorns from a branch with the ice blade; it was a bit laborious, but he managed to cut off the small spines.

Thinking further, he sketched a serrated shape, moved to another pit, and Mia once more released her magic, freezing a small ice saw.

Like a carpenter, Vaid pulled the ice saw across the thorn branch, and sure enough, it cut through the tough wood.

Now, he had tools.

He had entered—yes—the age of ice implements.