CHAPTER 12

POV - Azra'il

Several months had passed since the beginning of lessons with Roxy and training sessions with Paul, and the routine had assumed that particular quality of things that find their natural rhythm: predictable enough to be functional, varied enough not to be completely unbearable.

The study room Zenith had arranged already had the appearance of a space that had been genuinely used. The slate board carried chalk marks that no amount of cleaning could fully remove, the books had covers slightly creased from frequent handling, and there was a mark in the corner of the table that was the direct result of an experiment I preferred not to detail and that Roxy preferred not to remember.

That morning, Roxy was standing before the board with chalk in hand and the organised expression of someone who had prepared the content with care and hoped that at least half the lesson would go according to plan.

I had learnt that the other half rarely did.

"Today we are going to discuss mage classification," she said, writing on the board with the clean handwriting of someone who had spent considerable time making their own letters legible to pupils. "The system is divided into seven levels. Each level represents not only raw power, but technical mastery and control." She wrote the seven in a vertical column. "Beginner. Intermediate. Advanced. Saint. King. Emperor. God."

Rudeus was leaning over his own notebook with the concentration of someone who takes notes seriously, his index finger tracing the words as he copied them. There was something mildly comic about watching a reincarnated adult man copying the magical register with the gravity of a university student, but I preferred not to remark on it because he had called me a "little old tea-drinking lady" the previous week and I was still calculating the appropriate response.

I was seated with my hands in my lap and my gaze on the board.

[Seven levels. A reasonably organised system by local standards.]

〈Reasonably.〉

[Compared to the cultivation system of the Nine Celestial Kingdoms you inhabited in incarnation two hundred and eighty-three, which had forty-two stages with sub-stages, this is refreshingly simple.]

〈Everything has its advantages.〉

"The Beginner level is the starting point," Roxy continued, explaining with the didactic manner of someone who had developed an efficient way of introducing the concept. "A beginner mage can execute basic spells with a complete incantation. Control is minimal, mana consumption is inefficient, but the foundation is there." She looked at both of them. "Intermediate means the mage has mastered the fundamentals. Spells of moderate complexity, reasonable control, the capacity to adapt the incantation."

"You are describing us," said Rudeus, without looking up from his notebook, in the casual tone of someone making an observation and expecting no challenge.

"I am describing where most people begin," said Roxy, with the care of a professional neither confirming nor denying. "Advanced is where real mastery begins. An advanced mage has precise control, can modify spells in real time, and adapt mana usage to varying situations."

"And Saint?" asked Rudeus, this time looking up with the attention of someone who had reached the part they were interested in.

"Saint is where few arrive," said Roxy. "A Saint-level mage can execute large-scale spells with efficiency, has considerable mana reserves, and enough control to use magic in real combat situations without wasting energy."

"What is your rank?" asked Rudeus.

Roxy did not blink. "Saint in water and fire. Advanced in the others."

Rudeus nodded with the expression of someone filing the information away and already calculating the next question. "And King? Emperor? God?"

"King is rare," said Roxy, in the tone of someone describing something beyond immediate reach but not impossible. "King-level mages can alter the surrounding environment with magic, operate at scales that affect large areas, and sustain spells that would exhaust an ordinary mage entirely." She paused. "Emperor is rarer still. It is the level where magic begins to transcend what the common system can adequately describe."

"And God?" I asked.

Roxy looked at me. "There are perhaps three people alive who have reached the God level. Power at that level is not something that is demonstrated. It is something you feel when you are near someone like that."

The silence that followed was the kind that occurs when a piece of information truly lands.

Rudeus was looking at the board with the expression of someone rereading the list and recalculating where they fell within it. I was looking at the same list with an internal analysis I preferred not to share.

〈Eos, at which level of the local system would I currently fall given the body's restrictions?〉

[Given the underdeveloped channels, the reserve limited to 5% of real capacity, and the lack of fully mastered local techniques: Advanced in water and Intermediate in the others. Possibly Saint in pure technical control, but the available reserve would not sustain Saint-level spells for long enough to be classified as such.]

〈And without the body's restrictions?〉

[That falls outside the parameters of local classification. Their system has no category for what you are without restrictions.]

〈Convenient.〉

"What is my rank?" asked Rudeus, with the directness of someone who had decided they wanted the specific information about themselves.

Roxy looked at him with the expression of someone who had anticipated the question and prepared an honest answer. "Classification depends on which spells you can execute with genuine mastery, not merely produce. A mage who produces a Saint-level spell once at maximum effort is not Saint. A mage who produces the same spell repeatedly with precise control is." She looked from Rudeus to me. "The two of you are at a point where conventional classification does not apply directly."

"Why?" asked Rudeus.

"Because the system was built on the assumption that magic without incantation, beyond being rare, is the result of years of advanced practice," said Roxy, with her characteristic directness. "The two of you do it at four years of age. The system has no category for that yet."

Rudeus glanced at me sideways with the expression of someone satisfied with the answer.

I looked back with the expression of someone who had arrived at the same conclusion months ago and had continued to exist quite comfortably regardless.

"Does that mean we are unclassifiable?" said Rudeus, in a tone that was simultaneously a question and a declaration of veiled pride.

"It means the system would need to be expanded to accommodate you," said Roxy, with the composure of a professional making a factual observation.

"That is an elegant way of saying we are anomalies," I said.

"It is a precise way," said Roxy.

"I prefer exceptional," said Rudeus.

"You prefer whatever sounds better than reality," I said.

Rudeus looked at me. "You are no better than I am."

"I never said I was."

"Your tone implies it."

"My tone is neutral."

"Your tone is never neutral."

Roxy was watching us with the expression of someone who had witnessed that dynamic enough times to know precisely when to intervene and when to let it run. She let it run.

[Specimen Rudeus is correct. Your tone is rarely neutral.]

〈You are not supposed to be on his side.〉

[I am on the side of precision.]

The afternoon brought the courtyard, the more resistant wooden swords Paul had managed to obtain, and an energy different from the usual.

Paul was standing in the centre of the open space with the posture of someone who had thought about what they were going to say before saying it, which was sufficiently unusual for me to register. Roxy had settled into a chair that Lilia had placed near the courtyard wall, with the air of someone who had decided that afternoon would be educational beyond the scope of her own curriculum.

"Today I am going to explain the three main sword styles," said Paul, with the mildly awkward formality of a man clearly outside his comfort zone as a teacher but who had decided he was going to do it regardless. "I am not just going to show them. I am going to explain first."

Rudeus and I looked at each other.

It was, objectively, a historic sentence from Paul Greyrat.

"The three styles are the Sword God Style, the Water God Style, and the North God Style," said Paul, counting on his fingers with the gravity of a man giving a presentation. "Each one has a different philosophy. It is not just technique. It is how you think about combat."

〈Combat philosophy.〉 I considered. 〈At least he arrived at that concept.〉

"The Sword God Style is power," said Paul, and there was in his tone something beyond instruction, the genuine respect of someone who had spent years in contact with that system. "Maximum speed. Maximum force. The objective is to end the combat before the opponent can react. No unnecessary defence. No conserving energy." He picked up one of the wooden swords and demonstrated a sequence of three strikes, each with the speed and total commitment of someone who was not pretending. "You do not block. You eliminate the possibility of needing to block."

Internally, I moved through the archive of similar systems.

I recalled a world where I had learnt the Breathing techniques. It was a philosophy structurally similar to the Sword God Style: amplify the physical to the maximum, commit entirely to each movement, transform the body into an instrument of speed and force that transcended normal limits. The difference was that the Breathing techniques integrated the physical element with something closer to what I would call magical intention, which made the system significantly more complex than simply cutting faster.

The Sword God Style was that philosophy without the refinement. It was elegant brute force.

"The Water God Style is the opposite," said Paul, shifting stance with the fluidity of someone who had practised both long enough to move between them without thinking. "Fluidity. Adaptation. You do not force the combat; you go where the combat takes you and use that against the opponent." He demonstrated a sequence where each strike was born organically from the previous one, the movement adapting as though responding to an imaginary opponent he could see with perfect clarity. "You do not spend energy breaking the enemy's resistance. You use the enemy's resistance as part of your own strike."

[This reminds me of the cultivation philosophy of water. You practised this in incarnation four hundred and twelve, in the world of the Five Eternal Rivers.]

〈Where the ancient master told me I had the temperament of a stone trying to be a river.〉

[He was not wrong at the time.]

〈I have improved considerably.〉

[Marginally.]

The Water God Style was what the Cultivators of the Five Eternal Rivers called the Way of the Current: do not resist, do not force, find the path of least resistance and transform it into movement. The difference was that in the cultivation world that principle extended beyond physical combat, permeating the entire spiritual practice. The Water God Style was the martial application of the principle without the spiritual dimension.

Even so, it was a valid principle.

"And the North God Style," said Paul, and there was in his tone something different, not reverence, but the cautious recognition of someone describing something they respect and fear in equal measure. "It is the hardest to explain because it has no clear rules." He demonstrated a few strikes, and the difference was immediate: there was no pattern, no predictable sequence, it was the kind of combat that appeared improvised but had a logic behind it that was only visible to those who understood it. "The North God Style uses everything. Dirty strikes. Impossible angles. The objective is to be completely unpredictable. The opponent cannot defend against what they cannot anticipate."

〈The Formless Style.〉

I had studied something structurally similar in a world where the most feared warriors were not those with the most powerful strike, but those who had entirely abandoned the concept of style. No pattern. No preference. No school limitation. It was the philosophy that the most ancient cultivators eventually reached after mastering enough systems: when you know everything, you use nothing specific.

The North God Style was a version of that applied to mortal combat at human scale.

Rudeus had a small notebook in his lap, taking notes with the concentration of someone who had decided this was the most useful lesson Paul had given to date and wanted to document it. Occasionally he looked up to watch the demonstrations with the technical attention of someone processing the theory alongside the visual.

"Which of the three do you use?" asked Rudeus, when Paul finished the third demonstration.

"All three," said Paul. "It depends on the opponent. It depends on the situation." He lowered the wooden sword. "A good swordsman does not choose one style and stay in it forever. You learn all of them and use what the moment calls for."

Rudeus made a note.

I watched Paul for a moment. There was something genuinely different about that afternoon. Not the quality of the teaching in terms of depth, Paul was still Paul, a man whose knowledge was vast but whose capacity to convey it was uneven. But there was intention. There was preparation. There was the deliberate decision to explain rather than simply demonstrate.

"This was the first real lesson you have given," I said.

Paul looked at me.

Rudeus stopped writing.

Roxy lifted her head slightly from the chair.

"What do you mean?" asked Paul, in the careful tone of someone who had detected that the sentence had more than one layer but was not certain which was which.

"In the other months you demonstrated and expected us to understand by osmosis," I said, with the neutrality of someone making a technical assessment rather than an accusation. "Today you explained the philosophy before showing the technique. That is a considerable difference." I looked at him. "The strike is the consequence of the principle. When you teach the principle first, the pupil can deduce variations of the strike on their own. When you only show the strike, the pupil only learns that strike."

Paul looked at me for a moment.

There was on his face that particular expression of a man receiving simultaneously a compliment and a criticism packaged inside the compliment, trying to determine which was larger and unable to separate the two.

"You are saying I was a poor teacher," he said at last.

"I am saying that today you were a good teacher," I said. "The implicit comparison is additional information."

Rudeus was looking at me with the expression of someone who had decided that moment deserved full attention and had stopped writing to devote both eyes to the scene.

Paul was quiet for a moment. Then, with the air of a man who had arrived at a conclusion and did not quite know how to express it, he said, "You are very strange for a four-year-old."

"Four years and three months," I corrected.

"That does not change what I said."

"It does not," I agreed.

From the chair near the wall, Roxy was watching us with that expression I had learnt to recognise: the particular mixture of academic fascination and something more personal that she rarely allowed to show in any declared form. She had watched the entire lesson with the attention of someone learning as much about the sword styles as about the two children before her.

Then she looked at me specifically, and there was in her eyes the question she had not yet asked aloud.

〈She is going to ask about the eyes eventually.〉

[Eventually is drawing closer.]

Rudeus closed his notebook with the satisfying sound of someone ending a productive session. "So," he said, in the tone of someone arriving at a conclusion following analysis, "the Sword God Style is for those who want to finish quickly, the Water God Style is for those who want to last, and the North God Style is for those who want to confuse."

"You are simplifying considerably," I said.

"It is a summary."

"It is a reduction."

"They are the same thing."

"They are not."

"Azra'il."

"Chubby-cheeks."

"Could you just agree with me once in your life."

"I could," I said. "But it would be imprecise, and I prioritise precision."

Rudeus looked at me with the expression of someone who had reached the end of the patience available for that afternoon. "You are impossible."

"I am consistent."

"They are the same thing," he said, in the deliberate tone of someone returning the phrase on purpose.

I looked at him.

He looked back at me with the corner of his mouth lifted.

[He has learnt to use your own logic against you. That is development.]

〈It is irritating.〉

[They are the same thing, in your case.]

Paul was watching us with the expression of a man who had given a lesson on combat styles and was ending the afternoon watching his two children argue about semantics. He looked at Roxy. Roxy looked at him. Both made the silent gesture of someone who has nothing to add and is perfectly comfortable with that.

"We continue tomorrow," said Paul, with the finality of someone closing a meeting. "I will show more strikes from each style."

"Will you explain the principle before showing the strike?" I asked.

Paul looked at me.

"Yes," he said, after a moment, in the tone of someone who had made a decision and did not intend to retreat from it.

And that was sufficient.

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