The hours Jack spent guarding the elf passed quietly, like stones dropped into a still pond that left barely a ripple. He remained seated beside Celia, his legs folded beneath him in a cross-legged position, his back straight though not rigid. The ground beneath him was soft and damp, blanketed in patches of moss and fallen leaves. His spear rested across his knees, fingers loosely curled around its shaft, more for comfort than readiness. He didn’t speak, nor did she. The silence stretched between them, unbroken and undisturbed.

  Celia had barely moved the entire time. She sat just a few feet away, her posture relaxed but distant, as though her spirit lingered somewhere far beyond the reach of the clearing they occupied. Her eyes were unfocused, fixed on something only she could see, her thoughts a mystery behind that faraway gaze.

  Jack didn’t ask her what she was thinking. He doubted she’d have answered even if he had. And though the silence might’ve felt tense to others, it didn’t bother him. In fact, it was comforting in its own way. There were no threats, no sudden movements, no demands. Just the quiet, the calm, and the slow, methodical rhythm of breathing.

  Time passed slowly, but not unpleasantly. He sat still for what felt like hours, the forest canopy overhead shifting gradually as the day faded into twilight. Sunlight disappeared in stages, filtered through the thick latticework of branches and leaves, until it gave way to dusk. Then came the night, cool and dark, save for the starlight peeking through narrow gaps in the treetops. The stars shifted in slow procession above, quiet companions to his vigil. The moon cast long slivers of silver light across the clearing, fracturing against the contours of Jack’s face. Those thin beams flickered like restless spirits across his cheekbones and jawline, but aside from that soft illumination and the gentle lift of his chest as he breathed, nothing moved in the space around them. It struck him as odd that an entirely different world had a single sun and moon and wondered if there was any significance to that.

  Eventually, a sound stirred at the edge of the woods—a subtle rustle, light but deliberate. Jack’s ears pricked, though his body remained still. It wasn’t a predator or a threat; he could tell by the rhythm of the steps, the confident but unhurried pace. Moments later, Cael stepped into the clearing, emerging from the underbrush with his usual careless grace. The goblin had a small dagger at his hip, but his weapon-hand wasn’t tense. In his other hand, he clutched half a piece of fruit, already halfway eaten, juice glistening on his chin.

  He gave Jack a brief, knowing nod as he chewed, then settled down onto the moss-covered earth with a quiet grunt. The goblin didn’t seem overly concerned about interrupting the silence. He flicked his thumb in the direction of the elf.

  “I’ve got her,” Cael said simply, voice low but relaxed. “Go get some rest.”

  Jack gave a nod in response and slowly rose to his feet, stretching both arms overhead until his spine gave a soft pop. He rolled his shoulders, loosening muscles that had stiffened during the long watch. “She hasn’t moved much,” he said, gesturing toward Celia.

  “Probably sulking,” Cael muttered with a smirk as he settled in to begin his watch. “Go sleep. You look like a half-drowned squirrel.”

  Jack’s lips twitched with the ghost of a chuckle. He didn’t argue. He turned and made his way to the edge of camp, following a familiar path past knotted roots and hanging vines. His usual sleeping spot was tucked near the base of an old, wide tree whose bark twisted in thick cords. It wasn’t far from where the others slept, but it gave him a sense of separation, a small measure of privacy in the wilderness.

  Goldeyes, his faithful Companion, was already curled up near the base of the tree. The creature’s body was coiled into a loose circle, his tail draped casually across his snout. At Jack’s approach, Goldeyes stirred slightly—his ears twitching—but he didn’t wake fully. Jack sank down beside him, his body aching as the weariness he’d been holding off all evening finally hit him. His limbs felt heavy, like they were carved from stone. Without another thought, he lay back on the mossy earth, closed his eyes, and let sleep take him.

  ?

  Morning came softly. Light filtered through the trees above in delicate rays, golden and pale. The first sounds Jack registered were the songs of birds—their melodies clear and echoing in the misty hush of dawn. The air was still cool, the forest floor damp from morning dew. Mist hung in the air like a veil, weaving through branches and swirling low across the ground. Jack stirred slowly, blinking against the dappled sunlight. He stretched, joints popping, then sat up and dressed, moving quietly so as not to disturb Goldeyes, who continued his nap unbothered.

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  He reached for his spear and secured it across his back. There was still time before he needed to retrieve the materials he had buried earlier. Time he didn’t want to waste. He knew exactly how he would spend it.

  Training.

  He walked with purpose, weaving through trees and across a narrow trickle of water until he found the place he was looking for. It was a small rise—a gentle hill of short grass, framed by tall pine trees whose trunks stood like silent sentinels. The spot was wide and open, but secluded, shielded from wind and noise. There were no signs of recent animals, no birds overhead. Just stillness. Just him, the trees, and the weapon in his hand.

  He stepped into the center of the rise, letting the quiet sink into his skin. He closed his eyes for a moment and breathed in deeply through his nose, letting the scent of pine needles, moss, and damp earth ground him.

  Then, he began to move.

  Sun Wukong had taught him that all combat began with foundation. Not slashes or strikes, but how one stood. Forms and stances. Body control. Jack had been skeptical at first—how much could standing really matter? But he’d learned quickly that Wukong wasn’t just a showman. Every stance had purpose, every position an intention.

  He started with what he now thought of as the Still Branch. Feet shoulder-width apart, knees slightly bent, spear angled forward just enough to threaten but not provoke. It was the stance of readiness—waiting, patient, but full of potential. Wukong had described it as a branch that held its tension invisibly, capable of snapping back the moment it was disturbed. This was the stance to use against an unknown opponent. Once you had your foes measure it was easy to shift from this stance to any of the others.

  Jack held it, quiet, feeling the strain in his thighs and calves, letting his muscles learn to balance strength and restraint.

  Then, he shifted.

  His body lowered, spear drawn back and tucked behind him, out of sight. His torso twisted slightly, weight resting on his back leg. This was Coiled Vine—a stance of hidden power, storing energy like a spring. The Monkey King had said vines were underestimated, that they didn’t snap or roar—but they killed kings in their sleep. Jack had taken that to heart.

  He moved again, feet gliding across the grass as his spear circled loosely in his hands. His steps became light, unpredictable. He danced from side to side, weaving with deceptive rhythm. This was the Laughing Wind—a fluid, elusive stance meant to dodge attacks and redirect aggression, to make your enemy swing where you had just been, while at the same time giving opportunities to strike back.

  Next, Jack sank down and reversed his grip, pressing the shaft of the spear against his back, the point angled downward like a tree bracing against a storm. His weight settled into the earth. This was Sunken Root—a stance for holding ground when there was nowhere left to go. Defensive, stubborn, immovable.

  Finally, he stood tall, spear raised overhead, posture proud and aggressive. His steps became deliberate, each one carrying intent. This was Rising Flame, a stance of challenge, meant to press forward relentlessly. Wukong had warned him: “Burn too hot, and you’ll have nothing left to defend.” But it had its place, and Jack respected it.

  He began to move through the forms—techniques meant to pair with the stances. He returned to Laughing Wind before making a quick spin, the tail of his spear whistling through the air in a wide arc. That was Whistling Tail, designed to create space, disrupt opponents, and reclaim ground.

  He followed with Monkey’s Leap, a sudden burst forward with the spear thrusting mid-air, an attack meant to surprise and break momentum.

  From there, he twisted his hips and brought the spear up in a tight corkscrew—Spiraling Climb, meant to thread past defenses and stagger taller opponents.

  Then came Iron Rain, a barrage of overhead strikes one after another, delivered with sharp precision. Best used from above or when overwhelming an enemy was the goal.

  Next was Feather Twist, where the spear spun tight and fast around him, deflecting imagined arrows and phantom blades. It was a defensive form that demanded finesse over power, and Jack focused on the movement until it felt like the air itself bent around him.

  He ended with a firm, deliberate thrust—Heaven’s Rebuke. It wasn’t just a strike, Wukong had told him. It was a declaration. The form cut through falsehood, silenced pretense. It wasn’t always about defeating an enemy. Sometimes, it was about stating the truth.

  Jack moved through the forms again, slower, more mindful. Sweat began to bead along his forehead, trailing down his temple. His breath came faster, but his movements stayed sharp. Each step was purposeful. Each transition flowed into the next. He wasn’t fighting. Not really. He was refining. This was discipline, not battle. Control, not violence.

  When he finally stopped, he was soaked in sweat and breathing hard, but his focus was sharper than it had been in days. The forms were settling into his muscle memory. Soon, he wouldn’t have to think. His body would know.

  And then, it was time.

  With his physical forms complete, Jack turned his thoughts to the arcane. He’d been practicing with Aetherspire—channeling spells into combat. But the goal wasn’t just to cast magic. It was to make it seamless. Intuitive. A natural extension of blade and breath.

  He wasn’t sure if it would help him achieve his goal but he did have a new spell to test. One he hadn’t used yet.

  Shadow Box.

  A grin tugged at the corner of his mouth as he stepped into the center of the rise again.

  Time to see what this one could do.