Weapon training turned out to be just as brutal as everything else in Jirou's curriculum.
We started with staves—simple wooden poles that left splinters in my palms and welts across my body.
Then short blades carved from dense wood, heavy enough to simulate real weapons.
Then combination training—switching between armed and unarmed combat as weapons were lost or acquired during the fight.
My empty-handed skills improved exponentially when the alternative was getting smacked with a wooden sword.
Pain is indeed an excellent teacher.
After three weeks of this new regimen, my body had transformed further.
The gangly teenager who'd stumbled into the Veilroot was gone.
In his place stood someone leaner, faster, more deliberate in every movement.
I still couldn't use essence, but I was beginning to understand what Jirou had meant about building proper foundations.
The morning began like any other—brutal conditioning followed by weapon drills against the training constructs.
I'd just finished disarming a particularly aggressive dummy when Jirou called for a halt.
"Enough," he said, a slight note of approval in his usually flat voice. "You've progressed adequately."
I lowered my staff, wiping sweat from my forehead.
"Just adequately?" I asked, unable to resist. "I just took on three armed dummies without getting hit once."
Jirou's expression remained impassive, but something like amusement flickered in his void-black eyes.
"Adequately," he repeated. "For now."
Coming from him, that was practically a standing ovation.
"Clean yourself," he instructed. "Then meet me at the central stone."
This was new.
Typically, we moved from one grueling exercise directly to the next.
I quickly washed the sweat and grime off at the small spring that fed the training ground's pond, then made my way to the central stone—a flat, table-like formation where Jirou sometimes demonstrated techniques.
He was waiting, seated cross-legged on the stone's surface.
Beside him sat a simple clay pot and two cups.
"Sit," he said, gesturing to the space across from him.
I complied, mirroring his cross-legged position.
He poured a steaming liquid from the pot into both cups.
The aroma was unfamiliar—something between herbs and wood smoke.
"Drink," he instructed, pushing one cup toward me.
I took it cautiously, remembering some of his previous "remedies."
"Is this another test?" I asked. "Or just regular tea?"
"It is Veilroot tea," Jirou replied. "Tradition dictates it is shared when a student reaches acceptable progress."
I sipped the liquid.
It tasted better than it smelled—earthy with an underlying sweetness that lingered on the tongue.
"Thank you," I said, genuinely appreciative of the rare moment of respite.
Jirou nodded slightly, sipping from his own cup.
We sat in silence for several minutes.
Not an uncomfortable silence, but a shared quietude that felt almost... companionable.
Finally, Jirou spoke.
"You have questions," he stated.
"About a million," I admitted.
"Ask three," he offered. "I may answer."
I carefully considered what to ask.
This was more openness than Jirou had shown since I'd arrived.
"How long have you been here? In the Veilroot, I mean."
Jirou's black eyes seemed to look through me, beyond me.
"Time moves differently here," he said. "But in your terms... centuries."
I nearly choked on my tea.
"Centuries? How is that possible?"
"That is your second question," Jirou noted. "The Veilroot exists partially outside normal time. Those bound to it age very slowly."
Bound to it.
An interesting choice of words.
"Have you trained others before me?" I asked, my third question.
Jirou's expression darkened slightly.
"Yes," he said after a pause. "Many, over the years."
He set down his cup, the ceramic making a soft click against the stone.
"Some used their training wisely. Others..." he trailed off, his gaze distant. "Others were used poorly."
"Used?" I echoed. "By whom?"
Jirou shook his head slightly.
"Your questions are exhausted," he reminded me.
I wanted to press further, but something in his demeanor suggested it would be unwise.
Instead, I finished my tea in silence.
As I set the empty cup down, Jirou spoke again.
"You are different from the others," he said unexpectedly.
"Different how?" I asked before I could stop myself.
Jirou stood in one fluid motion.
"Your essence signature is unusual," he said, not quite answering my question. "And your approach to training is... persistent."
I stood as well, unsure where this conversation was heading.
"Is that a good thing?" I asked.
"It is neither good nor bad," Jirou replied. "Merely different."
He gathered the cups and pot.
"Tomorrow we will begin—"
A flash of light interrupted him.
The air between us shimmered and distorted.
Then, a projection appeared—a figure composed of golden light, humanoid but indistinct in feature.
"Traitor," the figure spoke, its voice echoing strangely. "You betray us again."
Jirou's face remained impassive, but his body tensed.
"An illusion," he said calmly. "A remnant of old training cycles."
The figure turned toward me.
"He lies," it said. "He has always lied. Ask him what happened to the others."
I glanced at Jirou, confused.
"What is this?" I asked.
"A security measure," Jirou explained. "Designed to test a student's loyalty."
The figure laughed—a hollow, unsettling sound.
"Loyalty? You speak of loyalty? After what you did?"
The projection moved closer to Jirou.
"Your student should know the truth."
Before I could process what was happening, the figure lunged at Jirou.
Its form elongated, becoming spear-like.
Pure instinct took over.
I moved between them, the staff I'd been training with still in my hand.
I swung it through the projection.
The light-form distorted, rippling where the staff passed through it.
But then something unexpected happened.
Where my weapon contacted the projection, sparks erupted.
The figure recoiled, its form destabilizing.
"You defend him?" it asked, voice wavering. "You do not even know what he is."
"I know he's trained me fairly," I said, maintaining my defensive stance. "That's enough for now."
The figure's form pulsed erratically.
"Fool," it hissed. "Like all the others."
With that final proclamation, the projection collapsed in on itself.
A flash of golden light erupted, then darkness.
When my vision cleared, the figure was gone.
In its place, smoking markings scorched the stone floor—symbols similar to those I'd seen on the training posts.
Jirou stood motionless, his black eyes fixed on the burned markings.
"What was that?" I demanded.
"As I said," Jirou replied, his voice unnaturally even. "A remnant illusion. A test."
He moved to the markings and knelt beside them, running his fingers over the scorched stone.
"Did I pass?" I asked.
Jirou looked up at me, something unreadable in his expression.
"Yes," he said softly. "You chose to defend rather than question. That is... unexpected."
He stood, brushing ash from his fingers.
"Rest now," he said. "Tomorrow's training will be more demanding."
I watched him walk away, my mind racing with questions.
The projection hadn't seemed like a test.
The fear in its voice, the specificity of its accusations—it felt too real.
I glanced down at the scorched markings.
They were already fading, the stone seeming to absorb the char.
But I committed the pattern to memory before it disappeared completely.
That night, sleep proved elusive.
I kept replaying the strange encounter, searching for meaning in the projection's words.
Jirou had been training others for centuries, by his own admission.
What had happened to them?
Who had "used them poorly"?
Despite my questions, I found myself dwelling on something else—my own reaction.
I had defended Jirou without hesitation.
The man who had put me through months of brutal training.
Who had pushed me beyond what I thought possible.
Who rarely offered praise or comfort.
And yet, when threatened, my instinct had been to protect him.
Dawn found me still awake, watching the misty sky lighten above the training ground.
Jirou appeared as the first rays of sunlight breached the horizon.
He looked the same as always—calm, composed, unreadable.
"You did not sleep," he observed.
"Had a lot on my mind," I replied.
He nodded once, as if expecting this.
"Today's training will be different," he announced.
"Different how?" I asked warily.
"Today, I will be your opponent."
My stomach dropped.
I'd seen Jirou move—his speed and precision were inhuman.
"That seems... unfair," I managed.
"Combat is rarely fair," Jirou replied. "But I will restrain myself appropriately."
Small comfort.
He led me to the combat circle, taking position opposite me.
"Begin when ready," he said.
I studied him, trying to read his intent as he'd taught me.
His stance revealed nothing—balanced, neutral, ready for anything.
I approached cautiously, maintaining the proper defensive position.
When I was within striking distance, I launched a probing attack—a simple jab designed to test his response.
Jirou didn't block or evade.
He simply wasn't there when my fist arrived.
A soft tap on my shoulder informed me he had moved behind me.
"Dead," he said calmly.
I spun around, frustrated.
"How am I supposed to hit what I can't even see?"
"You rely too much on vision," Jirou said. "Feel the displacement of air. Sense the shift in presence."
Easy for him to say.
We reset, and I tried again.
This time, I didn't focus solely on his visible form, but tried to maintain awareness of the space around me.
When he moved, I caught the barest hint of his direction.
I turned, blocking a strike that would have connected with my ribs.
Jirou nodded approvingly.
"Better," he acknowledged. "Again."
For the next hour, we continued this dance.
Jirou attacking from different angles, at different speeds.
Me gradually improving at sensing his movements.
By the end of the session, I could defend against roughly one in four of his attacks.
Not great, but progress.
"Your awareness expands," Jirou noted as we paused for water. "Now we add complexity."
He retrieved two wooden swords from the weapon rack.
"Armed combat against a superior opponent requires different strategies," he explained, tossing one to me.
I caught it, already dreading what would come next.
This session proved even more humbling than the first.
Jirou disarmed me repeatedly, each time demonstrating a different technique or principle.
"You telegraph your attacks," he critiqued. "Your eyes reveal your intent."
Or: "Your grip is too rigid. A weapon is an extension, not a tool."
By midday, I was battered, exhausted, and sporting a collection of new bruises.
But I'd also learned more in one morning than in weeks of fighting the training constructs.
As we paused for a brief meal, I found the courage to broach yesterday's strange event.
"That projection," I began. "It seemed to know you."
Jirou continued eating his simple rice bowl, expression unchanged.
"Illusions often appear personal," he said. "It makes the test more effective."
"It mentioned others," I pressed. "What did that mean?"
Jirou set down his bowl.
"You ask many questions for someone who has exhausted their three," he observed.
I met his gaze steadily.
"After defending you, I think I've earned a few more."
Something like respect flickered in his void-black eyes.
"Fair," he conceded. "I told you I have trained many over the centuries. Not all training cycles ended well."
"What happened to them?" I asked.
Jirou was silent for a long moment.
"Some left the Veilroot and used their skills honorably," he finally said. "Others were... corrupted by outside forces. Used for purposes that brought suffering."
His voice grew harder.
"I eventually became more selective about who received training."
Jirou's expression closed off completely.
"An old conflict," he said dismissively. "Long resolved."
He stood abruptly.
"Enough questions. Return to the combat circle when you've finished eating."
I watched him walk away, more confused than before.
His answers had raised more questions than they'd answered.
But one thing was becoming clear—there was much more to Jirou and the Veilroot than a simple hidden training realm.
As I returned to the combat circle for the afternoon session, I found myself at a crossroads.
I could press for more answers, potentially damaging whatever trust had developed between us.
Or I could continue training, hoping the truth would reveal itself in time.
Looking at Jirou—the man who had pushed me, shaped me, made me stronger—I made my choice.
"I'm ready to continue," I said, taking my position.
Jirou nodded, a hint of approval in his gaze.
"Then we begin again," he said.
And for now, that was enough.