Late at night, Sylutia could finally lie quietly in bed, while Talier slept on the wooden floor of the same room. Because it was the warm Rising Wind Season, even autumn wasn’t cold—there was still a lingering touch of heat.

Today had been quite an eventful day. Sylutia couldn’t fall asleep right away; she closed her eyes and memories and images kept flashing through her mind.

What exactly was Aspect power? How vast was this world? How would she make a life for herself going forward, and where would her future lead? A tangle of thoughts and questions wound through her head.

She was tired in the end, and within half an hour she fell asleep; her breathing gradually evened out.

…

The night passed peacefully.

In the morning, clear bird calls under the eaves woke Sylutia. She rubbed her eyes; her snow-white hair stuck up a little and spread across her shoulders and neck. She shook her head and prepared to get up to use the chamber pot, but her feet hit the uneven hard-packed earth—and she realized something was off and suddenly opened her eyes wide.

“This place is…” Right, this wasn’t Earth anymore. Her chrysanthemum-blue eyes narrowed slightly, and her voice carried a trace of feeling.

Well, never mind; don’t dwell on it. What did she need to do today? She groped to her feet, put on the small leather shoes, and tied the laces.

The light-colored shoes paired with white socks accentuated the soft curves of her ankles and calves; even without further adornment there was an innate beauty. After straightening her dress and hair, Sylutia turned around the room a few times but couldn’t find a mirror or anything similar.

Maybe there were no mirrors here; she wondered how villagers normally groomed themselves. She was curious to see what she looked like now.

Talier wasn’t there—she had clearly slept in the same room last night. Had she already gotten up and gone out? Sylutia thought as she walked toward the closed wooden door.

She pushed the door open and stepped outside. The bright sunlight felt warm; some villagers were already up and moving about. Compared to the fierce battle last night, today felt particularly peaceful and calm.

The village square in the distance had already been swept clean; only faint traces remained from last night. Smoke rose from the chimneys of some houses—people were probably cooking. Sylutia hopped down the pebble path on the hillside with light steps.

Because of last night’s events, many in the village already knew there was a noble girl among them, but this would be the first time most people would see her face.

Out of curiosity and respect for her noble status, villagers mostly watched from a distance as she walked down the slope, until Sylutia returned to the square and the auntie who had brought her a pastry last night came forward.

“Miss Tia, you’re up. Would you like something to eat?” she called. It seemed she was preparing breakfast again.

“All right.” Sylutia nodded and accepted the roasted bread the woman handed her.

The bread was slightly larger than her hand and still warm. It tasted mildly sweet, somewhat coarse with bran—it was black bread, but of better quality than ordinary black bread.

“How is it? Are you used to the taste?” the woman asked.

“Mm, it’s very good.” Given the circumstances, this was probably decent food; Sylutia was easy to please.

“Good to hear, Miss Tia, hehe.” The auntie smiled with pride—her goods had been approved by the noble girl.

While they ate, they discussed the current situation.

“Talier probably went to help the injured; I’ll call her for you in a bit.”

…

“We were busy all night. Many folks are still sleeping and resting; we don’t have much to offer in the way of hospitality.”

…

“Captain Frien is resting in that stone tower at the village entrance; he’ll probably wake up around noon.”

…

“Old Ponde is still arranging the aftermath. How about I take you to the caravan? They should have lots of interesting things.”

Worried the noble girl might be bored, the auntie led her to an open area behind the village where the caravan had camped overnight, currently surrounded by a makeshift fence.

“Henry—”

The auntie waved and called a young man from a distance.

“What is it, aunt?” The straightforward young man came over. He was a head taller than Sylutia, solidly built, wearing a linen short shirt.

“You’ll accompany Miss Tia to the caravan, help carry things, and when those sly merchants try to cheat her, don’t let them get away with it.”

“Oh, I know, aunt.” He scratched the back of his head, stole a shy glance at the silver-haired girl, and looked down—clearly a little embarrassed.

“All right, you two go. Remember to bring Miss Tia back for lunch.”

“Got it.”

Henry walked ahead, guiding Sylutia toward the caravan. Along the way people occasionally greeted Henry, but most of their attention was fixed on the rare noble girl walking behind him—some were stunned by her looks and bearing.

Faced with such attention, Sylutia could only lower her head slightly to avoid overly intrusive gazes, her fingers occasionally brushing the hair at her brow to partially hide it.

If only she could buy a head-covering garment, like a rain cloak she remembered from her previous life.

She grew a little excited about the caravan.

After passing through most of the village, they reached the caravan camp. A few villagers were already trading and shopping.

“We’ve got two sacks of Whitewind Root—do you take those?”

“As long as the Whitewind Root isn’t rotten, we take it. Are you trading for this spearhead?” A caravan member held up an iron-made spearhead.

“This one. I’ll add a sack of Black Grit Wheat; that should be enough.”

“That’ll do. Go get your Whitewind Root.”

After they finished bargaining, the middle-aged villager left the caravan camp, presumably to fetch his goods from home.

Sylutia walked into the caravan camp and examined the displayed items: many were piled in sacks and wooden crates, with a few more valuable items kept inside tents—iron goods, honey, spices, fabrics, and everyday objects like candlesticks, needles and thread, bathcloths, and soap.

Wandering among the stacked goods, Sylutia’s eyes were curious and her gaze blinked. Bits of information surfaced in her mind.

[Purple Swede] (Quality: Common) — a common vegetable, long shelf life.

[Iron Spearhead] (Quality: Common) — made of pig iron, can be mounted on a wooden shaft.

…

[Coarse Salt] (Quality: Poor) — quite impure, poor taste.

…

After circling through, Sylutia couldn’t find the hooded coat she wanted, so she asked a caravan member.

“Do you sell coats that can cover the hair?” she asked, making a simple gesture with her hand.

“You mean hooded cloaks? Let me see.” He dug out a few, but their style and quality were frankly unimpressive.

[Linen Cloak] (Quality: Poor) — uneven sleeve lengths, crude stitching; probably an apprentice’s practice piece.

“This won’t do.” Henry, who’d been walking beside Sylutia for a while, finally spoke up and blocked the seller’s push.

Sylutia tilted her head slightly and looked through the gap at the cloaks over Henry’s shoulder. Most were poor quality and ugly—no wonder they were unsold.

She compared the hood sizes too; any of these would have to be pulled so tight they’d form a lump and feel extremely uncomfortable to wear.

“Don’t you have anything better?”

“No, sorry, miss. This is all we’ve got.” The seller looked helpless; they were short on stock lately.

Sylutia turned her gaze to the surrounding goods to see if there was a substitute.

“Do you have hats?”

“Hats? Only straw hats.”

They dug one out; it was flattened and full of burrs. Just as Sylutia reached to pick it up to see if it could work, a familiar voice sounded.

“Miss Tia, I’m Vanderhey, leader of this caravan.” A burly merchant wearing a felt hat approached, followed by two bodyguards.

“Hello.” Sylutia set down the hat and turned to nod in greeting.

The seller who had been trying to sell to her explained the situation to Vanderhey, who quickly understood and smiled, nodding to the girl.

“Miss Tia, you want clothing and a hat? These things aren’t suitable for someone of your status. Please come with me.” He gestured politely and invited her toward the inner side of the caravan, where a neat wooden wagon stood with small glass windows—it looked rather respectable.

He opened the carriage door and invited Sylutia to sit opposite him, had tea prepared, and then began talking with her.

“I have several decent garments reserved for wealthy city households, but I can transfer them to you. I’ll replenish from the city later; it just takes more effort.” He presented this offer generously.

“Thank you.” Sylutia nodded slightly; she knew there would be more after this—he wouldn’t have invited her in otherwise.

“…May I ask where you plan to go afterward? If it’s along the way, I can help.” He stroked his beard and continued when she stayed silent.

“I don’t know where my family is. Perhaps I should first go to a larger city to look for leads and options.” The girl twirled a lock of hair with her fingers as she answered.

“In that case, I suggest going to nearby Scorchstone City. It’s fairly prosperous—trades of all sorts. I’m headed there too.” Vanderhey intended to use this journey to cultivate a relationship with the noble girl. He believed she truly was nobility—such bearing, clothing, complexion; commoners could not fake that.

“Thank you for your kindness, but I don’t have money on me right now, so I’m afraid I can’t repay you at the moment.” Sylutia responded politely.

“That’s all right—think of it as making a friend, yes?” Vanderhey wanted this exact result. If she tried to pay him, he’d politely refuse; otherwise he’d have trouble building rapport.

“Thanks.” Some of her worry eased. If she could reach a larger city, she could probably find suitable work to earn money and pay him back later. As to long-term footing, that would depend on other opportunities.

A caravan member brought a wooden tray with brewed tea, set it on the small table inside the carriage, and then bowed and stepped back.

“Please have some. This is a small-batch Musky Mountain black tea I procured from the northern Aferra manor. It’s a rare quality around here.” He lifted the cup himself and sipped.

Sylutia lifted her cup as well, and a brief flutter of information appeared.

[Black Tea (Musky Mountain variety)] (Quality: Good) — summer-harvested, 82% fermentation, honey notes, rich and sweet aroma, slightly astringent, minor restorative effect (influenced by the Rising Wind Season’s ‘Blazing Sun’ Aspect).

Seeing the tea was fine, she took a small sip. The hot liquid slipped across her teeth, bringing a delicate sweetness.

She exhaled softly and set the cup down—quite hot.

Vanderhey didn’t mind the heat; he savored the tea with honey and smiled with his eyes half-closed.

Taking the opportunity, Sylutia and Vanderhey chatted about nearby villages and towns.

“Away from Lindenwood Village, there’s Bee Village about twenty kilometers out—good honey. Then farther away are Ironrock and Longropes villages.”

“The nearest town is Riverstone Town. From the road to Riverstone, go west thirty miles and you reach Scorchstone City—an uphill city once burned by a great fire; many stones are blackened, hence the name. It’s the fief of Viscount Xuefeng.”

“How many people live in Scorchstone City?” Sylutia asked again.

“About forty thousand, give or take—no exact count.” Vanderhey, as a merchant, knew because population size affected markets and demand.

Sylutia learned a lot of local details from him and gained a general picture of this world.

Her current home, the Reygas Duchy, had roughly three hundred thousand inhabitants and lay in the southern part of the continent. Several smaller duchies dotted the broken mountain plains, each with uneven strength.

From Vanderhey’s words she also pieced together information about Aspects.

This world had many extraordinary “Aspects,” a kind of conceptual magic. They could convert into one another by special means and could weaken or strengthen; when strengthened, the secret arts and techniques tied to that Aspect would gain matching power.

Ordinary people could usually focus on one Aspect to cultivate and gain its power. Because of species and origin, the “Blood Rhythm” Aspect was an implicit Aspect engraved in the bloodline of living things: so long as red blood flowed, even if one trained in another Aspect, one could still obtain some Blood Rhythm power—breathing techniques, for example.

That compatibility only worked at lower levels; if one’s acquired Blood Rhythm power grew too strong it would interfere with the cultivation of one’s primary Aspect.

Similarly, the “Beast Fang” Aspect was an implicit Aspect inherited by many beasts; “Dragon Gaze” belonged to dragon bloodlines; “Spiralfish” came from aquatic and amphibious bloodlines; “Mothworm” from insect bloodlines; and “Verdant Nectar” was the implicit Aspect held by all plants.

Humans were not barred from obtaining Aspects like Spiralfish or Dragon Gaze, but compared to innate creatures they needed more technique and resources to cultivate them.

Those who specialized in a particular Aspect formed the earliest schools, gathering to exchange and learn.

Nowadays, earthly kingdoms built their power around the “Castle” Aspect; wherever there were villages or towns, “Castle” Aspect formations were laid out, centered on pillars, towers, castles, and walls. These constructed foundations formed a ritual that enveloped villages and towns with a Castle-Aspected barrier, protecting residents from interference by other Aspects.

Wild beasts that obtained Aspect power felt suppression and discomfort when approaching towns, so they avoided such places—unless—

“Unless a high-ranking leader commands them; then they’d dare to storm a town.” A deep voice cut into their conversation, making both men look up.

“Captain Frien, you’ve returned.” Vanderhey stood to greet him. Frien stepped into the carriage from the sunlit side and sat down beside Vanderhey.

Frien didn’t respond to Vanderhey’s greeting; he gave Sylutia a slight nod. “Thank you for last night, Miss Tia.”

Because of Sylutia’s aid, many of the cavalry survived. He breathed a sigh of relief and gratitude and had come especially to find her.

“I only did what I could.” The girl answered humbly, though she did have a favor to ask the cavalry captain.

“I saw you use the Breathing Technique in battle last night, didn’t I?”

“That’s right. It’s one of my current abilities.” Aside from the Fate Card, every being had three Ability Card slots.

“I’d like to learn the Breathing Technique to protect myself. Could you teach me?” Sylutia asked seriously.

“It…isn’t difficult. I often teach soldiers and village militia. After all, it’s not rare; many know it.”

“But Miss Tia, are you sure you want to learn this? A rank 1–2 extraordinary has only three Ability Card slots. If you occupy one, it crowds out space for learning other techniques.”

“Once you gain the Breathing Technique, can you give it up?” Sylutia hesitated upon hearing that.

“You can, but it takes time and usually requires alchemical aids to ease the side effects and dissolve the skill.”

“I see. Then I have nothing to worry about.” Sylutia relaxed.

Frien didn’t object further, though he left unsaid that the remedies needed to dissolve Breathing Technique were often costly—but for a noble, that should be no great matter.

“I’ll be staying in the village to recover a while, to prevent that crimson wolf from returning. For the next week I’ll do my best to teach you.”

For the next several days, Sylutia stayed in Lindenwood Village, helping care for wounded cavalry—changing bandages and treating wounds—while learning the Breathing Technique under Frien’s guidance.

…

The next day.

On the open ground behind the village, several people stood under a tree listening to Frien explain how to train the Breathing Technique. Aside from Sylutia, a few young villagers were present; Henry and Talier were among them.

The recent battle had instilled a sense of crisis; everyone listened intently.

“Though the Breathing Technique that strengthens the body is simpler than some meditations for the spirit, only one out of ten will learn it. If you can’t master it, don’t be discouraged.” Before teaching, he cautioned them based on past experience—on average, one in twenty young people might master it.

“All right. Now follow the rhythm I just demonstrated: close your eyes and gradually adjust your breathing.”

…

Sylutia stood in the last row, where it was more comfortable and shadier, and began adjusting her breath—closing her eyes and seeking that rhythm and the strange cadence hidden deep in her heartbeat.

The clearing fell silent. Eight youngsters carefully felt their heartbeats and breathing, slowly following the steps, aligning breath and heartbeat. Some furrowed their brows the whole time, sensing no change; some detected tiny differences but couldn’t grasp them and kept repeating the attempt in vain; others couldn’t keep their breath steady and grew anxious.

Watching them, Frien shook his head inwardly—none seemed promising. If the talent were there, it would have shown earlier. He remembered the village chief had been an adventurer in his youth and knew the Breathing Technique; he must have tried to pass it on to the children over the years.

Baron Horlin’s lands contained eleven villages, each with about three hundred people. In each village maybe a dozen could manage the Breathing Technique; after removing the elderly and wanderers, only four or five remained in the village.

He recalled that in Lindenwood Village, those who knew Breathing Technique were two hunters, two security patrols, a butcher, and the old village chief—this was the result of decades of accumulation. If Talier’s generation produced two who could, then the tradition would continue.

As Frien drifted into his recollections, Sylutia’s consciousness sank into a peculiar state. The wind and birdsong faded away; only the sound of her heartbeat grew clearer.

A hazy sensation arose. Although she couldn’t see her heart, an invisible swelling-and-contracting feeling surfaced and followed that fluttering vague shape. Slowly her breaths lengthened and her heartbeat slowed.

Each beat became regular and began to align with her breathing rhythm. Faint, hidden blood-red threads appeared in her mind—on them, a feeble blood-red Aspect seemed to ride, coursing with the blood and continuously cycling.

Little by little, those threads spread and extended into unknown distances, winding and entwining, flowing silently within until they completed a loop and returned to their origin.

(Breathing Technique progress +12)

…

When Sylutia opened her eyes again, the clearing was empty save for Frien sitting under the tree. Seeing her eyes open, he stood and walked over.

“I dismissed the others so they wouldn’t disturb you.” He looked at her with a mixture of delight and surprise.

“Have you studied the Breathing Technique before? I’ve never seen anyone pick it up so quickly.” In his memory, completing the first breathing cycle in three days marked a rare talent; he only knew of one such person in all his years.

But this girl had completed the first breathing cycle in just half an hour, and the process had been unusually steady without interruption.

“I don’t know—childhood memories are fuzzy—but I truly don’t remember learning it.” Hearing him made her suspect she might have been taught before.

“Anyway, keep practicing these next few days and you’ll master the first stage of the Breathing Technique.” Frien encouraged her.

“There are a few precautions: the first stage places great stress on the body. At the start, the continuous active time must not exceed ten seconds. After use you should rest immediately. The total daily usage must not exceed one minute.”

“That short?” Sylutia was astonished.

“Heh, of course. Do you think this is trivial? It’s a decisive tool—use it for a few seconds at the right moment and you can determine life or death.”

“Here, take this wooden sword.” He handed her a wooden blade and pointed to himself. “Try to strike at me.”

Sylutia gripped the wooden sword and attempted an attack. As she moved forward, Frien flashed aside at a speed she couldn’t match. His palm sliced like a blade toward her neck, stopping two centimeters away and ruffling a few strands of hair.

“See? Just three percent faster and I could have taken your life. What did it cost? Two seconds of Breathing Technique. Do you still think it’s weak or insufficient?” Frien grinned.

Only then did Sylutia truly grasp how powerful and practical Aspect powers were. Even regular Aspect abilities could lift an individual far beyond normal people, enabling a one-against-ten capability. Attaining such power as a first-tier extraordinary being was still a long way off.

That crimson giant wolf had been far more terrifying than she had imagined; even Captain Frien had to rely on the village’s Castle formation to strain against it.

[Breathing Technique Lv.0] (Blood Rhythm): Ability not yet formed. Current progress (12/100)

Seeing the information rise in her mind, Sylutia felt renewed expectation and drive, curious what she would become after fully mastering the Breathing Technique.

“Hahaha—are you excited? I’ve got several sword and spear techniques too. I’ll teach you all of them while I’m here.”

“Just knowing the Breathing Technique isn’t enough; you must pair it with suitable techniques and, above all, the courage and will to fight. You’ll understand later—only by combining all these can you truly walk the path of Aspect power.” His voice grew reflective, memories stirring beneath his words.

“I understand. Thank you, teacher.” Sylutia bowed respectfully.

—

Aspect [Blood Rhythm]: The rhythm of blood and life—the first sound and surge of existence. The start of all flesh-and-blood life, and proof of survival.

Source: Webnovel.com, updated by NovelKeep