The five‑member group beneath the Elm Tree quickly split into two teams. Freddy took Turner to practice flanking assaults, while Oliver and Lydia coordinated with Robin and Ivy for high‑low pincer attacks. Edwin crouched far away, training Rust’s stealthy advance through the tall grass.
Cecil walked with Gwendolyn toward another ancient oak at the edge of the training grounds. They stood face‑to‑face, roughly five paces apart.
"Those two bursts of cold you unleashed in front of Flint just now had far too long an interval." Gwendolyn squatted on the ground and tilted her head up at him. "The second blast was nearly half a second slower than the first. If she had been armed, that half‑second would have been more than enough for her to slice half your arm off."
Cecil stared down at his right hand. "How do I shorten the gap?"
"Unleash them consecutively. No pauses in‑between." Gwendolyn’s tail swept across the ground. "Try it. Strike the base of the trunk with your first blast, then hit a spot one foot above the ground with your second. Do not stop at all."
Cecil drew a deep breath. He stirred the icy current within his chest — the channel for Frost Resonance · Novice Rank flowed far more smoothly than it had the previous night, like a newly dug trench being carved deeper and deeper by running water. Cold gathered along his right arm and pooled at his fingertips. He raised his hand and released the power.
A cloud of white mist burst from his palm, striking the oak’s root. A thin layer of frost instantly crystallized across the bark.
He did not pause. He recalled the residual chill, reconcentrated it, and unleashed it once more. A second cloud of mist surged right behind the first, slightly smaller in size. It struck roughly one foot above the first blast, laying fresh white marks over the existing frost.
"...How much of a delay was there?" Cecil asked.
"A split‑second," Gwendolyn replied. "But you should feel it yourself. The second burst was weaker than the first."
Cecil lowered his right hand and gazed at his fingertips. Sure enough, his fingers turned far whiter after the second release, and they warmed back up much slower. He shook his hand, waiting for circulation to return.
"That’s because the source cold had not fully re‑gathered when you fired the second blast." Gwendolyn stood and stepped up to the trunk. She extended her forepaw and touched the boundary between the two frost layers. "Look closely here — the edges of the first frost layer are already melting. When the second layer settled on top, a thin gap formed between them. That means the cold failed to cover that spot. Against a living, moving foe, that gap would become their escape opening."
Cecil crouched down for a close inspection. True enough, a pale slit barely thicker than a strand of hair separated the two frost coatings, easy to miss if you were not paying attention. In combat, an enemy needed no large opening; a gap just wide enough to shift one foot would suffice.
"How do I fix this?"
"The solution lies not in your hands, but in your chest." Gwendolyn tapped his chest with her tail. "Your source — that reservoir of cold — recoils too fast between discharges. It snaps back into your chest like a stretched‑and‑released slingshot. After your first release, you must hold it in a half‑drawn state. Do not let it retract all the way."
Cecil closed his eyes and sensed the cold current flowing inside his body. Just as Gwendolyn had said, it recoiled swiftly back to his chest after each release, like a receding tide. After firing the first burst, he tried to mentally "lock" the tail‑end of that icy current, preventing it from fully retreating into his ribcage.
A faint stabbing pain pricked his chest, as though something had pinched him gently from the inside.
"You felt that?" Gwendolyn asked.
"...It hurts a little."
"That is normal. Muscles you have never trained before are protesting. Endure it." Her tone carried zero sympathy. "Again. First blast at the base, second at one foot height, third at two feet."
"Three consecutive blasts?"
"Your goal for today is five. Start with three for now."
Cecil summoned the frost power once more. He unleashed the first blast, and the instant the cold left his fingertips, he mentally anchored the current so it could not fully retract. The stinging sensation intensified slightly, yet the icy stream no longer retreated all the way to his chest. It halted midway along his right arm, like a half‑opened floodgate. He pushed the remaining cold toward his fingertips, and the second cloud of mist raced right after the first, hitting the trunk at one‑foot elevation with far more balanced force than his earlier attempt.
He kept going. Third blast. He drove the cold further forward from the midpoint of his arm. Before releasing it, he could tell his fingertip reserves were noticeably lower than for the second shot, yet the white mist still shot forth. It struck the trunk two feet above ground. Though dimmer than the prior two bursts, the stream never broke.
Three frost marks lined the trunk in an even column, with near‑identical spacing between each one. That troublesome gap had vanished entirely. The edges of the three frost layers connected, forming a faintly shimmering white stone staircase.
Cecil pulled his hand back and shook it. His fingers remained pale but warmed quickly. The stinging ache even faded after the third discharge — those "untrained muscles" were starting to adapt to the rhythm.
Gwendolyn circled the oak trunk, examining the distribution of the three frost marks, then returned and squatted before him. Her tail flicked upward briefly, then dropped.
"...You can pull off three consecutive blasts now. Energy decay still exists; the third shot is roughly a quarter weaker than the first, but it is combat‑usable." She paused. "How do you feel?"
Cecil rotated his right shoulder and wrist. The icy current lingered in his chest, more active than before practice, like a stirred‑up stream searching for new channels.
"I feel —" He searched for words. "More open than before training. Like... someone blew open a formerly narrow pipe and widened it."
"You did broaden your frost channel just now." A hint of barely perceptible satisfaction crept into Gwendolyn’s voice. "Once you master three‑burst chains, you will no longer need to build power from scratch mid‑fight. Keep the channel half‑open, and your second and third blasts will fire faster than your first."
Cecil nodded. He tested himself against the trunk several more times. The triple‑blast sequence grew less clumsy and far smoother. The white mist shooting from his fingertips became tighter and more concentrated, no longer scattered as it had been at the start. Silver runes flickered quietly deep within his consciousness; no new system prompt popped up, yet he could sense a progress bar behind Frost Resonance · Novice Rank slowly creeping forward.
Freddy’s voice drifted across most of the training ground from far away: "Cecil! You’re about to freeze that tree to death over there!"
Cecil glanced sideways. Freddy stood in the center of the field, waving toward him. Turner perched on his shoulder, tiny claws gripping his collar. Lydia and Oliver had also halted their drills and were looking his way.
Cecil turned back toward the ancient oak. From its roots up to chest height, the bark was covered in jagged frost patches, some nearly an inch thick. The oak itself showed no sign of harm. Its thick aged bark shrugged off this level of cold with ease.
Gwendolyn crouched beside his feet, her tail sweeping lazily across the grass blades. "You could train for three more months before you actually kill this tree."
Cecil let out a short, self‑deprecating laugh. "Enough. I have hit my limit for today. Any more practice and my right hand will swell up again."
Gwendolyn offered no argument. She leaped onto his shoulder, her tail coiling firmly around his collar. Cecil walked toward the center of the training grounds. As he passed the frost‑covered oak, he stole one last glance. Morning sunlight glinted across the frosted bark, scattering countless tiny sparkles, as if thin shards of glass had been embedded into its surface.
He rejoined his friends. Freddy handed him a dry towel for his hands, and Lydia passed over a waterskin. Cecil took a sip. His right fingertips still tingled with faint cold, yet the pain was gone.
"Are you going to meet her this afternoon?" Freddy asked.
"Yeah."
"What exactly are you planning to say?"
Cecil slung the towel over his shoulder and handed the waterskin back. "I will listen first. I still don’t know exactly how much she already knows."