Arcane Exfil Chapter 53: Force Multiplication

The fried chicken from last night had turned out pretty damn good, considering they were working with so bird that seed more like a cousin of chicken and oil that ca from so odd vegetable. Lisara had nailed the breading though – doubled up on the flour coat, got that crunch just right. And that gravy – oh, boy. Miles had thirds and didn’t feel bad about it.

Now it was pushing nine in the morning, and Miles had the whole day to himself. Cole had given them free rein after yesterday’s telekinesis session, which was fine by him. It wasn’t like they needed to move as a unit every waking hour.

Miles headed down to the common room, thoughts from yesterday flooding his mind. About Mack. The man still had trouble sleeping, and Miles knew why – probably kept replaying that port mission over and over. That dead kid in the warehouse.

Hell, if they’d cleared the boat quicker, maybe they coulda gotten there sooner. Maybe they coulda secured the kid. Wasn’t his fault, wasn’t anyone’s fault really, but that didn’t stop the thought from gnawing at Miles.

Felt like a damn failure.

After all, his team was the mission now. He ain’t got family waiting back ho, no real reason to push himself except for the guys beside him. And that translated to Celdorne. So yeah, watching Mack break yesterday, knowing they coulda been faster if only they’d been better with magic… that was on him.

He found Cole already in the living room, coffee in hand, reading through so manual Verna had lent him.

“We’re headin’ over to OTAC,” Miles said, shrugging into his coat. “Reckon I’ll ss with physical enhancent. Gonna see if soone’ll show us how to hit harder without breakin’ our own damn bones.”

Cole took a sip of his coffee. “Uh huh. Just don’t blow out your knees or sothing.”

Miles grinned. “Ain’t my first rodeo. Sure you don’t wanna join?”

“Not today. I wanna uh… get done with this reading.” Cole wiggled his book slightly.

Sounded like bullshit, but the man had his reasons.

The ride to OTAC sat heavy and quiet. Ethan had the wheel, steady as ever, like he was scared of wearing the road down. Mack sat shotgun, eyes locked on the horizon, staring so hard that he might have been watching sothing out there. Nothin’ but dirt and sky, yet still he looked like it ant sothing.

And Elina, nose buried in one of Mack’s notebooks. It wasn’t a real book, not by a long shot, but it held every ounce of knowledge Mack had dragged into this world. And Elina was treating it for what it was – damn near scripture.

Nobody said much. Mack hadn’t said more than ten words since breakfast, and that was counting ‘pass the salt.’

When they finally got to OTAC, everybody peeled off. Elina went straight for dical, which tracked, but Mack fell in step behind her, and that was the part that didn’t sit right at first. Miles woulda guessed that he’d make a beeline for the library – lock himself up with books till he wore himself out.

But then again, she’d been flipping through his notes the whole damn ride over, and maybe this was her way of throwing him a rope – turning all that scribbled-down knowledge into sothing he could actually cast. And maybe it wasn’t just about utility. Maybe she figured keeping his hands busy with magic was better than letting him sit in the wreckage of yesterday, playing it over and over.

Either way, it was about damn ti their dic learned so healing magic.

That left Miles with his own piece to handle. He made his way to Verna’s office, which was about as fucked as yesterday. Morning had already buried her in ink and paper.

“Mornin’, Lady Verna.”

She looked up, setting down her quill. “Good morning, Mister Garrett. To what do I owe the pleasure?”

“Figured I’d ask about trainin’ – that physical enhancent deal. Basics I can handle, but I reckon there’s more. Was hopin’ you might point toward whoever teaches the advanced end of it.”

Verna leaned back. “Physical enhancent, hm? That would be the domain of Master Sergeant Handro Korvain. Though long retired, he has a habit of haunting our fields, drilling poor lads until they curse his na. If there’s a man to teach a hero, it is he.”

“Handro Korvain, huh? Sounds like my kinda misery. Where can I find ‘im?”

“Our primary gymnasium,” Verna answered. “His morning drills conclude about this hour. If it is truly misery that you seek, the old man will oblige you in full.”

Miles nodded. “‘Preciate it.”

Finding the main gym was easy enough – it was that newer building with all the windows they’d passed on Warren’s tour. Getting to Korvain though… well, that was another thing. Verna hadn’t bothered ntioning what the man looked like, and Miles, in all his wisdom, hadn’t thought to ask. Shoulda known better, but whatever. He’d done more with less.

The inside was bigger than he’d figured it would be from looking at it outside. The ground floor had all the weight equipnt spread out, and up above was where they did the combat training. Miles could hear boots hitting mats up there, sobody calling out counts over all the noise.

He went up the stairs and found three rooms all going at once. First room had about a dozen soldiers working through sword forms, all of them moving together like they’d been doing it for years. Second room was nothing but mats and soldiers grappling, instructor walking around making corrections.

Now the third room, though, that was what he was looking for. Old-tir had a couple dozen soldiers lined up, throwing hands like they were doing kung fu.

Miles hung back by the door, letting them finish stretching and bowing and whatever else. When dismissal ca, the students filed past him, a few even tossing so nods his way. Turned out being a ‘Hero’ actually counted for sothing with the regulars.

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Miles walked in, and right off the bat, he knew he’d found his guy. The man stood there, knuckles all red like he’d been using the wall as a sparring partner – literally, judging by the dented hunk of tal behind him.

“Master Sergeant Korvain?”

The man looked over and took about two seconds to size him up. “One of the heroes, are you lad?”

“Yessir. Miles Garrett.” He shook the old-tir’s hand. “Word is you’re the poor bastard drillin’ folks ‘til they curse your na. You teachin’ the advanced stuff?”

Korvain chuckled. “Aye, I’m your man. Trust Lady Verna to be generous – though most oft with other folks’ hours rather than her own.” He said it without heat, maybe even with sothing like fondness.

He continued, “Near on ten years I spent, knocking sense into lads who thought themselves ready for war. Most weren’t – truth be told, most never could be.”

Miles saw through the veil. It seed like trauma’s as common here as it was back ho.

Korvain didn’t dwell. “But co then… let us see how you fare.” He brought him downstairs, stopping at a bench and giving it a pat. “Up you get, then. Let’s see what manner of ttle I’ve to shape here.”

Miles stretched, then settled onto the bench.

“Standard press first,” Korvain said, loading plates. “No enhancent. I would know your natural foundation.”

Miles knocked out reps, going up to 305 pounds before his muscles started complaining – about what he’d expected.

“A solid foundation,” Korvain noted. “Now then, with enhancent.”

Miles let the mana flow through his muscles, that warm flood he’d gotten real comfortable with these past few weeks. He worked up to eight hundred before he had to call it quits.

“Eight hundred with standard enhancent? A fair showing, lad. Respectable, aye – though I’d manage as much on a third the expenditure, and still keep breath enough for a song after.”

The old man gripped the bar, and Miles barely felt the mana shift – like a whisper instead of the flood he used. Korvain pressed the eight hundred pounds smooth as butter. Ten reps, no shake. Then, he swapped out the plates until he hit a whole damn ton, still jamming out the reps with no sweat.

“How the hell?”

“Most never learn there’s thod beyond re saturation.” Korvain stood, brushing off his hands. He chuckled, shaking his head. “They’ll flood their veins with mana as though strength were naught but a barrel to be filled. More, they think, must an stronger. Co.”

They spent the next half hour establishing baselines. Not just the bench; that was only the start. Korvain had him work through everything, thodical as hell.

Squats first. Miles hit a good four-oh-five without enhancent, which wasn’t all too bad, especially considering he’d been focusing more on magic than legs lately. With standard enhancent, he pushed eleven hundred before his form started breaking down.

Then he went on to deadlifts, overhead presses, rows, pull-ups with a solid two hundred pounds hanging off him, and finally a sprint.

“Form’s crisp as a parade ground. Aye… the whispers weren’t wrong. Soldier’s work through and through. Makes my job a sight easier, mind you – strength at the root, magic in hand, and not a wasted motion to correct. I could get used to a pupil like this.”

Miles shrugged. “Long as you’re not gonna make thread needles with my mind like Lady Verna did.”

Korvain barked a laugh. “Ha! Nay, I’ll leave the needlework to her ladyship. My lessons bite less and bore less, I assure you. Think of it not as schoolin’, but as polish. Even the finest blade takes a keener edge with a bit of grinding.”

Fair enough. Miles had worked with enough specialists to know when to shut his trap and pay attention.

Korvain beckoned him over to the bench press again. “First, you must understand: enhancent need not burn without cease. The muscle calls for reinforcent only at the height of strain. Think of your press. When does the bar fight you hardest? Not at the start, nor the finish, but in that breath where it near pins you. That is the instant to draw on the power – no sooner, no later.”

Miles laid back, gripping the bar. He knew right where the bar always got ugly – about six inches off his chest, where the leverage went to shit. He unracked smooth, brought it down steady, then kicked the enhancent right at that dead zone. The bar shot past clean; no grind, no stall.

“Hot damn.” He racked it, sitting up. “That… hell, that cuts the burn by half, easy. Maybe more.”

Korvain gave a slow nod. “Aye. That’s the way of it. Less wasted force, less wasted mana. You’ll last longer for it.” His hand ca down heavy on Miles’s shoulder before steering him toward the bags.

He set his stance before the bag, rolling his shoulders. “It is much the sa with striking,” he went on. “Watch close. You keep a touch of reinforcent in the arm as it drives, just enough to bear the speed. But the true application of mana cos only at the instant of contact, when the bone would elsewise give – a pulse. That way you strike hard as you please, and yet spend but a fraction of what you would, holding the power all the while.”

He threw two punches to demonstrate. First one was clean; bag swung back a couple feet. Second looked the sa going in – sa windup, sa hit – but when it landed the bag just folded, chain groaning as it went sideways.

“Go on, then.”

Miles stepped up to the bag. He’d thrown a thousand punches; he knew the drill. Power started in the floor, drove up through hips and core, out the shoulder, down the arm. Add mana to that chain…

He threw a jab, trying to pulse the enhancent right at impact. First attempt was pretty darn close, but he lit up too early, wasting mana on the wind-up.

Miles threw another, this ti waiting until he felt his shoulder engage before pulsing. Better. The enhancent caught the kinetic chain as it peaked.

“Now then.” Korvain handed him a pair of ten-pound weights. “More mass slows your start, aye; takes longer to bring about. But once it’s moving, it lands all the heavier for it. That’s the trade: quickness for weight.”

Miles felt the weights drag at him, made him stretch the pulse longer, push ‘til the mass finally moved. But once it started rolling, hell, the montum carried most of it. All the enhancent had to do was steer it ho.

Korvain didn’t let up. Crosses rolled into hooks, hooks into uppers, each punch demanding a different spark – twist of the hips here, a curve through the arc there, a sharp kick off the legs to finish. By the ti Miles caught the rhythm, his shoulders were on fire. And Korvain still wasn’t done. He went back to the weights. Deadlifts, squats, rows – all the sa damn principle: hold the pulse ‘til the strain peaked, then drive it through.

The old man patted him on the back as he finished with the final row. “You’ve the knack quick enough. Most lads fumble at it for weeks before the timing takes hold.”

“Ain’t exactly reinventin’ the wheel here,” Miles said, wiping the sweat from his brow. “Just addin’ mana to what I already know about movin’ weight. Sa ti tomorrow?”

Korvain grinned. “If you can walk tomorrow, lad. That pulse trick leaves its own ache; you’ll feel it keen co morning, I’ll wager.”

Miles clasped the man’s hand again. “Lookin’ forward to it.”

It didn’t even take ‘til next morning. He barely made it out the front door before the ache set in, deep and an across his legs. Korvain hadn’t been talking shit – the old bastard was dead-on. At this rate, he’d be wobbling like his granddaddy co tomorrow.

Hurt like hell, sure. But hurt ant it was sticking, ant he was building what he’d need when shit went loud.

He blew out a breath, rolled his shoulders, and turned toward the labs. Training was done. Now it was ti to see Kathyra about those radios.