Plop, plop!
A fat catfish flopped onto the riverbank, wriggling frantically after being hauled in by the old man. He tossed the catch into a bucket and turned his gaze toward Seven.
Seven was busy wringing the water from his clothes, blood still trickling down the bridge of his nose.
"That stings…"
He wiped it away with his sleeve.
"Young lad, what brings you to this river at this hour? To think you'd jump such a high cliff for a casual swim, that is quite the hobby, though you don't know how to—"
"Ah. Whatever you are about to say, that's not it, old— I mean, mister."
Seven interrupted the old man before any of his nonsensical assumptions could take flight.
"It's… a long story."
"I see. That's fine by me. It is not my place to pry."
The old man chuckled and turned back to the river.
"..."
"..."
Silence followed thereafter.
The only sounds were the soft trickle of the river, the occasional splash of a struggling fish, and the rhythmic dripping of water from Seven's polo.
Clearing his throat, Seven turned to leave, his body still tense and shivering from the gelid water.
"I'll take my leave now, mister. I hope you catch that 'flying shark' or the kilbis you were talking about."
He remembered the conversation the old man had with Iria, highlighting his obsession with that particular fish for over a decade.
The old man asked without looking back.
"So soon?"
"Yes."
"Oh-ooh. But before you go, perhaps you'd like to learn the art of fishing? For a man ought to know how to feed himself… and his lady, too."
"I appreciate the offer, but I must refuse."
"A pity."
The old man cast his rod again, the line whistling through the air.
Seven didn't linger.
Step, step.
'It is getting late, I should head back now. But, thinking about it, wouldn't the forest be brimming with those Yetis and the remnants of imps?'
His mind raced as he walked away.
'Oldest sister, what were you thinking? There was no safety net at all! If I didn't manage to manifest zi in time, I would be as good as dead. Damn it.'
He thought bitterly. Although he had managed to draw zi out the ring, gambling with his life was not that good of a feeling.
"Three questions."
The old man's voice rang out, loud enough to bridge the distance between them.
"If you manage to catch just one catfish within the hour, I will answer three questions of your choosing with total honesty. You look like a lad with a heavy head."
Seven halted momentarily.
He knew the old man was fishing for a reaction, dangling a hook to see if he would bite, so he forced himself to keep walking and acted as though he had heard nothing.
Then again, that momentary hesitation was all the old man needed.
"Haaaaah. I believe I shall call it a day as well."
The old man let out a loud yawn.
Seven stopped completely and glanced back, thinking 'why didn't the old man push the offer further?'
But when he did, the old man's eyes were already waiting for him. The yawn was a total lie; his butt was still firmly planted on the stool, and he was smirking!
"...Damn it. He caught me."
The old man pointed a gnarled finger toward a nearby tree, where a spare rod was partially buried in the snow.
"Finally interested?"
"Tch."
"Now, now, young lad, don't be so cold."
Seven snatched up the spare rod and walked to the shore, keeping a fair distance between them.
Looking down at the line, he frowned.
There was no bait!
"What's wrong, young lad? Have you changed your mind again?"
Still, he was reluctant to ask the old man, but he seemed to notice as he stared at him then at the empty hook.
"...Bait. There's no—"
"There's no bait? Ahahaha! Young lad, don't tell me you don't know?"
"If I knew, would I be asking?"
"Fair point. Ahaha."
The old man's laughter faded into a grin, his ulotrichous brows twitched in the process.
Truth be told, Seven did know.
Fishing was a learned skill he had seen in the novel before, specifically in an arc that involved voyages at the black sea called Pontus Euxinus.
Still, he had to keep up the act of ignorance.
"The bait is zi, young lad. You would like to compress your essence into a thread, expel it from your body, and infuse it into the hook."
Seven's eyes narrowed, keeping his act together.
"You're kidding, mister. The most an ascendant knight can do is to reinforce their own limbs.
"Oh-ooh."
In theory, the process was simple: guide the zi to the end of one's finger, channel it through the rod, and shape it into a lure.
He knew that even Lythian, the top cadet in the camp, had not mastered external emission yet, as that was a skill usually reserved for those nearing the second ring.
"It is because you knights always stick your noses in textbook manuals. Listen, being an ascendant is not always limited to reinforcing one's body. Hah. If only my grandson would listen to me."
"..."
Sitting on the snowy bank, Seven closed his eyes.
After a few minutes of focusing inwardly, he began to feel it, the essence of zi flowing through his body like the calm river before him.
'...If I'm not mistaken, this is the zi signature.'
That was the term.
When this essence passed through trees, beasts, and people alike, it left behind subtle ripples unique to each living being.
Skilled individuals could sense those disturbances to locate hidden enemies like assassins, and sometimes identify them if the zi signature was familiar.
Cracka, cracka!
A thin layer of zi wrapped around his wrists, crackling softly like a small bonfire, reinforcing that part of his body, but that was not the current goal.
'Slow down… I can do this.'
Carefully, he guided the zi toward his fingertips.
That part was not too difficult. The real problem was pushing it further, forcing it out of his body and into the fishing rod.
Cracka!
A sharp pain shot through him.
His eyes snapped open as the zi recoiled violently, surging back into his arteries and leaving both his arms trembling. A dull ache followed the backlash.
"Damn it…"
"You're being spontaneous, young lad. The river flows calmly because it does not desire the sea."
"Again."
He took a deep breath, tightened his grip on the fishing rod, and then tried once more.
Cracka!
"Again."
His chest burned. Sweat slid into his eyes, stinging, yet the result was the same.
"Again."
His arms trembled. His breathing grew ragged, and the world blurred until only the fishing rod remained in his vision.
"Again…"
"Again…"
"Ag—"
A hand tapped his shoulder.
"That's enough. Push any further, and you'll drown yourself in haste."
"I…"
Seven tried to protest, to insist that he was fine and did not need rest, but the words died in his throat. He was breathless, and warm blood dripped from his nose.
He wiped it away with his sleeve and stared ahead.
The old man sighed.
"Come and have a stick. A river that runs too fast will soon leave its bed dry."
At some point, a fire had been lit beneath the pine tree despite the snow still drifting down.
Sticks were propped over the flames, four fat catfish skewered upon them and crackled as oil dripped into the fire.
The old man crouched by the flames and slowly turned one skewer.
"Oh-ooh. Perhaps that was rude of me. A meal like this may not suit a young lad of such nobility."
Step.
Seven moved closer to the fire. It would not hurt to try something he had only ever seen through a screen before.
Besides.
He was suspicious of the true identity of this old man from the start, and he had a rough idea about it— for certain, this old man was not a simple farmer with a hobby of fishing.
"...Drop the act, Aizen Floquet, the commander of the camp."