Abyss System The Rise of the Lord-Chapter 102 teacher and student

The Master’s First Lesson

This morning was Zaber’s second day of training.

"Get up," Larden said quietly, turning his face toward Zaber. "We begin today."

Zaber took a deep breath and gripped Limir more firmly on his shoulder. The kitten’s body was warm, its breathing calm.

"Yes, Master."

The city had not yet awakened. The streets were empty, with only a few places where morning life was slowly stirring. Somewhere doors creaked open; in the distance came the voices of early merchants. But now Zaber walked these streets not merely to survive, but to understand this world and adapt to it.

The air was fresh, yet the spatial-step pressure that had been following him for several days still lingered in his body. It hadn’t disappeared—it had merely hidden deeper.

"You must walk not by seeing, but by feeling," Larden said, stepping beside him in calm, measured strides. "If you understand this path, the later stages will become easier."

Zaber frowned. Limir, meanwhile, twitched its tail on his shoulder, looking around with curiosity.

"Feeling... what does that mean?" he asked.

"Yes," Larden replied. "Power isn’t only its outward appearance—there is its flow and its very existence. It is everywhere. But only when you position yourself correctly does following it become easy."

Walking through the narrow streets of the city, Zaber tested himself. He tried to feel every step: where his foot met the ground, how his body maintained balance, where his breath paused and where it deepened. It was a small exercise, yet the foundation of both physical and spiritual readiness began precisely from this.

"Limir, don’t close your eyes," he said to the kitten.

Limir meowed and curled its tail around itself. Zaber gave a faint smile.

"You’ll help me."

The city was gradually waking. Merchants opened their stalls and displayed fresh goods; children ran through the streets. Zaber observed every movement with care. It seemed like ordinary life, yet within it lay energy, character, and hidden currents.

After some time they reached the edge-of-city market. Zaber practiced with the butcher: slicing the meat evenly, distributing salt precisely, feeling each piece with exactness. Larden watched in silence, then quietly corrected him:

"Relax your hands a little," he said in a cool tone. "Don’t just feel each piece—strive to control it perfectly. As though it were an extension of your fingers."

Zaber took a deep breath and slowly sliced the portions. Limir sat quietly on his shoulder, only the tip of its tail moving gently.

"This is the first lesson," Larden said. "Small, but fundamental. If you cannot feel and perform an ordinary task, you will never wield the complex ones."

As they walked through the city, Zaber sensed every sound, every scent, every motion. At one corner two young men were arguing, but Zaber didn’t watch them—he merely felt their presence.

"Do you see?" Larden said. "They are not connecting with you. Yet you sense them. This is the first level of power."

Zaber nodded. Ordinary life now appeared different to him. Every person’s inner strength, every glance—everything was gradually becoming a readable sign, though still faint.

"Now a new lesson," Larden continued. "Divide your attention toward everything. Perform ordinary tasks with perfection. Meat, salt, bread, water—control them all."

Zaber continued working.

"Very good," Larden said. "Now you’re beginning to understand."

Zaber spoke in a dissatisfied tone:

"Must I really do all this while walking? It’s inconvenient."

Larden stopped and looked at him.

"Inconvenient," he echoed. "But you must be able to focus on several things at once. In battle and in control alike. You said you want to build a clan. If you only seek comfort, your clan will never rise."

...

...

"That’s enough for today," Larden said at last. "Rest. We continue tomorrow. Every day you must use not your strength, but your sense."

Zaber exhaled deeply.

"With your one-penny-worth words you’ve made my head spin," he said wearily.

Larden gave an indifferent smile.

"He begs to become a disciple, then complains like a whiner. Brat," he said. That, too, was part of the lesson.

The path was long. But now every step carried meaning.

"Zaber," Larden called from behind as he left. "From now on, every day will be like this."

The next day

The open field outside the city was silent.

No merchants’ voices, no children’s shouts—only the wind sliding over dry grass, lifting fine dust.

Zaber looked at the old man standing opposite him.

Larden stood with his hands behind his back, seemingly careless—as though not a fight, but an ordinary conversation was about to begin.

Limir slid down from Zaber’s shoulder and sat to the side. The kitten tucked its paws and became still, as if it, too, sensed that nothing ordinary was about to happen here.

"The rules are simple," Larden said. His voice was quiet, almost lazy. "You attack. I defend. Use no raw power. Control yourself. Search for the weak point."

Zaber drew a deep breath.

"This is my strong side."

Larden smiled faintly.

"You’ll fall."

With that, he took one step forward.

The pressure changed.

Zaber felt it instantly. The air seemed to grow heavier, yet it wasn’t spiritual pressure. It was the pressure of experience. In every breath, every step of the man before him lay years.

"Let’s begin," Larden said.

Round 1

Zaber attacked first.

He didn’t charge straight in. He slid to the right and aimed a low strike at the knee. The goal was clear—to break balance.

But the strike cut through empty air.

Larden was gone.

No—he was still there, but already one step ahead.

"Too slow," he said, right beside Zaber’s ear.

Zaber spun around, but at that moment a light push came to his shoulder. He stumbled several steps sideways, losing balance.

Rounds 2–5

Zaber began moving faster.

Low strike. Side attempt. Closing the distance between steps.

Each time—nothing.

Sometimes Larden retreated. Sometimes he slid aside. Sometimes he didn’t move at all—the strike simply passed by as though it belonged to the past.

"You’re throwing strikes," Larden said, evading one. "But you haven’t started fighting yet."

Zaber clenched his teeth.

Rounds 6–10

Now he no longer rushed.

He slowed his breathing. Measured his steps. His eyes were no longer on Larden’s shoulders, but on his waist and knees.

Suddenly he lunged left—a feint. Then dropped low and struck toward the ribs.

This time... it almost connected.

But Larden tapped Zaber’s forehead lightly with one finger.

That was enough.

Zaber flew backward.

"Good attempt," Larden said. "But you’re still trying to hit me. In a real fight you must first preserve yourself. Attack and defense must receive attention at the same moment."

Rounds 11–15

Zaber no longer threw strikes mindlessly.

He simply moved. Evaded. Adapted.

Then Larden attacked.

The strike wasn’t fast. Nor especially powerful.

But it was precise.

Zaber saw it. Felt it. Yet he was still too late.

His leg was swept. He fell. Dust entered his mouth.

"Sensing is not enough," Larden said. "Decisions must also be swift."

Limir twitched its tail and took one step back.

Rounds 16–20

Zaber’s body was filled with pain.

Yet he did not stop.

This time he attacked not Larden himself, but the place where Larden stood. He predicted the old man’s position in advance.

He struck.

Larden evaded sideways.

Zaber struck again.

Empty air once more.

A third strike...

Suddenly Larden did not retreat—he stepped forward.

Zaber’s breath caught.

The old man’s shoulder slammed into Zaber’s chest. He fell again.

"You’ve started thinking," Larden said. "But it’s still not enough."

Rounds 21–25

Each time Zaber fell, he rose immediately.

Faster every time. Quieter every time.

He was beginning to learn endurance rather than mere trying.

And Larden...

He was playing.

Sometimes he deliberately left openings. Zaber attacked. And at that moment the counter came.

"Here’s the difference," Larden said, dropping Zaber once more.

Rounds 26–30

Zaber’s clothes were covered in dust. His hands trembled. His breathing had grown heavy.

Yet his eyes remained sharp.

He attacked again.

Evaded again. Tried again. Fell again.

Thirty rounds.

Not a single strike had landed.

At last Zaber dropped to one knee and stopped.

"Enough," Larden said.

Zaber sat on the ground. His breathing shook.

"You..." he said in a low voice. "You never even got serious."

Larden looked at him.

"No," he replied. "If I had gotten serious, you wouldn’t be standing right now."

He turned away.

"You’re not bad, Zaber. But for now you’re still a toy. An empty sack."

Limir came to his side and touched Zaber’s hand with its paw.

Zaber closed his eyes.

He had lost.

Zaber looked at Larden.

This old man—what level is he really at? The problem isn’t that I couldn’t hit him; every time I thought I had landed a strike, he vanished like a ghost or delivered a small tap to some weak point, breaking my balance. And every time that weak point kept changing. Over a hundred movements, yet completely fruitless. If I can learn the fundamentals from him, I should train alone as well, he thought.

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