Sensei Slade led me back to the training hall in silence. His presence alone was enough to choke the air from my lungs; every step carried the weight of my failure in the simulation. When he finally gestured for me to sit on the cold floor, I felt like a soldier awaiting sentencing.
"You have improved," he began. His voice was sharp, controlled, slicing cleanly through the oppressive silence. "But improvement alone is meaningless if it does not grant understanding." His gaze locked on me, unwavering. "Tell me, Zander… what is your greatest flaw?"
The words sank into me. I opened my mouth to answer, but nothing came. My mind churned with the bitter images of the trial—the storm of projectiles, the endless calculations, my body faltering just one step behind the speed of my thoughts. I clenched my teeth until the truth forced itself through my pride.
"My body," I admitted slowly. "It can't keep up with what my mind sees."
"Correct." Sensei's tone was calm but cutting, like the edge of a finely honed blade. "Your perception is advanced. Your hearing, your danger sense, your spatial awareness—far beyond your peers. You process threats and openings like a hawk in flight. But your body…" His hand flicked in dismissal. "It lags behind. And more than that, it lacks decisive strength. You do not yet possess the kind of force that ends battles with a single strike. Without it, you will always be forced to dance around stronger opponents, waiting for mistakes they may never make."
He raised his palm slowly, as if about to strike the empty air itself.
Then he did.
The sound was not a mere punch. His fist tore through space, and the movement produced a deep rumble that shook the reinforced floor beneath us. A shockwave rippled outward, vibrating through my bones, rattling the very air. My senses screamed. For an instant, my mind imagined the devastation—my torso caving, bone and flesh atomizing before I could even blink.
That strike wasn't just technique. It was annihilation, condensed and directed through the vessel of flesh.
He lowered his fist, and the hall fell silent once more.
"This," Sensei said, voice calm but heavy with truth, "is the Fourth Form. Peak Tempered Master. A strike at this level can rupture organs, disintegrate bone, erase life before the fist even lands. And you…" His gaze cut into me like steel. "…would not have even registered its coming."
I clenched my fists so tightly my nails bit into my palms. Awe and terror warred within me.
"However," he continued, "you do not need the Fourth Form. Not yet. If you can grasp merely the First Form, you would be capable of injuring a Martial Master… even killing one, if your timing and precision were flawless."
My breath caught. The idea of touching such a level of power both thrilled and terrified me.
"What is it called?" My voice was barely a whisper.
Sensei's lips curved faintly—the rarest of gestures. "Heavenbreaker Fist."
The name thundered in my mind. Heavenbreaker… the sound alone carried weight, as if the heavens themselves might tremble beneath it.
"You will begin training its fundamentals," he said, tone returning to pragmatic steel. "But before fists, you must master your body. For that, you will learn a cultivation art. Go to the library. Retrieve the scroll for Three-Step Flash."
"Three-Step Flash?" I repeated. The name sounded deceptively plain.
He nodded. "A body technique to harmonize mind and flesh. Three consecutive steps that compress explosive movement. The first step builds speed. The second warps momentum. The third strikes with accumulated force. Mastered correctly, it bridges the gap between perception and execution."
A reckless thought slipped free from my lips. "Wouldn't a name like Thunderclap Mirage be more fitting?"
His eyes sharpened instantly, a gleam like a blade's edge. "A name is a container, Zander. Empty until you fill it. Your actions will define the art, not your tongue."
I swallowed hard and shut my mouth. Lesson learned.
Then his gaze turned heavier. "Now, you must also understand the nature of power itself. You still strike as an ordinary fighter. Your blows are your blows, nothing more. Flesh and bone expressing their own limits. That is why your attacks, no matter how swift or precise, cannot topple a Martial Master."
His voice lowered, deliberate, weighty.
"But a Martial Master is different. Their body becomes a conduit. Every strike multiplies the base strength of their flesh. Most can double their force. Their fist does not carry merely their strength, but twice that measure. The exceptional can triple it. And the rarest geniuses… they multiply beyond that, until each movement is a storm of destruction. That multiplication—that is what you lack. And until you awaken it, you will always remain one step beneath them."
The words carved themselves into me. My chest tightened with the enormity of the gulf that separated me from that realm.
He studied me for a long moment. Then: "What weapon do you favor?"
I hesitated. My body itself was my weapon, but an extension could sharpen it further. A spear? A sword? No… an image struck me—two blades, crossing paths like mirrored lightning, flowing in perfect harmony.
"…Dual swords," I said finally, with quiet conviction.
Sensei's expression darkened. "A foolish choice. Dual swords demand a mind that can run along two parallel tracks of combat simultaneously. Most fail. One hand lags. One blade becomes a liability. Your rhythm collapses. You will work twice as hard for half the result of a single mastered weapon."
I swallowed his warning like a stone. "Then I'll work twice as hard."
For the first time, his detached demeanor shifted. Not approval, not warmth, but recognition—a glimmer of respect for someone who chose willingly the steepest climb.
"Very well," he said. "Your path. Your burden."
He stepped closer, his presence vast, suffocating, like a mountain leaning over me. "I tell you this because you must know where you stand. You are gifted… but behind. Two others in your cohort have already reached the rank of Martial Master."
The words slammed into me like a hammer blow. Martial Master. That awakening… Joren. Surely, he was one of them.
"That rank," Sensei continued, "is not strength alone. It is awakening. Martial enlightenment. At that stage, the body ceases to be mere flesh and becomes a vessel of force. Every strike carries multiplied weight. Every movement shapes the battlefield. To strike is to wield power itself."
He let the silence stretch, the truth searing into me.
"That awakening cannot be taught," he said, his tone like distant thunder. "It must be grasped—in the fire of battle, in meditation, on the brink of death. Without it, you are a fighter. With it… you begin the true path."
The hall was so still I could hear my own pulse pounding.
"You have trained for five months since Project 24-XY," Sensei went on. "Your body has evolved, your senses sharpened. But you are still incomplete." His eyes flickered with something unreadable. "…And today, Zander, is your birthday."
The words startled me. Days, weeks, months had blurred into nothing but drills, pain, and survival. I had almost forgotten time still moved forward.
"As a gift," Sensei said, stepping aside, "I will show you the strength of a Martial Master."
The great doors hissed open. A figure entered—a young man, broad-shouldered, his muscles taut and coiled with restrained power. His presence radiated authority, his gaze cutting straight to me with unsettling familiarity.
"Ready for a beating, birthday boy?" His grin was easy, almost playful—but the air around him shimmered faintly, charged, as if reality itself bent to the pressure of his strength.
My breath caught.
Joren. Rival. Friend. And now… Martial Master.
Before I could move, he lunged. The hall exploded into motion.