The Time Room breathed silence.
A void outside time itself—where seconds stretched into centuries, and lifetimes flickered out between blinks.
Chrono stood barefoot on the bloodstained stone floor.
His bones had mended, his skin was smooth again, and his stomach no longer ached.
Still, pain pulsed faintly through him—like the echo of something trying to remember it had once been alive.
The Patriarch watched from a stone bench nearby, shirtless now.
His body was a map of old violence, a lattice of scars drawn by hands that never healed with mercy.
"You look better," he said, cracking his neck, his tone caught somewhere between amusement and threat.
"Ready to learn how to rewrite reality with your goddamn hands?"
Chrono didn't answer.
He only nodded—eyes cold, fixed, calculating.
The Patriarch grinned as he rose to his feet.
"Good."
He motioned to the center of the chamber.
"Zion Style: Phase One: Close-Combat Techniques."
He paused, savoring the words.
"The Iron Pattern."
He began pacing in slow, deliberate circles—like a lion testing the air before the kill.
"Zion Style isn't about honor," he said.
"It's not about control."
"It's about adaptation."
"It's about surviving long enough to become the god of the battlefield."
He lifted a finger.
"Phase I—Unarmed Combat."
"Built from Silat, Muay Boran, Krav Maga, and Jiu-Jitsu."
"The real ones."
"Brutal."
"Minimalist."
"Predatory."
He smirked.
"This is a family martial art, built on one simple creed."
He raised his voice, like reciting scripture.
"We come."
"We see."
"We conquer."
"And before you ask—yeah, we mages invented those styles."
He laughed softly.
"Long, long ago—before the wand was even a thought—we had no choice. We didn't have a 'conductor' to guide our mana."
"So we fought with three things."
The Patriarch raised three fingers.
"First: the mind."
"The mind was one of our greatest allies. Without it, we never would've reached the glory days."
"Second: instinct."
"Instinct saved more wizards than spells ever did. Before knowledge came, we fought for territory. We learned by dying. Every discovery was paid in blood."
His eyes darkened for a moment.
"Life lesson, Chrono—never underestimate anyone. Even a cornered slut can give you something that kills you for fun."
He lowered his hand.
"Third—and most important—magic."
"That was, and still is, our greatest weapon. The reason we exist. The reason we stand above all."
He snapped his fingers.
Then, without warning, he moved.Like a serpent with broken bones—erratic, vicious, graceful.Every motion ended with someone dead, or wishing they were.
Chrono watched in silence.Every strike.Every angle.Every breath.He memorized—almost unnaturally.
When the Patriarch stopped, his voice dropped low, edged with steel.
"We evolve or we die."
"And in the Zion line—we don't fucking die."
He smirked again.
"At least not before flipping the bird and taking the bastard with us."
Chrono said nothing.
But something flickered behind his eyes.
Not obedience.
Not yet.
Just curiosity—the kind that precedes loyalty. The kind that dissects it first.
"Phase Two," the Patriarch barked.
"Internal Conditioning."
"The body must meet Time Energy—burn by it, break by it—and only then will it reshape itself strong enough to control it."
He stepped close, until they were eye to eye.
"You think moving your eyes while time's frozen makes you special?" he whispered.
"That was a fluke."
"Now you're going to train until your nerves scream."
"Until you shatter—and then hold yourself together until you rebuild."
He pointed toward the far wall, where rods of iron, weighted bands, and jagged stones lay arranged like surgical instruments from some forgotten war.
"You train like this because if you don't—when you try to channel time—it'll turn you inside out."
"And I don't mean metaphorically."
Chrono stepped forward—quiet, deliberate.His face unreadable, his mind already dissecting what was to come.
Not fear.
Just calculation.
The Patriarch clapped his hands once.
"Let's see what the radiation gave you," he said.
"Zion Style doesn't care how you start—only what you become."
Chrono moved into stance.
And the Time Room fell silent again—its breath held as bone and will declared war once more.