Morning came fast.
The city still slept beneath a gray-blue sky, but Julian was already awake—
as always, 05:00 AM sharp.
The air inside his apartment was cool and still. He rolled his shoulders, centering his breath. Then he began.
A sequence of martial drills—
stances, strikes, balance work—each motion sharp, deliberate, and silent. The rhythm echoed faintly against the walls, a quiet dance of focus and form.
Afterward, he shifted into light gym work in the apartment's small fitness corner—pushups, resistance bands, slow controlled squats. It wasn't about sweat. It was about precision. Maintenance.
His breaths came steady, measured. No wasted motion, no sloppy rhythm. It wasn't the most punishing session he'd ever done, but that wasn't the point.
These mornings weren't about breaking limits—they were about laying bricks. The foundation beneath the walls.
He could almost hear Crest's voice in his head: "Consistency is sharper than talent." He didn't need to hear it twice.
