I woke up feeling… fine. Better than fine, physically. But my feelings were dull, like a blanket over everything. I stretched under the slanted ceiling and listened to my breath. Slow. Steady. My body felt light and dense at the same time.
I stood and tested myself. Pushups with two fingers. A one-armed hang from a beam. A cautious squat that ended with a crate coming up with me. Every check said the same thing: I was stronger than I had ever been. I waited for the rush that should follow.
'I feel... nothing.'
[Your body will take about a week to stabilize in its new state. After that, we can continue strengthening.]
'He really doesn't stop huh.'
I forced myself to focus. The ritual had consumed a core. I had two yesterday. Now one remained, its cooling surface rolling in my palm.
'How many more of those do I have to go through?'
[You will need three. The rituals provide diminishing returns; three more will get you to your limit and leave you ready for your last tempering. Then for the last tempering itself... you will need another five.]
Three more. I closed my fingers around the core and pictured doing yesterday three more times. My stomach tried to turn, then gave up. I couldn't even imagine what the last tempering would entail, requiring so many more cores.
'I only have one core left.'
[Then you will need seven more.]
I nodded to no one. A plan formed whether I liked it or not. The old church was a graveyard. I wasn't going there. I wasn't ready to fight a skinless without the mask, and even with my feelings muted, thinking about paying the price Ithas talked about made something small in me curl up.
'I'll go back into the sewers through a manhole. Hunt an adult scavenger and eat. That should be some decent combat practice, they don't have any cores, but their meat should also be better and last longer.'
[Before you go, learn a proper combat style. You are often unarmed. I suggest Unbroken Fist.]
'Unbroken Fist?'
[It consists of four parts: footwork, stance, breath and hardening. All of them must be trained separately, then together into one martial art. You won't be defenseless again.]
I didn't jump for joy, but a thin line of interest cut through the fog.
'Alright. Show me.'
We went to the narrow patio behind the houses. The dead tree still stood there, a crooked skeleton clawing at a sky that didn't care.
[Footwork. Start there.]
He had me draw two lines in the dust with a broken board. Heel on one, toe on the other. I shifted forward and back without lifting my feet, then side to side, then in small triangles. At first I tripped on nothing and crossed my legs wrong. After a while my feet were starting to get used to it.
[Keep your steps short. Glide, don't bounce. Turn on the ball of your feet.]
I practiced half-steps and pivots. I slid along the lines until the dust turned to smooth patches under my soles. I added direction changes at his short cues. Forward. Back. Left. Right. Turn. I learned to move without letting my shoulders announce it.
[Stance. Your focus should be balance and stability.]
Feet shoulder-width. Lead foot a little forward. Knees soft. Spine straight. Hips under me. He had me hold it for a long time. My legs started to shake. I wanted to straighten, to lock my knees and steal a break. I didn't.
'Don't cheat it.'
I shifted the weight to the center of each foot, found the point where I could push from any direction and not fall. He had me press my palm to the tree while in stance and lean just enough to feel the line from foot to fist. Then he made me step and freeze—step and freeze—until my calves hummed and my thighs burned.
[Breath, its purpose is to manage your stamina.]
Breathe in on preparation. Out on impact. No holding the breath. I counted four in, six out, then changed to three in, five out. He had me walk the patio with a steady rhythm, matching steps to breath. I shadowboxed the air with slow punches, exhaling on each strike, inhaling as the hand returned.
[Now combine to combine everything.]
I moved with small slides and sent single straight punches at the air. No wind-up. Power from the ground, through the hips, into the shoulder, out the knuckles. Hand back faster than it went out. At first my shoulders chased the punch. Then my hips started the motion and everything else followed.
'This is much harder than everything separate.'
[Hardening. Increase durability. Slowly.]
He wrapped my hands with old cloth strips. No hitting yet. Knuckles pressing against the dead tree, a light press until the joints warmed. Then a little tap. Then rest. Then repeat. He pulled out a dented bucket we filled with dry ash and old grain. I drove my fingers and fists in, turned them, lifted them out, and cooled them in the shade. It tingled and stung, but not too much.
[Pain is progress. You are in the right track.]
I did several rounds of the exercises, starting with them individually and then combining them. The patio spun a little after the second. I drank water from the tank and started the third. When I finished, my legs trembled and my hands buzzed. My chest rose and fell, but I wasn't gasping.
'This might actually work.'
[Continue.]
ººº
The next day I woke up sore in all the right places. I ate boiled scavenger and went back outside. The dust lines were still there. I made them longer. I added a square and two diagonals. I practiced stepping off-center and cutting angles. I learned to slip around an invisible arm and land on balance instead of overreaching.
We wrapped a part of the tree with folded cloth so I could hit it lightly. I worked one-two, one-two-step, one-two-step-hook, all at slow speed. I kept my wrists straight. I focused on a clean return. When I got lazy, the tree told the truth and stung my knuckles.
I did knuckle pushups on the boards inside for a little time, then open-palm stretches to keep the hands from locking up. I rolled my wrists and elbows, then stood in stance and breathed until the shaking stopped. My breath came easier. My legs held longer.
[Shorten the step before the punch. Now sink.]
I dropped the hips a hair and felt the line tighten from foot to fist. The strike landed cleaner against the wrapped trunk. The jolt ran up my arm and settled in my back like it should.
'Again.'
I trained until the light of day hid behind the eternal mountain, it was so different from earth, the sun didn't set, but hid behind the mountain. When night came, it felt like a blanket of darkness was slowly pulled over the city.
When I needed meat, I hunted small scavengers in nearby houses. Ithas gave short cues. Where to wait. When to catch the critters by surprise. We used the hob to cook them, I even managed a skillet and started frying them in their own fat, it surely beat boiling them. I ate in silence. Slept hard. Woke up and went back to training.
A semblance of a routine started to form.
There had been no sign of Owl so far. I was glad. I didn't feel ready to meet him yet.
ººº
By the third day the fog in my head had thinned. Not gone, but thin. Footwork got faster. My stance held longer. My breath didn't sprint ahead of me. I started to feel the floor even when I was outside on broken stone. I could tell when my weight was wrong without looking down.
Hardening stepped up a notch. He had me use a bag we made from a pillowcase and some of the blackened grain, it looked too rotten to eat anyway. I hit it with light straight punches for sets of twenty, then cooled my hands. I pressed my forearms along the dead tree to toughen skin and wake the bones. I stopped before the ache turned sharp. I wrapped my hands again and finished with taps.
[Enough. Recover.]
I stretched my fingers open and closed. The skin along the knuckles was pink and tight. The cloth wraps smelled like old smoke and sweat. I smiled without meaning to. Small, but it was there.
ººº
On the fourth day I added circling to my footwork. I walked around the dead tree at a set distance, stepping on the balls of my feet, sliding and turning, switching directions every few steps. I shadowboxed the circles. Jab on the step. Cross on the settle. I breathed with it. In on the glide, out on the strike.
When I hit the wrapped trunk, the sound changed. Not louder—cleaner. My hand came back like it was tied to my chest with a string. I didn't chase with my shoulder as much. I didn't lean past my toes as often.
'Better.'
[Better. Shift your weight sooner.]
I shifted sooner. The punch landed and returned like it belonged there.
That afternoon I filled the bucket with warmer ash and added a handful of small pebbles. I pressed my knuckles in and turned them. Not long. Just enough. I cooled my hands in water, then dried them and wrapped them again. The skin felt tougher. The bones hummed like a low note.
Night came. I ate in silence, lay back, and stared at the dark ceiling. The mask was a quiet weight. The house creaked. My breath slowed. I fell asleep, dreamless.
ººº
Late the next day, I cut through an alley behind one of the houses, my hands wrapped to keep the bark scrapes clean. The wind moved dust through the broken street. My breath was steady. My steps were quiet.
They came out from a collapsed storefront. One. Then another. Then a third. Their heads tilted toward me at the same slow angle, like the bones themselves were asking a question.
I stopped at the alley's mouth. I let my feet find the ground. Knees soft. Spine straight. Breath in on preparation.
'Three. Alright.'
They moved.
I raised my hands.
And stepped forward.