The next morning, Sirius expected Cor to take him back to the yard for another round of bruises and broken stances. Instead, the Immortal led him through the narrow streets of Insomnia, his long strides measured, his silence heavy. Sirius trailed a few steps behind, clutching his wooden sword more as a comfort than a weapon.
"Where are we going?" Sirius asked at last.
Cor didn't slow. "You asked me to train you beyond the sword. There's a man who can do what I cannot."
Sirius blinked. His heart thumped with anticipation. Cor Leonis had admitted a limit?
They stopped in front of a plain wooden door sandwiched between a butcher's shop and a tailor's. No banners, no sign—just a single faded sigil carved into the frame. Wards shimmered faintly, old but functional. Cor pushed the door open without knocking.
Inside was a wide hall with wooden floors worn smooth by decades of use. Lucian crystal was embedded subtly in the beams, glowing faintly, strengthening the structure so it never splintered despite decades of falls. The air smelled of sweat and oil, but also of something clean, disciplined. At the far end, a man stood with arms folded, his presence commanding without a hint of arrogance. His dark hair was streaked with gray, his body built like stone tempered by time.
Zangan.
Sirius froze. He remembered the name from his other life—mentor of martial artists, a figure whispered about in gaming forums and lore. To see him here, in flesh and blood, made his chest tighten.
"Zangan," Cor said simply, inclining his head.
The master gave a curt nod. "Cor. It's been some time." His eyes shifted to Sirius, sharp and assessing. "And this is the boy?"
"My nephew," Cor replied. "He wants to learn more than the blade. He asked for CQC. You're the only one I trust to teach him."
Zangan stepped closer, crouching until his gaze met Sirius'. The boy stiffened, meeting those dark, piercing eyes.
"Do you want this, child?" Zangan asked. His voice was low, like gravel smoothed by discipline. "To fight with nothing but your body? To endure pain most men run from?"
Sirius swallowed, but his voice did not falter. "Yes."
Zangan studied him for a long moment, then straightened. "Then let's begin."
---
The first lesson was not punches or kicks. It was falling.
Zangan's hand struck Sirius' chest before the boy could react, sending him tumbling backward onto the wooden floor. The impact rattled his bones, knocked the air from his lungs. The embedded wards shimmered faintly, dispersing the shock, but the pain still seared. Sirius gasped, stunned.
"Get up," Zangan said.
Sirius scrambled to his feet, chest burning.
Again, Zangan shoved him down. Again, the boards slammed against his back.
"Don't fight the fall," Zangan instructed, his tone calm, almost bored. "Guide it. Roll. Spread the impact. If you hit the ground wrong, you die. Learn to land."
Sirius grit his teeth, forcing himself up once more. The next time he twisted his shoulder as he fell, rolling awkwardly. The pain was less sharp.
"Better," Zangan said. "Again."
Over and over, Sirius fell. His small body ached, his palms stung raw against the boards, but he kept rising. Each fall was a failure, but each failure taught him something.
By the end of the first hour, he was gasping on the floor, sweat soaking his tunic. Zangan stood over him, arms folded.
"You learn quickly," the master said, "but not deeply. Quick fades. Deep remains. Repetition. Discipline. That is how you build a body that cannot be broken."
Sirius nodded, dragging himself upright. "I'll learn deeply."
Zangan's lips twitched—perhaps a smile, though faint. "We'll see."
---
Conditioning came next.
Sirius was made to hold stances until his legs quivered, balance on one foot until sweat dripped from his brow, strike wooden posts with his forearms until they burned. Every exercise seemed designed not to build strength, but to grind weakness out of him.
"Pain is not the enemy," Zangan said, pacing around him. "Pain is the teacher. Ignore it, and you learn nothing. Embrace it, and you grow."
Sirius struck the post again, teeth clenched, arms throbbing. He wanted to stop, but the image of his notebook flashed in his mind: Don't be weak. Change the ending. He struck again, harder.
Zangan nodded once. "Good. You have will. Will can shape flesh."
He paused, glancing at Cor, who remained silent in the corner, arms crossed. "Your father and uncle would tell you to master the sword. They're not wrong. But a blade can be broken, stolen, warped. The body? The enemy cannot take what is yours unless you yield it."
Sirius' eyes blazed. He struck again, harder still.
---
By the second week, Sirius was learning throws. Zangan's grip was iron as he swept the boy's legs out from under him, flipping him onto the boards with practiced ease. Sirius hit the ground hard, the wards beneath the floor pulsing faintly to absorb some of the shock.
"Again," Zangan said.
Sirius wheezed, then rolled to his feet. He lunged at the master, small hands grasping. Zangan's body shifted like water, redirecting his force. Again, Sirius crashed to the floor.
"Don't meet strength with strength," Zangan instructed. "Redirect it. Use the enemy's weight against him. Even the small can topple the great."
Sirius forced himself up, his red eyes blazing. He remembered watching martial arts tutorials in his old life, copying throws in the privacy of his room. Here, it was no longer mimicry. It was survival.
He tried again. This time, he shifted as Zangan moved, rolling his body to absorb the force. The throw was sloppy, but he landed better.
"Better," Zangan said. "But sloppy. Precision comes with blood and time."
Sirius wiped sweat from his brow. "Then I'll bleed, and I'll give time."
For the first time, Zangan's stern face cracked into a faint smile. "You might just be worth teaching."
---
That night, Sirius sat at his desk, every muscle screaming. His mother pressed a cooling salve along his bruises, the ointment glowing faintly before fading into his skin. When the house fell quiet, Sirius forced the pencil across the page, his handwriting jagged but steady.
Notes – Zangan's Lesson
Body = first weapon. Sword can break. Body must endure.
Falling = not failure. Guide it. Learn it.
Conditioning = pain teaches. Don't run from it.
Throws = use enemy's strength against them.
He pressed the pencil harder, scrawling beneath:
Even if I fall, I'll rise. Even if I'm broken, I'll endure. I will adapt.
He set the notebook down, slid it under his pillow, and lay back in bed. His arms ached, his legs trembled, but his chest felt steady.
Zangan's words echoed in his mind—pain as teacher, failure as beginning.
And beneath it all, Sirius felt something stir within him. A hidden rhythm, subtle but insistent. Each failure left him slightly less fragile, each fall made him rise quicker. Adaptive Resonance, though he did not yet know its name.
In the silence of the night, Sirius closed his eyes with one final thought: One day, I'll stand unbroken.