7:00 a.m., time to get up and cook some bacon. For an 8:00 a.m. school start, this was neither early nor late. Traurig Eyre took the bacon he had thawed last night and cut it up. Turning on the range hood, he lit the stove, added cooking oil, and laid the bacon flat in the pan with a long wooden chopstick. After flipping a few times, it was ready.
Crispy. Although Traurig could recite a thousand poems and verses, or even write a novel about bacon —— He is insane enough to do that —— a single word sufficed.
After breakfast, he set off for school. It was Tuesday; the classes were mostly boring, and even his favorite last period, AP Physics E&M, only covered material he had already learned. Yet it was still dense and difficult, and Traurig nearly fell asleep. My Dear · Physics · teacher, why aren't you here when I'm having insomnia? he thought.
Once class finally ended, Traurig stood up and went to meet a friend to kill some time and went get his phone in the phone pockets on the wall. Checking his phone, he saw a message from Chu Ren:
"Meet me at the playground after school."
Chu Ren rarely invited people to spar by himself. Traurig thought for a moment: he didn't have any club meetings today, but he might have tutorial sessions. He asked for specifics:
"For what and when?"
"3:25. You'll see when you come."
Finally, school ended. Traurig didn't rush; he first went to the AP Physics Mechanics Calculus tutorial —— not actually his class, but he had been pondering a mechanics problem all night. He found last year's teacher, a kindly older white man about the same age as his dad, wearing a colorful, Hawaiian-style shirt.
"Any questions, Traurig?"
"I have some physics problems I'll show you in a bit."
Traurig found a place to sit, set down his backpack, and opened his laptop to a pre-saved YouTube tab. Carrying the laptop to the podium, he played the video.
It showed a Pride KO scene: two shirtless fighters, one brown-skinned, one pale. They stood about two meters apart—the pale fighter in the center of the rectangular ring, the brown fighter in a corner. The brown fighter first performed a 360-degree side flip; the pale fighter stepped back, but it was just a feint. Then the brown fighter executed another 360-degree flip, one foot striking the pale fighter's face. The pale fighter stiffened and collapsed sideways to the mat.
"How much force would that generate? I want to analyze it with you."
After discussing the physics, Traurig dashed to the playground. There, Chu Ren faced off against someone about three meters away, circling a point continuously. A small crowd had gathered.
The opponent had dyed yellow hair, a high nose bridge, blue eyes, and a buzz cut. Every muscle was defined, with brownish skin.
Usually, spectators had some idea of each fighter's stats before a match, making it feel like a real competition.
"Miguel, an 11th-grade transfer," someone said.
"Brazilian," added another.
"Do you know his height and weight?" Traurig watched the scene intently.
"A bit over 1.8 m," guessed the first. "Weight… 95? 100? Either way, the fact that a big weight difference existed."
The gap in weight was significant, Traurig noted, and he shifted his attention to the man's stance. The tall Brazilian bent slightly at the waist, hands hanging, knees bent, moving laterally. Chu Ren remained in a typical wrestling stance, one foot forward, body slightly bent. It was hard to tell the Brazilian's style—either he didn't know what he was doing, or it was a style no one had seen before. Traurig compiled the data and sent it to a classmate to investigate—though he knew how to research it himself; he just wanted to watch this match closely.
The two circled for a long time. The noisy crowd gradually quieted, some leaving. Chu Ren suddenly lowered his stance, accelerated forward, and closed the distance. Miguel stepped back, then shifted to Chu Ren's right side as Chu Ren continued forward. Seeing this, Chu Ren moved slightly to the left-front, turning to reengage; the distance shrank to two meters.
Watching the scratches Chu Ren left on the grass, Miguel commented,
"Such a youngblood, but still too young."
No sooner had he spoken than Miguel moved. He surged forward, spinning, his right leg sweeping like a whip toward Chu Ren's head. Chu Ren dodged, crouched, and attempted to grab Miguel's supporting leg. But in an instant, the left leg vanished. Chu Ren felt something was wrong, yet his momentum carried him forward. He skidded, turned sharply—Miguel was already standing again, as if nothing had happened.
"Strange," Chu Ren muttered, adjusting his stance and breathing, preparing for the next attack.
Traurig, however, had observed everything clearly. Miguel's right-leg sweep used rotational momentum to lift his left leg—there was no supporting leg for Chu Ren to grab. After the spin, Miguel landed on his back, but didn't stop. He drew his knees in, powered through his core, performed a kip-up, and stood effortlessly, as if lying down had been only a momentary rest.
The opponent's evasions were taxing and risky, yet visually stunning. This wasn't defense—it was flair. And that core strength… how could any martial art allow for this? Traurig realized: the initial stance Miguel used was from Brazilian capoeira.
Chu Ren had yet to realize the kind of "monster" he was facing.
The crowd erupted in cheers, and conversation spread instantly. Traurig, however, felt uneasy: a premonition that something was about to happen.