This went on for over a month, every week a series of defeats.
Week 1 hurt more than Serik expected.
He was used to pain. He'd bled, bruised, and broken more than most kids his age. But fighting three synchronized killers every day for hours pushed him past the edge of endurance—and kept him there.
They attacked in silence.
Always together.
The short one—Serik started calling him Stomp in his head—was a grappler. Low, heavy, and deceptively fast. His strength came in bursts, but when he got close, Serik found himself being thrown, pinned, or suffocated under pressure.
The really-thin one—Spikes—never stopped moving. He used his long limbs like whips, flicking out kicks and elbows from impossible angles. Fast, annoying, but precise. His pink hair bounced like a joke, but his footwork was no laughing matter.
The chef—Serik dubbed her Pan—was the scariest. Not because she was the strongest, but because she never reacted. Never blinked. She just calculated, stepped in, and applied pressure like a surgeon.
And every time Serik made a mistake… she punished him with absolute efficiency.
At the end of each spar, he lay on the ground in a heap of bruises and breathlessness, feeling like a dog tossed into a storm.
No Jons. No advice. No pity.
Just the three of them.
Watching.
Waiting.
Week 2 changed something.
The moment Jons left them alone in the courtyard, Stomp cracked his knuckles and mumbled, almost like he forgot Serik could hear him.
"Kid's not dying. That's… new."
Pan replied without emotion, "He's adapting."
Spikes snorted. "Ugh. I hate when they adapt. Makes things harder."
Serik, leaning against the wall and still holding his ribs, looked up. "I'm still here, you know."
Stomp grunted. "Yeah. That's the problem."
They didn't talk much more, but after that, the pressure changed.
Not easier.
Just different.
They stopped treating him like a thing to break—and started treating him like a threat to contain. That shift meant more traps, more baits, more layered attacks.
Pan began stepping back more often, watching Serik's responses before committing.
Spikes stopped showboating and started targeting.
And Stomp… started smiling.
A dangerous smile.
Day after day, Serik fought them using everything he'd learned. Kōdan to evade. Moon Hollow to redirect. Pulse to punish.
It was never enough.
But he lasted longer. Got up faster. Saw their traps earlier.
One day, during a particularly brutal match, Serik managed to slip a full Jade Pulse under Spikes' rib cage, knocking the breath out of him.
Spikes stumbled, coughing.
Stomp immediately stepped between them, guarding.
Pan flicked her cleaver up—not to strike, but to deflect Serik's follow-up.
The match paused on its own.
Spikes rubbed his side, frowning. "Ow. Okay. That one actually hurt."
Serik breathed hard. "You sound… surprised."
"Most people don't get that far," Spikes muttered.
Pan adjusted her grip on the rolling pin. "Don't get arrogant."
"I'm not," Serik said, straightening. "I'm just not done yet."
Pan blinked at him. "Good."
They rushed him again.
Week 3 brought flow.
Not victory. But flow.
Serik began moving before they attacked. His body understood what was coming—his brain stopped trying to catch up.
He was fighting back.
He turned Stomp's grabs into Moon Hollow redirects, using the big man's weight against him. Spikes had to double feint just to land a hit. And even Pan—flawless, unfeeling Pan—missed once.
Just once.
But it was enough to make her blink.
That alone felt like a win.
They didn't say much after that match. But none of them looked at him the same. Not like a joke. Not like a trainee.
More like a fellow predator.
During one of their short water breaks, Serik sat slumped against the wall. The sun was burning. His whole body ached. But he still asked, "Why do you guys fight together like this? You're too good to be backup."
Spikes stretched lazily. "Orders."
Pan spoke without turning. "Efficiency."
Stomp cracked his knuckles again. "And it's fun beating the crap outta kids."
Serik glared.
Stomp smirked. "Kidding. Mostly."
Spikes sighed. "We've worked together for years. No need to talk. No need to plan. Just instincts."
Serik narrowed his eyes. "That's what Jons wants me to learn."
Pan looked at him, expression unreadable. "Then learn."
And just like that, the break was over.
They came at him harder that day.
Week 4 was the hardest.
It was also the first time Serik tried something new.
On the third day of the week, he got desperate. His body wasn't healing as fast anymore. The fatigue was building. His techniques felt dull. He couldn't breathe between counters. He was drowning.
And in the middle of that chaos—he split his focus.
Deliberately.
He stopped thinking like a solo fighter and started thinking like… them.
One movement ahead.
Two steps wider.
He watched how they moved in relation to each other. Not just to him. Where Pan stepped when Stomp lunged. How Spikes always covered Pan's flanks. How their rhythm followed an invisible beat.
And Serik stepped off-beat.
He let Pan think he was retreating—then cut sideways, using Kōdan's angle to bait Spikes into a blind spot. Stomp charged—but Serik rooted his foot and launched a counter-strike mid-turn.
For the first time, none of them landed a hit in the first exchange.
They froze.
Serik panted, sweat dripping from his jaw. He met their eyes.
"I'm done fighting you," he said, voice hoarse.
Spikes raised an eyebrow. "That a surrender?"
"No," Serik muttered, "I'm done fighting alone."
And then, for the first time in four weeks…
He pushed.
Aggressively.
He feinted at Pan, forcing her back.
Used Moon Hollow to redirect Stomp into Spikes.
Used Pulse—not to strike—but to scatter them, not giving them time to reform their shape.
It didn't win him the match.
But it broke their rhythm.
And by the end of the final match that week…
He was still standing.
Bloody.
Shaking.
But standing.
Pan dusted off her apron, face unreadable. "Acceptable."
Stomp grunted. "Could be worse."
Spikes rubbed his shoulder. "Tired of seeing your face every day. That's a compliment."
Serik let himself laugh. "I'll miss you guys too."
They didn't answer.
But none of them corrected him.
Serik collapsed onto the grass, letting out a long, rattling exhale. His shirt clung to his chest with sweat. Bruises bloomed on his ribs. His shoulder screamed every time he moved it.
But he smiled.
He'd learned the rhythm.
Not just of technique.
But of teamwork.
He stared at the sky, chest rising and falling slowly, as the sun began to dip behind the trees.
For once, the pain felt earned.
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ps?