What do you think the essence of martial arts is all about?
Ask any non-practitioner, and you'll probably get the usual answers: "learning how to fight" or, if you're lucky, something slightly smarter like "learning how to throw a punch."
Others might go a step further and say it's about strategy, reading your opponent, or knowing how to move in a fight.
Some might even talk about discipline, patience, or self-control.
Although they aren't necessarily false, they aren't necessarily true either.
None of them scratch the surface of what martial arts really is.
Because if you asked someone like Noctis Ashen, he'd tell you it's not about defeating others at all—not even flashy moves.
It's about taking control and mastering yourself—your body, your mind, your very existence.
Everything else flows from that. As his hermit master always said between lessons,
"To control the universe, one must first control their own existence."
Seems pretty unsure to some, but… that's simply their philosophy.
"So long old man—pfft! This wine is ass! How the hell did master drink these?"
On the edge of a cliff overlooking a deep canyon as deep as an abyss sat a muscular young man with dark skin and long, wavy black hair that fell loosely over his eyes, hiding them and leaving only his strong jawline and straight nose visible.
The breeze played with his hair as he sat there, relaxed, like he had all the time in the world.
He wore no upper garments, showing well-defined muscles, but what stood out more were the ornaments he wore.
Gold bands wrapped around his upper arms, simple yet elegant, while a thin chain lay across his chest.
From his ears hung large, ornate earrings made of gold and red stones, swaying slightly whenever he moved.
Around his waist, a decorative belt made of circular gold pieces and crimson gems rested over a long robe.
He watched as the sun slowly dipped beyond the horizon, a bittersweet smile adorning his handsome features.
Noctis Ashen, 20 years old first rate martial artist and an orphan.
Glancing over to the patch of dirt where his recently deceased master, who was also his adopted father, is buried, floods of memories came rushing behind his eyes.
From as long as he could remember, the old man was the one who raised him, fed him, and trained him.
He had no idea who his biological parents were.
The old man had told him once, in a rare moment of clarity when he wasn't drinking or talking to himself, that he found him in a cart wreckage somewhere in the forest.
No one survived. Just a crying infant wrapped in torn cloth, left behind in the aftermath of something Noctis would never understand.
That was all he ever got.
From that day on, the old man became his world.
He wasn't gentle by any means. He wasn't kind or loving in the way stories would describe fathers.
Most days, he was rough, impatient, and unpredictable.
There were times when his mind wandered, when he muttered strange words to people who weren't there, or argued with shadows only he could see.
And on other nights, he came home smelling of alcohol, his voice louder than usual, his temper shorter.
Training was harsh. Mistakes were punished through throwing him into the canyon to fight monsters.
Chores were never done "right" in the old man's eyes.
Yet, despite everything, the old man never let him starve.
No matter how bad the day was, there was always food on the table.
No matter how angry he seemed, he never truly abandoned him.
When winter came, Noctis had blankets.
When sickness struck, the old man stayed up through the night, grumbling and cursing, but never leaving his side.
Without him… Noctis knew he likely wouldn't have survived out in the wild.
So even now, sitting beside the quiet mound of earth, he didn't feel an ounce of hatred.
He felt something heavier.
Gratitude.
"…You were a terrible old man," he murmured softly, the wind carrying his words. "But you were still my father."
Noctis Ashen sat in silence, letting the past and present coexist within his chest.
Soon, he decided it was time to head back to their cabin but before that…
*Gulp*
He took another drink of the liquor the old man kept and poured the rest on the grave and left.
Soon, he decided it was time to head back to the cabin—but before that…
Gulp.
He took one last drink from the bottle of liquor the old man used to keep hidden away.
The taste was terrible.
How did the old man drink these things?
Without saying anything, he poured the rest onto the grave.
"For you."
Then he turned and walked away.
The shack wasn't far. It sat alone in the middle of nowhere, surrounded by empty land.
From afar, it looked like it could fall apart at any moment—a small, crooked thing held up by old wood, random sticks, and pure stubbornness.
Yet somehow, the damn thing held up through all odds.
Noctis stepped inside and closed the door behind him. The place felt emptier than usual.
He walked past the tiny living space and headed straight for the study.
Books were everywhere.
They were stacked on the floor, stuffed into shelves, and scattered across tables.
Manuals on different martial arts styles. Old educational books on things he barely understood as a kid.
And then there were the notes—the old man's notes.
A bunch of messy dribbles and diagrams.
The old man had been trying to create his very own—never seen before martial arts.
Not just another fighting style, but something completely different.
His idea was strange, almost ridiculous:
"Becoming an independent existence."
People would've laughed if they heard it.
But Noctis couldn't.
Because in a way, he was proof that the old man hadn't been completely wrong.
From a young age, his training had been unusual.
Not just punches and kicks, but weird breathing methods, long periods of isolation, and exercises that felt less like martial arts and more like experiments. Over time, something about him had changed.
His chi was different and he could stuff with it others couldn't do and also,
He didn't feel as connected to the world as other people did.
He was still human, still alive—but it was like part of him stood slightly apart from everything else.
Noctis picked up one of the old notebooks and stared at the handwriting.
"…You were crazy, old man," he muttered.
Noctis glanced around the room.
Leaving them behind felt wasteful.
So he didn't.
He picked up the nearest book and hovered his hand over it.
His breathing slowed, his mind settling into that familiar state he'd trained for years to reach.
The "chi" inside him moved quietly—neither loud or violent like other martial artists described, but subtle, almost invisible.
The book began to change.
Instead of tearing or burning, it slowly broke apart, as if it was dissolving into tiny fragments of light.
Those fragments flowed toward him and disappeared into his hand.
A moment later, he opened his eyes.
He knew everything in that book.
Not like he had memorized it.
More like he had lived it.
He grabbed another book.
Then another.
One by one, the books vanished.
Martial arts styles. Old theories. Educational texts. The old man's strange ideas.
Each time, knowledge flowed into him effortlessly.
Hours passed without him noticing, until the room looked emptier than it ever had.
Only a few loose pages remained on the desk.
Most of them were normal.
Except one.
It was old and yellowed, with symbols he didn't recognize. They didn't look like any language he had absorbed so far. They felt… off.
He felt quite sure the old man hadn't written this.
Noctis stared at it for a moment.
Then shrugged.
"Guess I'll take this too."
The page dissolved the moment he touched it.
And suddenly, something popped up in his mind.
A faint blue message.
[Traveling System Activated.]
Noctis blinked.
"…What the hell is that?"
The old shack stayed silent.
I knew that page was no good.
Chapter 1 end.