Vane marched Cal toward the center of the training circle with the joy of a boy who'd just been handed his favorite toy.

  Cal matched his pace, striding steadily. He'd fought through a feral goblin pack and its matriarch alone, stood toe-to-toe with Rielle Draha—this was just another test. Another step on the Path.

  The packed dirt crunched under his boots. Around them, legionaries continued their drills of grappling and striking, of driving each other into the ground. The dull percussion of flesh meeting flesh punctuated the morning air.

  Cal reached out with his [Spiritual Perception], scanning the yard.

  A sea of crimson auras bloomed in his awareness, mostly deep red. Every single one blazed with the distinct color of the Martial Path, their power signatures resonating at frequencies that marked them as Mid to High F-tier. Vane himself must have been near the body threshold.

  He felt a touch of nerves.

  Legion veterans filled the yard, men and women who'd spent years training, earning their power and competence through mortal combat. They were professionals.

  Not that it should matter.

  He still had a significant amount of combat experience, as well as his Impartments to fall back on. While his Pseudo-Peak F-tier physique might be matched by the opponent, he was no pushover. He rolled his shoulders as they reached the center of the yard. Vane stopped and turned to face him, still grinning, bouncing on the balls of his feet.

  "Ready, Mister Sovereign whatsit called?"

  Cal had removed his armor before following Vane into the dirt—a decision that now felt questionable. The boiled leather that usually covered him sat in a neat pile near the edge of the yard alongside his spear and pack. He wore only his undershirt and canvas trousers. "Ready."

  "Good!"

  Vane blasted forward.

  The first punch came at Cal's face—a straight jab that snapped through the air with the smart crack of knuckles cutting wind. Cal jerked his head back, the fist missing his nose by inches.

  The second punch followed. Another jab. Then a third.

  Cal raised his forearms to block, his body falling into defensive patterns he'd drilled with Captain Hatch. His hands wanted to grip something. His stance expected leverage his empty palms couldn't provide.

  The fourth punch slipped past his guard and caught him on the shoulder.

  Vane hammered the fifth into his ribs.

  The man's grin widened. "Come on, Shiny! Hit back!"

  Cal threw a punch—awkward and slow—which Vane easily slipped. The counterpunch caught Cal square in the sternum, driving the air from his lungs, causing him to stumble back a step.

  What the ham is happening?

  His [Savant of the Body] should be compensating. He'd become adept at [Breaching Thrust] in days, developed [Flicker Step] through observation and self-discovery alone. But here, in this exchange, his instincts were failing him.

  The warrior pressed forward, throwing another combination. Jab, cross, hook. The punches came in a relentless rhythm, each one forcing Cal to react. He tried to parry the next jab—his forearm snapping out to intercept Vane's fist and redirect it. His arm moved improperly, sweeping in too wide an arc as his wrist rotated to guide a phantom spear haft. The motion, honed for deflecting weapons at a distance, proved useless against a bare fist.

  Vane's punch sailed past Cal's attempted parry and crashed into his jaw. The blow drove his teeth into his cheek, his vision flashing white as hot blood filled his mouth.

  "Looking for your stick, Sovereign?" Vane laughed, the sound carrying across the yard. "No weapons today!"

  Cal spat blood into the sawdust, his jaw throbbing while his mind raced.

  The Impartments work fine, but my muscle memory is the problem.

  Every reflex, every instinctive movement—all of it assumed he was holding a weapon. His body expected to fight with six feet of hardwood and steel between him and his opponent.

  Without it, he was handicapped.

  Vane circled him, still bouncing around like the Energizer Bunny. "Come on… don't get quiet on me! I thought you were supposed to be special!"

  Cal raised his fists, forcing his mind to process the situation. Vane is more experienced. Superior proficiency in every unarmed Skill. If I can—

  He closed the gap before Cal could finish the thought.

  A heavy cross slammed into Cal's exposed stomach. Breath left him in a wheezing rush as his abdominal muscles seized. He doubled over, gasping, his eyesight tunneling.

  Should have—cough—kept the armor on.

  Vane stepped back, giving Cal space to recover. "You're tough, I'll give you that. But tough doesn't win fights against me."

  Cal straightened slowly, one hand pressed against his stomach. Around them, the other legionnaires had started to look, the ferocious pace of their drills slowing. Heads turned.

  Vane noticed the shift in the yard, his expression brightening with manic delight.

  "Berrick!" He called out to a stocky man with a shaved head who'd paused mid-grapple. "Five silver says Shiny here can't stay on his feet for two minutes!"

  The man—Berrick—barked a laugh. "No bet! He's barely on 'is feet now."

  "Ria!" Vane pointed at a lean woman with her dark hair tied back in a severe braid. "What about you? C'mon, he beat Lady Draha. He should be sturdy enough to take more of a beating!"

  Ria studied Cal. "One minute. Ain't no way he lasts two."

  The other legionnaires abandoned their drills entirely, forming a loose ring around the yard. They shouted encouragement, insults, and their own wagers. The professional training session had transformed into a spectacle.

  And Cal was the main attraction.

  Vane launched a fresh assault, but this time he was performing. He threw a wild haymaker—telegraphed, obvious—and when Cal ducked under it, Vane spun with the momentum and threw his arms wide.

  "Ooh! He's got eyes! Did you see that dodge?"

  The crowd laughed.

  Cal's face burned. Focus. Adapt.

  He reached for his [Perfect Memory], pulling up every scrap of hand-to-hand combat knowledge he possessed. College came back in a rush—late nights in his dorm, cheap kung fu movies on a scratched DVD player, actors performing impossible feats of martial artistry.

  A specific scene surfaced from the cinematic memory: a circular trap where the defender flowed around an opponent's punch, using the attacker's own force to create an opening for a devastating counter.

  This tale has been pilfered from Royal Road. If found on Amazon, kindly file a report.

  It was perfect.

  Vane closed the distance again, throwing another combination. Jab, cross, jab.

  Cal waited. Watched. Analyzed the rhythm.

  When the next cross came, he acted.

  [Savant of the Body] made executing the technique a thing of beauty. His hands swept up in a spiral arc, his torso rotating, his weight shifting to guide Vane's fist past his centerline. The movement was identical to the one from the movie—graceful and controlled.

  Vane ignored it completely.

  The rangy man dropped his hips, dove under the fancy hand-waving and rocketed his shoulder upward into Cal’s sternum.

  The impact felt like being hit by a charging bull.

  Cal's feet left the ground. He spun through the air—sky, ground, Vane's laughing face, sky again—before crashing into the earth.

  "Whoa!" Vane threw his arms up, turning to address the crowd. "Did you see that? He tried to dance with me!" He spun in a circle, mimicking Cal's technique with exaggerated flourishes. "No dancing in the dirt, Pretty!"

  The legionaries erupted in laughter.

  Cal lay there a stunned moment, staring at the pale morning sky with ringing ears. Every breath brought fresh pain from his bruised ribs, while a throb resonated from the shoulder he'd landed on and his jaw continued to ache.

  And above all that, the laughter washed over him.

  "That's under one minute!" Vane checked an imaginary timepiece. "Ria, pay up!"

  Cal pushed himself up on his elbows.

  Ria spit. "Double or nothin'. Cap'n wouldn't 'ave put him here if that's all he could do."

  Well, that sucked. Who knew that movies weren't real?

  The technique assumed the opponent would commit to a straight punch and follow through. It assumed controlled, choreographed violence where both parties understood their roles. It assumed the attacker wouldn't simply bulldoze through the defense with brute force and superior technique.

  It was awesome, cinematic, and useless.

  What else do I have?

  He cycled through his Earth memories, searching for applicable knowledge. Boxing. MMA. Anything that might translate to this reality.

  The problem was simple: his life on Earth as a corporate drone, one who scrolled past UFC highlights on his phone, had left his combat knowledge rooted in little more than fantasy.

  Then stop looking for combat techniques. Right now, I need to handle this lesson without breaking anything. Spinova isn't going to bail me out again. Besides, I want to see this guy pay up.

  He had an idea. Cal had spent years watching his daughter Katie compete in gymnastics when she was younger.

  He pushed himself to his knees, then to his feet. The crowd's laughter faded to a murmur. Vane waited, still hopping lightly on his toes.

  "Back for more already? I like it!"

  Cal didn't respond. His mind was elsewhere, pulling up memories of Katie's floor routines. The tumbling passes. The dynamic rolls. The way gymnasts absorbed impact by distributing force across their entire body, never fighting gravity, always flowing with it.

  Acrobats and tumblers didn't win fights. But they knew how to fall. How to recover. How to move their bodies through space with precision and control.

  That's what I need. Mobility and recovery. Not fancy strikes.

  Vane charged again, his fists already flying.

  Cal dropped his weight and rolled backward when the first punch came at his face—a controlled gymnastics roll that brought him back to his feet three yards away.

  [New Skill Gained: Tumbling (F) - Novice]

  Vane's punch hit empty air.

  "Ooh! Running now?"

  Cal didn't take the bait. He turned his attention inward, feeling the movement patterns his [Savant of the Body] had just absorbed. The roll had worked. The muscle memory was already forming, his nervous system cataloguing the sensation of weight distribution, the angle of his shoulders, the timing of the movement.

  Again.

  Vane closed the distance and threw another combination. Cal dodged the first punch, absorbed the second on his forearm, and when the third punch forced him off balance, he didn't fight it. He tucked his chin, rolled with the momentum, and came up in a defensive crouch.

  [Your proficiency with Tumbling (F) has increased to Practiced]

  The crowd's murmur shifted. Someone shouted something Cal couldn't make out.

  Vane's grin faltered for half a second. "Cute trick. Let's see how long you can keep it up!"

  The assault intensified. Vane stopped playing to the crowd and started hunting. His punches came faster, harder, targeting Cal's body, his legs, anywhere that would disrupt his balance and ground him.

  Cal rolled and dove. Though he failed to land a single blow, each evasion became a lesson his Impartment absorbed and refined.

  A punch clipped his shoulder and spun him around, a rotation he converted into a forward roll to create distance.

  Another punch caught him in the kidney, the lancing pain driving him to one knee. He gave Vane no opening to capitalize, pushing off the ground and tucking into a side roll that brought him back to his feet.

  "Slippery little bastard!"

  Cal's lungs started to burn, but his muscles still had plenty left, appreciating the increased Endurance. Sweat broke out on his face, mixing with the blood from his split lip. His mind remained clear, cataloguing every successful evasion, every failed attempt, every micro-adjustment his Impartments made to improve his [Tumbling] technique while his expert [Dodge] and passable [Unarmed Block] filled in the gaps.

  Vane feinted left, then drove a savage right hook toward Cal's temple.

  He saw it coming—his [Combat Analysis] flagging the deception—and dropped into a backward roll. His shoulders hit the sawdust. His legs went over his head. He completed the rotation and sprang back to his feet.

  The crowd was silent now. They were watching in earnest.

  Cal raised his fists again, drawing deep, controlled breaths. His entire body was a map of bruises, but his eyes were alert and calm.

  Vane studied him with new interest. The manic grin had faded into something more genuine.

  "You're not running," Vane said quietly. "You're learning."

  "That's the idea."

  "Hah!" The grin returned, appreciative. "Good. I was starting to think you were just another empty title."

  He came at Cal again, and while the violence remained overwhelming, a predictable rhythm began to emerge from the assault.

  Vane threw a jab. Cal slipped it.

  A cross. Cal ducked under.

  A hook. Cal rolled backward, creating space.

  "Better! Now you're in the fight!"

  Vane juked to Cal's left side then planted hard, his right leg snapping out in a savage arc aimed at Cal's knee.

  He wasn't confident in checking the kick and didn't have time to get range.

  Up and over.

  Throwing his head back, Cal launched himself skyward while manifesting the memory of Katie’s floor routine and its explosive, tightly-tucked power. [Savant of the Body] seized the concept and translated it into kinetic reality.

  He inverted in mid-air. The world became a blur of brown dirt and blue sky. Vane's shin whistled harmlessly through the space Cal's legs had occupied a split-second prior. He landed in a crouch, sawdust puffing around his boots.

  [New Skill Gained: Acrobatics (F) - Novice]

  "Show-off!" Vane laughed, but his eyes were intense.

  Cal didn't waste breath on a response. His concentration narrowed to the immediate problem: getting through the next exchange. Then the one after that. Then the one after that.

  Every punch taught him something. Every dodge cultivated his movement. Each roll built muscle memory that would serve him in the next fight, the next contract, the next desperate moment where his spear wasn't enough.

  Vane finally managed to sweep Cal's legs out from under him with a well-timed kick.

  Hitting the ground he landed hard, but Cal converted the fall into a backward roll before Vane could follow up. He came to his feet, fists raised, ready to continue.

  Someone in the crowd whistled. "How long has'it been?"

  "Five minutes!"

  "Six!"

  Pain radiated from a dozen distinct impact points, yet his vision was unclouded. His lungs pumped with a steady, powerful rhythm, ignoring the fatigue that would have crippled a lesser fighter, and his mind stayed sharp as his mind recorded every moment for later analysis.

  Vane stepped back, raising his hands. "That's enough."

  "What?"

  "I said that's enough." Vane's grin was genuine now. "You proved your point, Sovereign."

  The crowd murmured approval. A few even clapped.

  Cal didn't understand. He hadn't won. Hadn't even landed a blow. He'd spent the entire session getting beaten, using gymnastic tricks to avoid getting knocked unconscious.

  Sergeant Tanner's voice cut through the noise.

  "Fall out."

  The crowd dispersed, returning to their own drills. Vane offered Cal a hand.

  Cal stared at it for a moment, then clasped it and shook.

  "You're crazy," Vane said. "I like crazy. My name's Elias, by the way."

  Cal wiped blood off his mouth with his other hand. "Cal. And I didn't feel like I had much choice."

  "You had plenty of choices. You could have quit. Could have stayed down. Could have cried for Sergeant Tanner to stop it." Vane clapped him on the shoulder hard enough to make Cal wince. "You didn't. That means something."

  Tanner approached, his expression unreadable. He studied Cal, seeming to catalogue every bruise.

  "Valorn."

  "Sergeant."

  "You're bleeding on my training ground."

  Cal glanced down. Blood had dripped from his face down onto his shirt and the ground below. "Sorry, Sergeant."

  "Don't apologize. Clean yourself up if you need to and then get back to it."

  He blinked. "Keep training?"

  "Did I stutter?"

  "No, Sergeant."

  Tanner turned to Vane. "Your assessment?"

  "Zero proficiency in unarmed combat." Vane's grin returned. "But he's got good instincts and doesn't quit."

  Tanner nodded. "Good. Keep it up." He looked at Cal. "No more running around." The sergeant walked away, already barking orders at another squad.

  Cal stood in the sawdust, bruised and sore, but thrilled with the success of his new evasive options. Around him, the Legion resumed its savage productivity, the morning's spectacle already forgotten.

  Vane slapped his back again. "Let's get back to it, Shiny. I want to see if you can learn to throw a punch."

  Cal met his eyes. He'd entered this session thinking he was ready, believing his past victories had made him capable.

  The Legion had corrected that assumption.

  But unlike the tournament, where victory or defeat was measured in material gain and prestige, this lesson would save his life. When his spear broke, when his Abilities failed, when he found himself in close quarters with an opponent who wanted him dead—these movements, these reflexes, would be the difference between survival and a shallow grave.

  Cal spat more blood into the sawdust, then raised his fists.

  "Again."

  Vane's smile grew into something feral. "That's the spirit!"

  The bigger man surged forward, but this time Cal was ready.