"Essence users rely too heavily on their abilities," Jirou said one morning as I finished my warm-up exercises. "They forget the body itself is a weapon."
We stood in a section of the training ground I hadn't used before—a flat, circular area marked with concentric rings.
Combat distance markers, I realized.
"Today we begin unarmed combat training," Jirou announced.
I nodded, suddenly alert.
Despite all the physical conditioning, balance work, and endurance training, we hadn't done actual fighting yet.
"Will you be teaching me some ancient secret martial art?" I asked. "Something with an impressive name like 'Shadow Fist of the Void Dragon'?"
Jirou's expression remained impassive.
"No," he said flatly. "Just efficient violence."
So much for my martial arts movie fantasy.
"Stand here," he instructed, pointing to the center of the circle.
I complied, stepping into position.
Without warning, Jirou moved.
One moment he was standing casually several feet away.
The next, his fist was an inch from my face, stopped just short of impact.
I hadn't even seen him move.
"You're dead," he said simply, stepping back.
"That wasn't fair," I protested. "You didn't say we were starting."
"Will your enemies announce their intentions?" Jirou asked.
Fair point.
"Again," he said. "This time, try to react."
He came at me from a different angle.
I managed to flinch backward, but his strike would have connected regardless.
"Dead again," he assessed.
We repeated this exercise for nearly an hour.
Me standing in the center.
Jirou attacking from different angles, at different speeds.
Me failing to defend myself adequately.
By the twentieth "death," frustration was setting in.
"How am I supposed to block what I can't even see?" I demanded.
"You're looking with your eyes," Jirou said. "A fighter reads intent, not just movement."
He positioned himself across from me again.
"Before the body moves, there are signs. Weight shifts. Muscle tensions. Breath changes."
It sounded like mystical nonsense, but I tried to focus on something besides just his hands and feet.
This time, I noticed a subtle shift in his stance before he moved.
I managed to step aside, his strike brushing past me.
"Better," Jirou acknowledged. "Now we begin actual training."
What had we been doing for the past hour if not "actual training"?
From behind a nearby stone structure, Jirou retrieved several wooden figures.
They were roughly human-shaped, standing about my height, carved from some dark, dense wood.
Each had articulated limbs connected by intricate joints.
"Training constructs," Jirou explained. "They will be your opponents."
He positioned one of the figures at the edge of the circle.
"Strike it," he instructed.
I approached the wooden dummy and threw a simple punch at its chest.
The dummy's arm swung up unnaturally fast, blocking my strike.
Then its other arm whipped around, hitting me in the ribs.
I stumbled backward, more surprised than hurt.
"What the—how did it do that?" I asked, staring at the now-motionless dummy.
"The constructs respond to aggression," Jirou explained. "They counter based on your attacks."
He nodded toward the dummy.
"Try again. Different approach."
I circled the wooden figure warily.
This time, I feinted with my left hand, then struck with my right.
The dummy reacted to the feint, leaving an opening.
My right cross connected solidly with its chest.
The wood was unyielding. Pain shot through my knuckles.
"Ow!" I shook my hand, shooting a glare at Jirou. "You could have mentioned they're made of ironwood or something."
"Pain is an excellent teacher," Jirou replied, unmoved by my discomfort. "Continue."
For the next several hours, I fought the training constructs.
Each seemed programmed with different defensive patterns.
Some were aggressive, counterattacking viciously.
Others were evasive, forcing me to chase and corner them.
All were frustratingly effective at exposing my weaknesses.
My knuckles split open within the first hour.
Blood made my grip slippery, my strikes less precise.
Jirou offered no bandages, no breaks.
Just critiques and occasional corrections to my form.
"Your balance is still forward-heavy," he would say. "Correct it."
Or: "That strike wastes energy. Efficiency matters more than power."
By midday, I was a sweaty, bloody mess.
But something was changing.
I started to see the patterns in the constructs' movements.
Started to predict their responses rather than just react to them.
"Your reading improves," Jirou noted. "Now we add complexity."
He positioned three dummies around me in a triangle.
"Multiple opponents rarely attack in sequence," he explained. "You must manage space and attention."
Fighting one dummy had been challenging enough.
Three at once seemed impossible.
They coordinated their attacks, forcing me to constantly shift position, never giving me a clean opportunity to counter.
I took hit after hit.
Wooden fists connecting with ribs, shoulders, back.
Each impact a lesson in pain management.
"Use your breathing," Jirou reminded me from the sidelines. "Pain is just sensation. Control your response to it."
I tried to maintain the breathing pattern even while defending.
Inhale for eight. Hold for four. Exhale for eight. Hold for four.
It helped.
Not with avoiding hits, but with maintaining focus despite the pain.
After what felt like an eternity, Jirou called a halt.
I stood in the center of the circle, chest heaving, sweat and blood dripping onto the stone below.
"Adequate first session," he assessed. "We continue tomorrow."
"Can't wait," I muttered, inspecting my raw knuckles.
The next day brought more of the same.
And the day after that.
And the one after that.
The combat training became a brutal daily ritual.
Two hours each morning against single opponents.
Two hours midday against multiple dummies.
Two hours in the afternoon focusing on specific techniques—blocks, strikes, throws, and evasions.
My body accumulated bruises on top of bruises.
But with each session, I improved.
Movements becoming faster.
Reactions more instinctive.
Pain less distracting.
A week into the combat training, Jirou introduced a new element.
"Today we add weapons," he announced.
The dummies now held wooden swords, staves, and other implements.
"I don't get a weapon?" I asked, eyeing the armed constructs warily.
"Your body is your weapon," Jirou replied. "Learn to defend against armed opponents before you rely on tools yourself."
It was as brutal as it sounded.
The first session left me with a collection of welts and bruises from wooden blades.
But I started to learn.
How to read an armed opponent's intent.
How to time entries and create openings.
How to turn a weapon's momentum against its wielder.
By the second week of combat training, I was holding my own against single armed opponents.
Multiple attackers still overwhelmed me, but I lasted longer each time.
"Your progress is acceptable," Jirou acknowledged one evening. "Tomorrow we test your limits."
That didn't sound ominous at all.
The next morning, I arrived at the combat circle to find Jirou standing with a different training construct.
This one was larger than the others, its wooden surface darkened as if charred.
Strange symbols were carved into its chest and limbs.
"This is an Elite construct," Jirou explained. "It learns as you fight it."
Great.
An adaptive opponent.
"The Elite will start at your current skill level," Jirou continued. "Then gradually increase its difficulty."
He stepped back from the circle.
"Begin when ready."
I approached the Elite construct cautiously.
It stood motionless, waiting for me to make the first move.
I circled it, looking for any sign of weakness or pattern.
Then I attacked with a quick jab toward its midsection.
The construct blocked efficiently—not too fast, not too slow.
About my speed, as Jirou had promised.
I continued testing it with basic combinations.
The Elite responded appropriately, defending without counterattacking yet.
Just as I was starting to feel comfortable with its rhythm, it changed.
A block transitioned smoothly into a strike I hadn't seen coming.
The wooden fist caught me in the shoulder, sending me stumbling backward.
"It adapts," Jirou called from the sideline. "Do not become predictable."
The fight intensified from there.
Each exchange lasted longer.
Each sequence grew more complex.
I landed occasional strikes, but the Elite was learning my patterns faster than I could create new ones.
After fifteen minutes, I was on the defensive entirely.
After thirty, I was taking hits I couldn't avoid.
After forty-five, pure survival instinct kept me going.
Something strange happened around the one-hour mark.
As the Elite drove me toward the edge of the circle with a flurry of strikes, something inside me shifted.
The breathing pattern deepened automatically.
Time seemed to slow slightly.
I could suddenly see the construct's movements with unusual clarity.
Instead of backing away, I stepped forward into its attack.
My strike connected solidly with its chest.
I heard a crack—not from my hand, but from the construct itself.
The Elite staggered backward, something unexpected in its motion.
I pressed forward, landing three more clean hits in rapid succession.
Each impact produced another cracking sound from within the wooden figure.
On the fifth strike, something broke.
A thin line appeared across the Elite's chest, leaking a faint bluish light.
The construct froze momentarily, its movements becoming jerky.
I hesitated, unsure what was happening.
"Continue," Jirou commanded from the sideline.
I attacked again, aiming for the damaged area.
My strike connected, widening the crack.
More light spilled out—not just blue now, but tinged with gold.
The Elite's movements became erratic.
It launched a wild attack that I easily sidestepped.
Then it stopped completely, light pulsing from various cracks in its frame.
"Enough," Jirou said, stepping into the circle.
He examined the damaged construct with an unreadable expression.
"Did I break it?" I asked, breathing heavily but feeling strangely energized.
"A malfunction," Jirou said dismissively. "The older models sometimes glitch under pressure."
He placed a hand on the Elite's chest, covering the largest crack.
The light dimmed and vanished.
"We're finished for today," he announced.
"But we usually train until sunset," I pointed out.
Jirou gave me a sharp look.
"Rest. Recover. We begin weapon training tomorrow."
Without further explanation, he guided the now-dormant Elite construct away from the circle.
I watched him go, confusion mixing with the satisfaction of having finally overpowered one of the training dummies.
That light hadn't seemed like a malfunction.
It looked almost like essence energy—the same kind I'd seen people using in Vandegarde.
But Jirou had sealed my essence here.
And I couldn't remember reading about training constructs having essence cores in "The Infinity Hero."
Then again, there was a lot I couldn't remember about the novel.
Exhaustion caught up with me as the adrenaline faded.
My muscles ached. Fresh bruises were forming. My knuckles were raw despite the calluses that had developed.
I'd worry about glowing training dummies tomorrow.
For now, I'd take the rare gift of extra rest time.
As I settled into my usual meditation spot, I found myself reflecting on my progress.
Two months ago, I could barely run a mile without collapsing.
Now I was fighting multiple opponents, reading intent, moving with purpose.
No essence manipulation yet, but I was becoming something else entirely.
Something more capable.
Something more dangerous.
I closed my eyes, the breathing pattern guiding me toward meditation.
Inhale for eight. Hold for four. Exhale for eight. Hold for four.
And as consciousness drifted, I heard that voice again—faint but unmistakable.
"...close now...almost..."
This time, I was certain I hadn't imagined it.