The first morning, I woke before sunrise, the city outside still lost in shadow. The air in my apartment was cold, sharp enough to sting my lungs, but I welcomed the clarity it brought. I dressed in silence, rolling my shoulders, feeling the strength and tightness in muscles that remembered more than I did. Today, there would be no hesitation. Today, I would become relentless.
Samuel was already waiting at the dojo, sweeping the floor with calculated patience. His eyes flicked to me as I entered, then away. "Stances," he said. That was all. No greeting, no comfort. I took my place on the polished boards, legs wide, knees bent. The horse stance burned immediately, fire licking up my thighs. Samuel watched the tremble, waited for the collapse, and only nodded when I refused to yield.
He circled me, correcting posture with a tap of his staff, always silent, always watching. Sweat pooled under me. "Again." This word became a mantra, repeated with every adjusted stance: crane, cat, bow, horse. Each time my muscles screamed, Samuel's voice cut through—"Again." I lost count of the hours. My body shook, and still I held.
When my legs finally buckled, Samuel handed me a wooden staff. "Balance. Precision. Control." I copied his movements, awkward at first, but Daniel's muscle memory filled in the gaps. The staff spun, sliced, and jabbed through the air. My hands blistered, my arms ached, but I pressed on until the staff felt like an extension of my will.
Samuel set up fragile cups on the floor. "Strike. No sound. No breakage." My first attempt sent a cup spinning. Samuel said nothing. I tried again, and again, until the staff moved like a shadow—gentle, silent, precise. Every failure was a lesson. Every success is a fleeting miracle.
Midday brought a short break. Samuel tossed me a rice ball. "Eat. You will need it." I ate in silence, the food bland but nourishing. My hands shook, not from hunger, but from exhaustion.
After lunch, the tempo changed. Samuel attacked without warning—a jab, a sweep, a pressure point strike. I reacted as quickly as I could, but often too slowly. "Faster," he demanded. "No wasted thought." I learned to move on instinct, letting my body guide me when my mind was overwhelmed.
He hurled questions as he struck: "Who are you fighting for?"—a palm strike to my chest. "What do you fear?"—a sweep at my legs. "What will you sacrifice?"—an elbow aimed at my ribs. Answers had to come as fast as my blocks. "Chloe!" I gasped, ducking. "Losing myself!" as I spun. "Everything!" as I countered. Samuel's attacks never slowed.
As dusk approached, Samuel introduced blindfolds. "You must see without seeing." The world shrank to sound, scent, the rush of displaced air. Every footfall was a signal; every breath, a warning. I stumbled, fell, stood, and tried again. When I finally blocked an attack I could not see, Samuel grunted approval.
Evenings were spent in meditation. Samuel's voice was a low hum: "Stillness is a weapon. Find the eye of the storm." I faced my ghosts—my old life, my regrets, my anger. I forced myself to breathe through them, to let them pass unchallenged.
The next morning, training was harder. Samuel brought in two older students to spar with me. Their strikes were sharp, their rhythm merciless. Every mistake left a bruise, a lesson carved in flesh. I learned to anticipate pain, to let it teach rather than hinder. "Pain is the edge of growth," Samuel intoned.
He made me run until my lungs burned, climb ropes until my arms failed, and hold planks until sweat blinded me. On other days, he tested my mind: puzzles, riddles, meditations that forced me to question my own nature. I recited the names of every muscle, every bone, until I commanded them like a general commands an army.
The rain did not stop us. Samuel led me outside, the ground slippery and cold. "The Old Gods do not wait for fair weather." We trained until my clothes clung to me, until my skin was numb. I learned to love the discomfort, to let it sharpen me.
Sometimes, Samuel attacked at dawn, catching me just as I entered the dojo, or in the middle of meditation. "You must be ready for anything. The Old Gods won't announce themselves." He pressed me until I could react in my sleep, until my body and mind were one.
Nightly, bruised and aching, I wrote down everything I remembered from the day's training—technique, philosophy, failures, and small victories. The act of writing became its own discipline, a way to track progress and remind myself that I could become more than I was.
After a week, Samuel added weapons—short blades, staffs, and even improvised tools. "An Old God will not always fight fair. You must be ready to use anything." I learned to turn a broom into a spear, a belt into a whip, a pen into a dart.
The days blurred. Each dawn brought more drills: breakfalls, rolls, grappling, striking, defending against two, three, sometimes four attackers. When I faltered, Samuel was patient. When I excelled, he said nothing, letting discipline be its own reward.
As my body hardened, so did my resolve. Sleep became a weapon, a tool to heal, never a luxury. I began to dream of the Old Gods—faces I'd never seen, voices like thunder. I woke each day more determined.
Samuel's approval was rare, but when it came—a nod, a glance, a brief word—it meant more than any praise I'd ever received before.
Twenty-five days passed, each one harder than the last. By the end, I could outlast the senior students. I could anticipate Samuel's attacks before he moved. I could silence my doubts and face my fears. I was not the man I had been. I was something new: forged by pain, tempered by will, ready for any challenge, even facing the Old Gods themselves. As I left the dojo, Samuel handed me a small bottle of painkillers, his eyes searching mine. I hesitated, feeling the familiar weight of discomfort in my bones. With a slow nod, I handed the bottle back. 'I won't need these. I want to feel every part of this journey.' Samuel smiled, understanding passing between us. It was a subtle gesture, but one that spoke volumes about how much I had changed.
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