The week began with silence.
No birdsong. No wind. Just the crunch of Serik's bare feet on the courtyard dirt and the even, measured sound of his own breath. His posture was still, but tense. His limbs sore but ready.
Jons stood nearby, hands clasped behind his back, his gaze steady.
"Today," he said, "you will learn the final core movement of the White Emperor Style."
Serik's heartbeat quickened.
"It is called Emperor's Root. Unlike the others, it is not about evading or striking. It is the core beneath the core. Without it, the rest will eventually collapse."
He stepped forward, and for the first time in days, Jons demonstrated.
His feet moved slowly. Deliberate.
One step forward—heel pressing into the dirt, toes gripping, knees bent just enough. His torso dropped lower than Serik expected, his hips grounded deeply. His arms didn't swing—they rose from the movement of his legs, as though pulled by the earth itself.
When he stopped, his whole frame was locked into place.
Still, rooted, and yet… alive with tension.
"If Moon Hollow is the wind," Jons said, "Root is the mountain. You will not learn to resist. You will learn to absorb."
He stepped out of the stance, turned to Serik, and nodded once.
"Begin."
Serik mirrored the steps.
He dropped into a deep stance—but too fast.
"Too shallow," Jons said.
He tried again.
"Too rigid."
Again.
"Now you're holding your breath."
Serik gritted his teeth and reset. Again. And again. His knees ached. His calves screamed. He'd spent so long learning to move, to flow, to react… and now he had to stop. To root himself.
By the end of the first day, he could barely walk.
But he didn't complain.
The second day, he began to understand how the posture worked—how energy could coil through his legs and channel through his frame.
The third day, Jons added resistance drills. Pressing his palm against Serik's shoulder, pushing forward—not with force, but with intent. Serik had to absorb it.
It felt impossible.
But the fourth day, he succeeded once.
The fifth, five times.
The sixth, he caught a falling post with nothing but a shoulder roll and rooted stance—and it held.
By the seventh day, sweat pouring down his back, Serik could drop into Root and hold it even while Jons tried to shove him off balance.
No words were exchanged that morning.
But Serik saw the brief flicker of approval in Jons' eyes.
And that was enough.
On the eighth day, everything changed.
"You will now spar," Jons said, "and apply what you've learned."
Serik stared at him, blinking. "All four techniques?"
Jons gave a single nod.
"Every spar from this point forward will expect transitions. Combinations. Improvisation."
"And you'll still be my partner."
Jons didn't blink. "Unless you'd prefer someone less forgiving."
Serik snorted. "Right. Let's go then."
The week that followed became a storm of movement and pain and precision.
Each morning, Serik stretched his battered muscles and stood in the courtyard, ready. Each morning, Jons faced him without emotion—and without mercy.
They fought in cycles. Jons attacked, Serik defended.
But now the attacks didn't come in predictable lines. They came in bursts—some soft, some heavy, some feints. Serik had to feel which technique to use.
A straight strike? Kōdan.
An overhand rush? Moon Hollow.
A sudden grapple? Root.
An opening? Jade Pulse.
But using one meant leaving another open.
And so he had to chain them.
Kōdan into Root.
Moon Hollow into Pulse.
Jons never praised him. He didn't need to. The proof was in the bruises Serik avoided. In the small moments he pushed Jons back a step. In the sparks of recognition between movements.
On the fourth day of sparring, Serik managed to land a clean blow—Jade Pulse, straight to Jons' ribs, following a Moon Hollow deflection. Jons took the hit, absorbed it, and countered with a sweep that flattened Serik instantly.
But before he hit the ground, Serik smiled.
On the sixth day, the spar went on longer. Minutes, not seconds. Jons pressed harder. Faster. Serik flowed.
Kōdan. Root. Hollow. Pulse.
Strike. Breathe. Ground. Move.
When it ended, Serik was bleeding from a split lip, but he was standing.
And Jons gave him a nod before turning away.
By the seventh day, Serik woke up sore in every joint, every tendon. But he stood anyway.
The spar lasted almost half an hour.
When it was over, Serik collapsed.
Now, the sun was beginning to set.
Serik lay flat in the grass, his arms spread out like a fallen scarecrow, chest rising and falling in huge, gasping breaths. His shirt was drenched in sweat. Dirt streaked his face and limbs. His knuckles were raw. His eyes burned from fatigue.
But he was smiling.
Somewhere above him, he heard the sound of footsteps.
Jons stood at the edge of the courtyard, entirely composed.
Not a speck of dirt on him. Not a bead of sweat.
He looked down at Serik.
"You are ready," he said.
Serik didn't respond. He was too tired to speak.
Jons continued anyway.
"You've proven you can move. You can think. You can adapt. But what comes next is beyond what I can simulate."
He turned, began walking back toward the house.
Serik stared up at the sky, lungs still trying to catch up.
And then he heard Jons' final words, calm but resolute, carried by the wind:
"Tomorrow you will learn how teamwork can defeat most foes."