Two days rolled by after Alex broke through into his third stage of cultivation.
Out in the open, to the residents of the Wyndhams clan, he was still "that new stage one kid."
Nothing special. Nothing dangerous. Just another recruit.
But inside, Alex knew the truth.
During those two days, they put him through simple physical drills and long meditation sessions. Nothing heavy. Nothing that could expose him. He did everything quietly, hitting every command, keeping his head down.
And with that breakthrough, his strength had returned—not the full power of a stage three warrior, but the strength he once held before entering the clan.
Alex had been a stage two warrior back then.
And the gap between stage one and stage two wasn't some dramatic, earth-shaking leap like evolving. It was built on grind, discipline, and how well someone trained their body.
A stage two warrior simply held more qi, more control, and could use stronger techniques.
That was the real difference.
Not raw strength. Not brute force.
Because of this, Alex now carried the strength he used to have. He could feel it in his bones, in every controlled breath. But even then, limits pressed on him, reminding him he wasn't free yet.
To the Wyndhams family, however, Alex was nothing more than a new stage one with zero techniques to his name. A clean slate. No threat.
He knew he had to keep it that way.
If he used any technique—even the most basic one—someone would ask how he learned it. And if the technique wasn't something the clan taught, things would get messy fast.
Alex wasn't ready to answer those questions.
Not yet.
Not here.
Training with Gavalich had finally stopped feeling like torture.
That was one good thing.
Alex realized why fast—the training his new stage could handle was built on the brutal routines of the Dragon Roar clan. Compared to that, the Wyndhams' methods weren't even close. Their drills felt lighter, softer… almost gentle.
But a new problem showed up anyway.
Even though he no longer got tired fast while Gavalich watched over him, Alex was now told to spar with other members of the clan—regular stage one warriors.
And that was the issue.
These people had techniques.
Alex had techniques too… but he couldn't use a single one of them.
Not without raising eyebrows. Not without someone demanding answers he couldn't give.
Right now, Alex stood barefoot on the polished training floor, facing the opponent assigned to him.
He kept his breathing steady.
Kept his stance simple.
No flashy moves, nothing suspicious.
His dogo clothes brushed lightly against the floor as he shifted his feet. Over the last few days, he'd learned the meaning behind the colors everyone wore.
There were only three.
White.
Black.
And the gold-yellow he had on his shoulders.
White meant juniors—fresh recruits, new blood.
Black meant seniors—the ones who had stayed long enough to earn a place and some respect.
But the gold-yellow… that was different. That was the mark only the Wyndham family members wore, plus a few chosen people like Jimmy and Henry.
It wasn't the strongest rank.
It wasn't even earned through combat.
It was simply the "Elite" dressing—the highest uniform class in the clan's structure.
Funny enough, someone could be stronger than a gold-wearer and still be stuck wearing white. That's how their system worked.
Still, most people in white were low-level newcomers.
Most people in black had the years and the scars.
And Alex stood there in gold, pretending to be weak, pretending to be a beginner, while the man across from him bounced lightly on his feet, ready to use techniques Alex wasn't allowed to answer with.
He steadied himself. This was going to be messy.
Standing before Alex was a tall, slim kid—just a hair older than him. Oblong face. Bald head. A stage-one warrior, steady and practiced. Alex had to spar him.
Gavalich hovered a little back, watching from the middle of the field.
"Start!" Gavalich barked.
The kid lunged.
He spun. A roundhouse kick aimed at Alex's head.
Alex stepped back. The kick whistled past. Close call.
The kid didn't stop. His planted leg snapped off the ground and came swinging again—faster, straighter. A low, rooted strike meant to take the ankles out from under a man.
Alex raised both hands and met it like a boxer takes a punch.
Pain lanced through his forearms. Not enough to drop him—just enough to remind him the kid had trained. Grit tasted bitter in his mouth.
'Not bad,' Alex thought.
The kid hovered for a breath, almost airborne, trying to find balance. That hesitation was all Alex needed.
He shoved qi into his rear leg—small, controlled. The kick he sent back wasn't showy. It was precise. Steel and timing.
The kid staggered. His foot slid. Alex followed through, a clean counterkick to the ribs that snapped the air out of him.
The boy hit the ground hard.
Alex landed light, breathing steady. No flourish. No boasting.
Gavalich nodded once—brief approval.
The guy rolled across the ground, dirt kicking up around him.
Alex didn't slow down. He dashed in, planted a foot, and flipped forward. His shin came down like a falling bar of iron.
The kid reacted fast. One arm shot out to the side, fingers stiff, palm cutting the air.
Boom.
A small shock popped off his body, pushing him sideways. The Buster Technique—simple, sharp, and annoying.
Alex's shin cracked into the floor instead of the target.
The kid sprang up while Alex was still landing. He lifted his foot, ready to stomp Alex into the mat.
Alex twisted. A clean spin, low to the ground. His leg swept out and slammed into the kid's supporting leg.
The boy's balance vanished. He crashed down again.
He tried to rise, but Alex stepped in and planted his foot square on the kid's chest.
"You lose," Alex said, breathing steady.
The kid didn't take it well. He shoved Alex's foot aside and tried to copy the same sweep Alex had used.
But Alex was already waiting for it. He hopped just enough—light, quick. The sweep cut through empty air.
Alex's fist came down before the boy could reset. A tight punch, knuckles sinking straight into the cheek.
Crack.
The kid's lip split open, a thin streak of blood sliding down as his head snapped to the side.
Alex drew his hand back, calm, ready for whatever came next.
'Shit… that was meant to be Stage One strength,' Alex thought, flexing his stinging knuckles.
"That's enough," Gavalich called out.
He stepped closer, voice steady. "That's enough training for today."
Alex exhaled and reached out to help the boy up. The gesture didn't land. The kid slapped Alex's hand aside, stood on his own, and stormed off with his jaw tight and his pride even tighter.
Alex watched him go, then shrugged and wiped sweat from his brow.
"You're truly good at martial arts," Gavalich said. "If you combine that with qi, you'd be dangerous even without techniques."
Alex didn't bother reacting. Compliments weren't food; they didn't fill him. He walked over to the crate, grabbed a cold bottle, and twisted it open.
"Speaking of techniques…" Gavalich continued.
Alex lifted the bottle halfway to his mouth.
"It's time you pick a technique to learn."
Alex froze. The bottle hovered inches from his lips.
"Technique…?" he said slowly.
Gavalich didn't answer.
He just smiled.