RYAN POV
The first light of dawn found me already awake, the cool mountain air a sharp contrast to the humid air of Rameshwaram. I had followed Danny's advice, waking well before the sun, and by the time the sky began to bleed from indigo to violet, I was on the roof of the dojo, a solitary figure against the vast expanse of the Kunlun Mountains.
As the sun crested the peaks, painting the world in a wash of gold, I took in a deep breath and let the crisp air fill my lungs. As I exhaled, I silently chanted "Om Namah Shivaya" and continued this rhythmic breathing for the next fifteen minutes. Once the breathing exercise was complete, I began the flowing movements of Surya Namaskar, the Sun Salutation, my body moving with a practiced grace born of years of repetition.
This had become my daily ritual, a routine ingrained in me by my great-grandmother. It was the first exercise we did every morning. I had once asked her the reason behind it, and she had explained the benefits and the limits in a way that had always stuck with me.
The chanting and the deep breathing were not just exercises; they were a way of gathering energies, allowing our bodies to harmonize with the subtle power that permeated the environment at dawn.
The Surya Namaskar, she had said, was how we bound that energy to our bodies and used it to strengthen ourselves.
"After the first movement of the Surya Namaskar, we have exactly 288 seconds," she would say, her voice as calm as a still lake, "before the energy is dissipated from our body."
The number of perfect cycles we could complete could be converted into hours of extreme training, she explained, but every moment, every subtle transition, had to be perfect.
The slightest imperfection, the smallest waver in focus, and the effects would diminish drastically.
By the time I finished my routine, I had performed three perfect cycles. When I had once asked my great-grandmother and grandmother how many they could perform, both had simply scoffed at me in response, a silent challenge that had both frustrated and motivated me.
I climbed down from the roof just as Lei Kung stepped out of his chambers, his eyes fixed on me. "Looks like you have some foundation for physical training," he said, a note of approval in his stoic voice. "You have been trained properly."
"Do you know about the cycles of Surya Namaskar?" I asked, a flicker of hope that he might provide the answers my family never did.
"I do," he replied. "Every three cycles, starting from the first, is a new stage. Each time the number of cycles you can complete increases by a multiplier of three, your physical fitness is enhanced by a stage."
"What is the highest number that can be performed?" I asked, my curiosity piqued.
"The highest number the human body can theoretically achieve is eighteen cycles at its peak," he explained, a far-off look in his eyes. "But in truth, there is no upper limit. There have been stories of people who have broken past the threshold of the theoretical peak of the human body."
"Why theoretically?"
"Because that would require the extreme development of each muscle group, absolute control over every one of them, and a perfect sense of balance, breathing, and reaction to execute. Such a feat would require either a mind capable of multitasking at a superhuman level, or a superhuman body itself."
"Like Captain America?" I asked, the name slipping out before I could stop myself.
He stared at me blankly. "Who kept Naame Rika?"
'He doesn't know captain America!? Is he living under a rock!? No wait this city exists in an isolated dimesnsion right?'
"Never mind," I said, suppressing a sigh. "I can do three cycles. How many can you do?"
"Heh," he chuckled, the sound as dry as rustling leaves. "Let's go. It is time to begin training."
Did he just scoff at me? I wondered, a familiar frustration bubbling up inside. What's with these old people and that question?
We reached the training field where everyone had gathered. After basic training, during which he saw that I could easily keep up with the rest, he separated me from the others and tested me in a spar. He asked if I had learned any fighting style. When I replied no, he seemed confused.
"What form of training have you received?" he asked.
"Kalari payat," I replied, the name feeling as foreign as the language I was now speaking.
"So that's what it was," he said, a new respect in his tone. "Looks like you have been trained in the authentic one. So, we can forgo your basic physical training."
And so my routine changed. I no longer had to perform the basic physical drills. Instead, my days were filled with learning the foundational stances and movements of punching, kicking, and various other basic fighting forms. After each grueling session, I would be dropped into various medical baths—a soothing, but often stinging, blend of herbs that repaired my body at an incredible rate.
This routine continued for the next month until he was satisfied that I had perfected the basics. He then started a brutal regimen of physical training, pushing my body to the absolute breaking point, only to have it rebuilt in the baths once again. This continued for six long, arduous months.
"Now that all the muscles of your body have been developed to the extreme of human capacity, it is time for you to learn about chi," he announced one day.
My training regimen changed again. Lei Kung would guide his own chi into my body, and I would spend hours in silent meditation, trying to sense the subtle energies he was showing me. The medical baths remained a constant, and after three months of this new regimen, I was finally able to sense my own chi.
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The day I finally sensed my own chi was not a thunderous revelation, but a quiet, almost imperceptible warmth that bloomed in my core. It was a faint, humming vibration, like the lingering echo of a tuning fork, and it was mine.
Lei Kung's rigorous regimen had paid off.
After three months of meditation and guided energy from the master, I had finally broken through the barrier between my physical body and its spiritual essence.
From there, my training evolved again.
Sensing my chi was one thing; controlling it was another. Lei Kung began teaching me how to channel this nascent energy, to guide it through my body's meridians. This was a long, painful process. The pathways were narrow and blocked, and forcing the thundering energy through them felt like trying to push a torrent of water through a fine thread.
Each night, the medical baths were less a comfort and more a necessary agony, the burning herbs repairing the minute tears in my spiritual pathways just as they had once mended my over-exerted muscles.
The old man told me my chi was naturally powerful, heavily biased toward the thunderous nature of our family's lost legacy.
He described it as a force of sudden, explosive power, a stark contrast to the flowing, serene chi of many other masters. I began to understand why my training had been so physically demanding. My body needed to be an unbreakable vessel to contain such a volatile force.