The Grand Academy of Absolute Restraint had many strange customs, but none stranger than the weekly Purity Duels—official sparring matches designed to test one's mental fortitude, bodily control, and spiritual threshold without crossing "The Line." What was "The Line"? No one knew. But the way instructors talked about it made it sound like stepping over it would either explode your soul… or land you in detention for a thousand years.
I stood barefoot on the obsidian dueling mat, squinting at the overhead lights that hummed like judgmental old librarians. My robe hung loose over my shoulders, sleeves flapping like I was about to sell rice paper scrolls on the street. Opposite me was today's opponent: Victor Von Clench, a fourth-year elite and self-proclaimed Heir to the Throttle School.
He looked like someone had sculpted a Greek statue out of protein powder and shame. Great. I get to fight the human equivalent of a bench press.
The crowd around us murmured with excitement. Students pressed in close, robes ruffled, eyes gleaming. Most came to watch someone "slip" and cross The Line, an event rumored to feel like watching a man spiritually combust in 4K.
I wasn't planning to combust. Not yet, anyway.
"Begin!" barked Master Stifford, who somehow managed to look both furious and constipated at all times. He snapped his whip—a purely symbolic gesture, though I had my doubts.
Victor lunged toward me with the elegance of a flamingo doing karate. His first strike was a wide, looping motion meant to feint discipline but radiating pure, sweaty aggression.
I pivoted just enough to let the force miss, spinning on my heel like I'd practiced in Grandpa's basement dojo-slash-storage-unit. My robe fluttered dramatically, and I made sure to stumble slightly.
Can't have people thinking I actually know what I'm doing. Gotta protect the brand: Ben "Oopsie" Dover, professional disappointment.
Victor snarled, muscles bulging. "You think you're clever, Freshman?"
I grinned. "No, I think you're trying to win a no-contact mental focus duel by throwing hands. Which is… bold."
He roared and performed the Eight-Palm Temperance Form, a brutal barrage of restrained strikes designed to pummel the soul without touching the skin. Each blow sent a wave of oppressive heat my way, like I was being assaulted by a sauna that hated me personally.
I danced backward, feigning panic while focusing my breathing. Deep, slow, calculated. Grandpa had taught me that Gooner energy, or Lustra, came in pulses—waves of pressure built through restraint and released in bursts.
This guy's wasting all his juice in one go. Classic rookie mistake. Me? I edge on the edge of the edge.
At the last second, I activated one of my secret techniques: Silent Grip, Empty Thought. My body froze in a perfect pose of vulnerability, my breathing shallow, eyes glassy—completely still.
Victor hesitated.
Mistake.
In that moment of pause, I redirected my built-up Lustra and flicked a single finger through the air. The ripple that followed cracked the floor under Victor's feet.
The audience gasped. Even Master Stifford flinched.
Victor stumbled, his aura flickering. He growled, recovering, and stepped back with more caution this time.
One point to me. Invisible counterattack: check. Dramatic crowd reaction: check. Self-deprecating smile for cover?
I gave a little shrug, as if to say Whoops, my bad. The crowd murmured louder now. Eyes shifted. Some narrowed.
Yeah. Let 'em think it was a fluke. Let 'em squint and say "was that real?" I'm the king of plausible deniability.
The rest of the duel became a slow dance.
Victor tried to push me into breaking, over and over. He roared, blustered, shouted about discipline and control. Meanwhile, I just floated like a lazy feather on a breeze made of shame and caffeine.
Every time he struck, I deflected with just enough effort to survive, but never enough to look good.
I'm basically Gooner Zenyatta. If I wore bells and floated, they'd call me a monk. But instead, I look like someone who barely passed Gooner Biology.
At the final bell, the duel ended with no clear winner. No one "crossed The Line." No one combusted.
Victor stormed off, furious and humiliated. I shuffled off the mat, yawning dramatically and scratching my head.
The applause wasn't for me, but it was louder than I expected.
Later, in the dorm common room, I sat on a beanbag shaped like a lotus flower. Talia and Rex were already there, waiting.
"You toyed with him," Talia said, eyes narrow.
"I fumbled strategically," I said.
"You made that floor crack."
I blinked innocently. "Did I? Weird. Must've been a structural flaw. Budget cuts?"
Rex laughed so hard he nearly dropped his cup of Focus Tea, which was basically just hot leaf water for people pretending to meditate. "Ben, I don't know what you're doing, but keep doing it."
A screen on the far wall flickered to life, and the official Purity Duel rankings updated. My name, Ben Dover, appeared at the bottom of the C-tier.
One rank up.
Just one.
All that effort… for one bump up. These people are stingier than my grandpa with compliments.
Still, I smiled. The game was working. The strategy of seeming weak, of playing the fool while gaining power, was beginning to pay off. Soon, I'd have enough influence to access higher-level Gooner Manuals. Maybe even ones that discussed Eternal Edge Theory.
I needed that. If I was going to stand a chance against the people who took Dad, I had to keep leveling up.
That night, as I sat cross-legged on my bed, I practiced Spiral Circulation, one of Grandpa's forbidden breathing methods.
The room darkened, shadows pooling like spilled ink. My thoughts slowed. My heartbeat became rhythmic, steady.
In my mind, I stood on a cliff of restraint, the ocean of sensation crashing below. I let myself dangle over the edge… but never fall.
Endurance isn't just about willpower. It's about knowing yourself so well that even temptation starts asking you for tips.
Hours passed. Lustra pulsed through my veins like a slow-burning fire. When I opened my eyes, the moon had shifted.
I felt stronger.
A subtle surge of power, not flashy. Just… sharper. Quieter.
Dangerous.
The next morning, I woke to whispers in the halls.
Apparently, someone had "accidentally" burned down part of the Archives.
Some said it was Victor, trying to master a forbidden temperance technique out of spite. Others claimed it was a sabotage effort from a rival school—maybe the Monks of Chastity's Fang.
I had my own suspicions.
Especially after I found a note tucked into my shoe.
"They're watching you now. Tread carefully, or you'll end up like your father. —A Friend"
I stared at the handwriting for a long time. The ink was still damp. Whoever wrote it had been close. Too close.
Looks like the game's about to stop being fun.
Later that day, while meditating under the Academy's giant bronze statue of "Saint Celibate the Unshakable," I felt a presence beside me.
Luna. The quiet one from the library.
"Victor's not your problem anymore," she said without looking at me.
I opened one eye. "Because of the fire?"
She nodded. "He's being exiled. They'll say it was an accident. It wasn't."
Huh. Gooner politics: messier than a midnight regret session.
I leaned back. "So who's really behind it?"
Luna stared straight ahead. "You ever hear of the Velvet Hand?"
My spine stiffened. Everyone in the underground had heard that name. They were the elite—a hidden guild of Gooner masters said to have transcended normal restraint and passed into the Second Realm of Tension.
They were myths.
Until now.
And if they're watching me… then this joke of a school is about to get way too real.