He visualized every potential impact, feeling the phantom pressure of blows he now aimed to avoid entirely. His movements, once forceful and reliant on the promise of the green paste, became economical, each action serving a purpose beyond brute strength. He focused on the inherent efficiency of Dog Fang Grapple techniques, internalizing how to control and incapacitate with minimal wasted motion, even without the enhanced perception.
By the time the final assessment dawned, John had achieved a fundamental shift. While not perfectly seamless – he couldn't replicate the serene state's impossible precision – his movements now bore a striking resemblance to his actions while under its influence. The jerky transitions that had plagued his initial attempts smoothed out, replaced by a deliberate, almost fluid precision. More importantly, the ingrained habit of accepting blows was largely gone, replaced by an acute awareness of evasion and precise counter-attack. He had unlearned recklessness, embracing a newfound cautious efficiency. He was ready.
The morning sun beat down on the familiar training yard, a stark, open space designed for observation and brutal assessment. John arrived precisely on time, his composure calm, his breathing even. He found his ninja mentor already waiting, a lean figure whose eyes missed nothing.
"John," the mentor greeted, his voice a gravelly rumble. No pleasantries, just a direct challenge. "Let's see what these past weeks have taught you."
As John moved to his starting position, adjusting the wraps on his hands, his mentor's gaze was piercing. He immediately noticed the absence of any limp, any unconscious favoring of a limb. There was no subtle clenching of his jaw, no fleeting wince that would betray lingering discomfort. John was in top physical condition, a stark contrast to the state he'd been in after their last intense training session.
But more than physical recovery, what truly caught the mentor's attention was the shift in John's very posture, the way he carried himself. It wasn't stiffness, but a coiled readiness, a deliberate, almost anticipatory caution in every subtle movement.
John no longer had the reckless abandon he once displayed. Instead, he moved like an assasin, assessing, calculating, his eyes constantly scanning, his mind visibly working several steps ahead. It was as if he was already predicting his mentor's actions, mapping out countermeasures before the first strike was even thrown.
"Begin," the mentor stated, his stance shifting almost imperceptibly, yet the change in the air was immediate.
John launched forward, not with a headlong rush, but with the deceptive footwork of The Broken Step. He aimed to disrupt his mentor's balance, feinting left, then right, trying to gain a positional advantage. His movements were precise, economical, a stark departure from his earlier reliance on raw force. He wove through the mentor's initial, probing jabs, feeling the wind of each strike as it passed mere inches from his face.
He tried to get inside, leveraging a low sweep from Dog Fang Grapple, aiming to unbalance.
But the mentor had experience on this. His counters were immediate and punishing. A heavy forearm, thick with seasoned muscle, deflected John's sweep with a casual ease that belied its power, sending a jolt up John's arm. Then came the response: a jarring, open-handed strike to John's ribs that sent him skidding back several feet. The force was immense, a deep ache blossoming instantly, a clear indication that the mentor was holding nothing back.
John gritted his teeth, refusing to show discomfort. He flowed into a defensive posture from Iron Flow Method, tensing and releasing muscles to absorb the shock, allowing the energy of the impact to dissipate. He moved, constantly shifting, trying to find an opening, to apply the principles of his newly refined cautious combat. He dodged a snapping kick that would have shattered bone, then pivoted sharply, attempting to lock down the mentor's arm with a quick Dog Fang grab.
The mentor, however, moved. He wasn't just faster; he was smarter. He anticipated John's every move, his counter-attacks delivered with bone-jarring impact. A series of heavy, focused blows rained down on John's guard, each punch feeling like a weighted mallet against his forearms. He absorbed what he could, relying on the Iron Flow Method, but the sheer concussive force vibrated through him, threatening to rattle his teeth loose. One particularly brutal elbow strike clipped his temple, sending stars bursting behind his eyes and momentarily disorienting him.
Just as the mentor pressed his advantage, John did something utterly unexpected. Instead of retreating or blocking, he executed a seemingly reckless, wide-open lunge, leaving his left flank exposed. The mentor's eyes narrowed, a flicker of surprise in their depth. It was an amateur's mistake, an invitation to a devastating counter. He shifted his weight, preparing to deliver a crippling blow to John's exposed side.
But John had anticipated this. It was a calculated risk, a bait. As the mentor committed to his strike, John's "reckless" lunge morphed into a lightning-fast Broken Step pivot, spinning him out of the path of the intended blow while simultaneously bringing his elbow up in a tight, precise arc. The strike connected solidly with the mentor's ribs, eliciting a sharp grunt of pain – a sound John had rarely, if ever, heard from him. The mentor stumbled, a fraction of a second's disarray.
John pressed his momentary advantage, driving forward with a flurry of efficient Dog Fang strikes, aiming for pressure points and joint locks. He landed another solid hit to the mentor's solar plexus, momentarily stealing his breath.
The mentor recovered swiftly, though. His brief discomposure vanished, replaced by a renewed, almost fierce intensity. He retaliated with a brutal, heavy-handed flurry, his blows delivered with an almost dismissive authority, a stark reminder of the chasm in their experience. Each block was an impact, each evasion a near miss that promised of rattled bones.
Finally, after what felt like an eternity, but was likely only minutes, the mentor seized an undeniable opening. John, momentarily off-balance after a failed Dog Fang attempt, found himself caught. A lightning-fast, precise blow struck just below his sternum, a deep, concussive force that stole his breath and buckled his knees. He gasped, dropping to one knee, the world momentarily going gray around the edges.
The mentor stood over him, breathing evenly, his eyes calm, yet holding a new, speculative gleam. "Enough," he stated, his voice still steady. "You've improved. Significantly. You even managed to surprise me. But caution and knowledge alone do not replace experience. Not yet."
John remained on his knee, head bowed, forcing himself to control his ragged breathing. He had fought well, far better than he would have weeks ago. The brief satisfaction of landing a true strike on his mentor, of forcing a genuine reaction, warmed him even through the pain. But the truth was undeniable: he had lost.
The mentor did seem to mind John's silence. He simply turned, his calm voice cutting through the ringing in John's ears. "You passed this time. Same time next month."
John couldn't answer. He was still breathing heavily, each inhale a sharp sting in his battered ribs. He was accustomed to pain, but this was different; every part of his body screamed. Even attempting to make contact with his Chi in such a state proved to be a problem, his Chi energy feeling like a distant, flickering flame.
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