The air in the Dragon's Roar Dojo was thick, tasting of sweat, liniment, and cheap synthetic matting. The noise was a low, constant roar—a hundred students, each performing drills, sparring, and hitting pads. For Gabriel Knightwing, it was the only quiet place in his life.
He stood balanced on the edge of Mat 3, facing David "The Axe" Kreski. David, a broad-shouldered man with two stripes more seniority than Gabriel, was the human equivalent of a high-level tank build: big, strong, and entirely focused on overwhelming force.
"He's wasting energy," Gabriel thought, his mind already running the combat calculations. "The footwork is too wide, sacrificing stability for speed that he can't maintain. He's putting 90% power into every punch, but only 40% of them are even close to landing. Inefficient."
Gabriel was 6 foot 2 and 225 pounds of compact, functional muscle, the result of intense training despite long hours as a data analyst. His ebon black hair was cut in a marine-style closed fade, emphasizing his chiseled jaw and piercing electric blue eyes, a sharp contrast to his Carmel complexion. He moved with a focused economy that belied his mundane job title. His philosophy, inherited from Bruce Lee, was simple: the shortest distance between two points is a straight line, and the best strike is the one that prevents a counter-strike.
David lunged, a sweeping hook aimed at Gabriel's ribs. It was loud, predictable, and slow.
[Threat Assessment: Blunt Trauma (Moderate). Evasion Chance: 98%.]
The certainty of the outcome flashed in his mind. Gabriel simply shifted his weight one centimeter to the left, letting the wind of the missed punch ruffle his hair. But David, fueled by desperation, had anticipated the slip. He didn't stop the rotation; he converted the missed hook's momentum into a devastating rear-hand cross aimed directly at Gabriel's liver.
[Threat Assessment: Blunt Trauma (Severe). Evasion Chance: 50%.]
Gabriel's INT-driven assessment was too late. He managed to tense his core and shift his stance, but the glove still landed with a deep, solid thump that forced the air from his lungs. The blow was clean.
A white-hot wave of pain, followed by a surge of pure, analytical rage, seized Gabriel. It wasn't the pain that fueled it; it was the lapsed efficiency. He had allowed an uncontrolled variable to compromise his system. Unacceptable.
David saw the momentary shock in the electric blue eyes and grinned, showing teeth. "Got slow on the exit, Analyst! Too many spreadsheets, not enough life!"
David immediately pressed his advantage, throwing a sloppy but powerful high kick designed to catch Gabriel off balance.
[Threat Assessment: Concussive Force (High). Evasion Chance: 75%.]
The rage was a filter now. Gabriel's vision zeroed, stripping away all distraction. The kick was a blur, but the trajectory was obvious. Gabriel brought his forearm across in a hard, upward parry—a defensive measure that instantaneously transitioned into an offensive spring.
He closed the distance in a single, blurring step. David was left defending against a hurricane.
One. Two. Three. Four. Five. Six.
A controlled, piston-like Straight Blast—six ultra-precise, machine-gun punches hammered into David's nose, sternum, and solar plexus in less than a second. It was the epitome of controlled velocity and impact, strikes landing exactly where the body was least structurally supported. David's guard dissolved, his face went slack.
"Stop!" Master Chen's shout was sharp and immediate, cutting through the sudden silence.
David stood frozen, swaying, his face pale and eyes wide, the taunt instantly regretted. He hadn't been defeated; he had been overwhelmed by sheer, quantified speed and precision.
Gabriel took two deliberate steps back, his chest heaving only slightly. He settled into the iconic ready stance, hands coiled and low, his weight perfectly centered. He brought his thumb up to his nose, gave it a quick, decisive flick, and then lowered his hand.
"Be like water," he murmured, the famous quote a mantra more than a taunt.
The fire in his gut receded, replaced by a cold satisfaction.
He bowed respectfully. The victory was total, but the cost—that single, successful hit by David—was an error he would not forgive. He felt a familiar, profound dissatisfaction. He needed challenge. He needed stakes. He needed something more than maximizing the efficiency of a sparring match.
He collected his gym bag and headed for the exit. He needed to go home, grab a shower, and prepare for another Monday.