(Next Day, Morning)
"Well… I think this is the right place."
Elio glanced at the card in his hand, then up at the building in front of him.
American Arnis Academy.
The bold lettering above the entrance matched the logo printed on the card exactly.
He adjusted the strap of his small backpack. Today he wore simple training clothes—black t-shirt, gray jogging pants, and white rubber shoes. Inside the bag were the essentials: water bottle, wallet, phone… and a few snacks.
For himself.
And for the dog currently glaring at him.
Yes. He brought Iggy along.
After considerable persuasion—and a strategic offering of beef jerky—Iggy had reluctantly agreed.
"Bark?"(Why am I here again?) Iggy muttered, trotting beside him with visible annoyance. "Bark, bark."(You dragged me out of a perfectly good nap.)
"You need fresh air," Elio replied calmly. "You can't stay cooped up in the apartment forever. And this is your first time exploring my world. You should at least pretend to be curious."
"Bark. Bark. Bark."
(I'm curious about food. And comfortable surfaces. That's it.)
Elio smiled faintly.
The reason they were here was simple.
After yesterday's existential bombshell, Elio had been mentally drained. To distract himself, he ended up doom-scrolling through social media.
That's when he saw it—
An advertisement for American Arnis Academy, a training center dedicated to teaching Kali or Arnis—the national martial art of the Philippines.
The moment he saw it, something clicked.
If he had an ability like Quick Learner…
Then shouldn't he actually learn something?
Something practical. Something real.
Self-defense.
He happened to know one of the coaches during his duty at the hospital. On impulse, he called the number printed on the card.
The coach sounded enthusiastic.
"You can start tomorrow morning."
And now tomorrow had arrived.
Iggy had complained the entire time.
Elio had countered with a compromise.
"How about this," he had said earlier. "You can continue watching JoJo on my phone while I train."
Iggy had paused.
"...Bark?"
(…You mean I get to finish Part 2?)
"Yes."
"...Hmph. Bark, bark, bark."(…Hmph. Fine. But only because I need to see how that old geezer Joseph survives).
He had grumbled the entire time.
"Bark, bark, bark, bark."(I still can't believe that bastard Jotaro is related to that gentleman Jonathan,) Iggy muttered as they approached the entrance. "Bark. Bark? Bark."(And that old man Joseph? That's his grandson? There's no dignity left in that bloodline.)
Elio suppressed a laugh.
After learning he was fictional, Iggy had demanded to watch the series he appeared in. Reluctantly, Elio agreed.
They binged Phantom Blood and some of Battle Tendency in one sitting.
Iggy had many opinions.
"Grr, bark!"(And I will never forgive that lunatic Dio,) he growled darkly. "Bark? Bark. Bark, bark." (Burning a dog alive? Disgusting. If I ever meet him, I'm biting first and asking questions never.)
The scene involving Danny had genuinely angered him.
Elio made a mental note to never show him Stardust Crusaders just yet.
Inside the training center.
The moment they entered, Elio slowed.
The lobby was spacious and clean. Flags from different countries hung along the walls. Framed photos of martial artists and tournaments were neatly arranged beside posters and certificates. A bookshelf stood against one corner, filled with training manuals and history books.
A few adults sat in the waiting area. From deeper within the building, faint shouts echoed rhythmically.
"Wow…" Elio breathed.
He approached the reception desk.
A woman in a white academy-logo shirt and black jogging pants greeted him with a professional smile.
"Good morning. Welcome to American Arnis Academy. How may I help you?"
"Good morning. My name is Eliandro Cruz. I have a session scheduled with Mr. Julian Morales."
Her expression brightened.
"Oh! You must be new. Give me a moment."
She flipped through her logbook, scanning carefully.
"Yes, you're listed under Coach Morales. He's expecting you. Please follow me."
Elio nodded gratefully.
But just as he stepped forward, she paused.
"Oh! I'm so sorry—I almost forgot. Pets aren't allowed in the training hall. We do have a designated pet area, though. It's secure and supervised."
Her hands twitched slightly.
Clearly, she wanted to pet Iggy.
Iggy noticed.
"...Bark."(…Don't even think about it,) he muttered under his breath.
"It's alright," Elio said politely. "We understand."
He knelt down.
"Iggy, is that okay? You'll stay in the pet area for a while. I'll check on you and bring snacks."
Iggy rolled his eyes.
"Bark. Bark. Bark. Bark. Bark."(Yeah, yeah. Go swing your sticks around or whatever. Just don't embarrass yourself. And don't forget the snacks.)
Elio smiled.
"Deal."
With that done, both of them headed to the pet area. The designated pet section was surprisingly spacious—fenced securely with high walls and shaded areas.
Elio set down Iggy's food, water, and his phone.
"There. Finish Part 2."
Iggy snatched the phone.
"Bark, bark, bark."(If that pillar man survives something ridiculous again, I'm filing a complaint.)
"You don't even know what that means."
"Bark."(Doesn't matter.)
Elio chuckled and gave him one last pat before following the receptionist down the hallway.
As they headed into the training hall, the sound grew louder as they approached.
Shouts.
Footsteps.
Wood striking wood.
When they reached the hall and the doors opened—
Elio stopped.
Inside was a wide training space with padded flooring. A group of children stood in formation, each holding a single arnis stick in their right hand. Their movements were synchronized, copying the instructor standing at the front.
Strike. Step. Guard. Reset.
They were sweating. Some looked tired.
But their eyes were focused.
Determined.
Despite exhaustion, they were smiling.
The rhythm of wood clacking together echoed sharply through the room.
Elio felt something stir inside him.
Nervousness.
Excitement.
Resolve.
This wasn't fantasy.
Not something you see on movies.
Just discipline.
Just effort.
Just skill earned through repetition.
And for the first time since becoming Administrator…
Elio felt like he was doing something grounded.
Something real.
Behind him, faintly from the pet area down the hall—
"Bark! Bark! Bark!"(YEAH! GO CAESAR! DESTROY THAT STUPID JOSEPH!)
Elio sighed.
"…He's going to get me banned from the pet section, isn't he?"
And somewhere in the distance—
"Bark! Bark! Bark! Bark! Bark!"(HAHAHAHAHA! That stupid Joseph just hit himself with his own weapon! HAHAHAHAHA!)
Yes.
Yes, he probably would.
"One! Two! Three!"
The instructor's voice rang out clearly as he demonstrated a series of sharp strikes with his wooden stick. The children followed in unison, mimicking his movements while shouting the count with determined enthusiasm.
He looked to be around fifty years old, his strong, well-built frame shaped by decades of disciplined training. Short salt-and-pepper hair framed his mature features, complemented by neatly trimmed facial hair that gave him a seasoned, dignified air. His warm brown eyes and faint smile made him approachable, but beneath that calm exterior lay a quiet intensity—something focused, unwavering.
He wore a black training shirt accented with red and yellow details, a Philippine flag patch stitched proudly onto the sleeve. A simple necklace rested against his chest, and a wristband wrapped around one arm—small but meaningful details that suited a dedicated martial artist. In his hands were two well-worn rattan sticks, held with effortless familiarity.
He was clearly a man who took training seriously—disciplined, attentive, and deeply committed to preserving his craft. Yet the relaxed curve of his smile suggested he was just as warm outside practice as he was strict during drills.
"Grandpa! Your new student is here!"
The receptionist's voice carried from the front desk.
Elio blinked in surprise. So the receptionist was his grandchild?
The instructor turned, eyebrows lifting slightly. "Oh? He's already here? Alright, Carlos—take over the kids for now. I have business with our newcomer."
He handed the session to a younger instructor before walking toward the entrance.
"Elio! You're finally here!"
Mr. Julian Morales greeted him with a broad grin and immediately pulled him into a firm bear hug. Elio stiffened in surprise before gently returning it.
When they parted, Mr. Morales kept a hand on Elio's shoulder, eyes bright with genuine warmth.
"Mano po," Elio said softly.
He reached for the older man's hand and respectfully pressed it to his forehead in greeting. Mr. Morales chuckled, allowing the gesture with clear approval.
"Polite and kind as always, Elio," he said teasingly. "You know, with manners like that, you'll have the ladies flocking to you."
Elio flushed instantly.
"You know, Vanessa," Mr. Morales continued loudly, glancing toward his granddaughter, "you should learn a thing or two about manners from Elio. He was such a polite kid when we first met. I still don't understand why my little princess turned out such a tomboy."
"Grandpa!" Vanessa snapped, her face turning red as a strawberry. She puffed her cheeks before stomping back to the reception area.
Mr. Morales burst into laughter.
"You don't have to exaggerate about me, Mr. Morales," Elio said, embarrassed. Praise had always made him uncomfortable.
"Humble as ever." The older man ruffled his hair affectionately. "Come. Let's head to my private training area."
They walked side by side toward the smaller room at the back of the gym.
"Thank you for agreeing to my request," Elio said quietly. "I'm sorry for the sudden call. I know you're busy teaching the kids. For you to personally train someone like me, I don't think I—"
"Shh." Mr. Morales cut him off gently. "You don't need to worry about that, kid. I was the one who gave you my card when I stayed at the hospital, remember?"
Elio nodded.
Mr. Morales had been one of his patients during his overseas assignment. He'd been grumpy at first—stubborn about medication, complaining about hospital food—but he'd softened when he realized his nurse was a fellow Filipino. Recovery had gone more smoothly after that.
"When you called saying you wanted to learn arnis, I was surprised," Mr. Morales admitted. "But I was happy. I finally had a way to repay you for taking care of an old man like me."
He chuckled softly. "I thought you'd never call."
The private training room was much smaller than the main hall, just large enough for three or four people. Yet it was fully equipped—racks of rattan sticks, practice swords, daggers of varying sizes and shapes neatly displayed along the walls.
"So before we begin," Mr. Morales said, clapping his hands lightly, "let's stretch. A prepared body prevents unnecessary injuries. Just follow my lead."
They warmed up in silence, stretching muscles and loosening joints. Afterward, they strapped on protective gear.
A rhythmic tapping echoed in the room as Mr. Morales tested his rattan stick. Then, without warning, he tossed another toward Elio.
Elio caught it—barefoot on the padded floor, heart steady but alert.
Across from him stood Mr. Morales—big, weathered, calm in the way only decades of discipline could shape a person. The stick in his hand looked less like a weapon and more like a natural extension of his arm.
"Arnis isn't about strength," Mr. Morales said, circling him slowly. "It's about timing. Distance. Respect."
He demonstrated the basic grip—firm but relaxed.
Elio copied him. The coach lightly tapped the back of his hand.
"Relax. A tight grip slows you down. Let the stick breathe."
They began with the twelve striking angles.
"One!" A diagonal forehand strike cut cleanly through the air.
"Two!" A smooth backhand followed.
Elio mirrored him, movements stiff and mechanical at first.
Mr. Morales adjusted his stance with a gentle nudge.
"Your feet are your foundation. Without them, your strikes are empty."
They practiced footwork—male triangle, female triangle. Step and slide. Pivot and strike.
Elio stumbled once, nearly crossing his feet.
Mr. Morales stopped him immediately. "In a real fight, crossing your feet means falling. Falling means losing."
They reset.
Again.
And again.
Soon they transitioned to sinawali—double-stick weaving patterns. The alternating strikes created a steady rhythm in the air: right, left, high, low.
Elio's arms began to burn. His shoulders tightened.
But somewhere within the repetition, something shifted.
The movements became smoother. Less forced. More fluid.
Mr. Morales gave a faint nod.
"Good. Now feel the flow. Arnis isn't about memorizing patterns. It's about understanding motion."
They moved on to block-and-counter drills. The coach struck lightly but with precise intent.
Block. Redirect. Counter.
At first, Elio reacted too late. A light tap landed on his forearm.
"Don't watch the stick," Mr. Morales instructed. "Watch the shoulders. The body moves before the weapon."
Elio adjusted his focus.
This time, he noticed the subtle shift in weight—the tension gathering before the strike.
The moment it came, he blocked instinctively and returned a clean counterstrike that stopped just short of Mr. Morales's shoulder.
The older man smiled.
"That's it."
By the time the session ended, Elio's arms felt heavy and his shirt clung to his back with sweat. Yet something about him felt different.
More grounded.
More aware.
Even his posture had changed.
Mr. Morales placed a firm hand on his shoulder.
"Today, you learned how to strike," he said quietly. "Next time, you'll learn when to strike."
The rattan sticks were only tools.
The real training had just begun.
------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
(13 Days Later)
Both Elio and Mr. Morales stood facing each other inside the training hall.
Each held a weapon in both hands.
Mr. Morales wielded two arnis sticks—one in each hand—his grip relaxed but confident.
Elio held a long stick in his right hand and a shorter one in his left, the latter angled like a dagger.
Both men wore only arm and leg protection pads, leaving their torsos exposed.
The air inside the hall felt heavier than usual.
Wood scraped softly against wood as Mr. Morales rolled his shoulders. His arnis sticks began spinning into a smooth sinawali rhythm—tight, controlled, effortless.
The sound alone was intimidating.
Not loud. Not flashy.
Just precise.
Across from him, Elio steadied his breathing.
Right hand—long stick.
Left hand—short stick.
Thirteen days.
Too short for mastery.
But long enough to become dangerous.
Without warning, Mr. Morales stepped forward.
The first strike came from high right—sharp and direct.
Clack.
Elio intercepted with his long stick, redirecting the blow off the centerline. A second strike flowed instantly from the opposite side.
His short stick snapped upward to check it.
Sinawali unfolded like a weaving storm.
Left. Right. High. Low. Diagonal.
Mr. Morales didn't attack with power.
He attacked with continuity.
Elio angled out using triangle footwork. His long stick snapped forward in a probing counter while the short stick hovered defensively near his ribs, ready to trap.
For a brief moment—
Their rhythms aligned.
Strike. Check. Counter. Pivot.
The tempo accelerated.
Wood cracked sharply through the room in rapid succession.
Clack—clack—CLACK—clack.
Elio began reading the weave.
Shoulder rotation telegraphed direction.
Hip shifts signaled range.
His Quick Learner ability processed every micro-adjustment.
There.
A slight delay in the backhand transition.
He stepped in.
His long stick cut across the pattern to disrupt the flow while the short stick prepared to strike the forearm.
But the "delay" vanished.
Mr. Morales' body rotated inward instead of outward. The weaving pattern collapsed into tight close-range pressure.
One stick pinned Elio's long weapon.
The other snapped downward.
Thud.
A clean punyo strike to the ribs.
Air rushed out of Elio's lungs.
He pivoted quickly off his left foot, recovering. The short stick flicked upward to regain space while his long stick whipped across in a horizontal arc to reset distance.
Mr. Morales didn't chase.
Instead, he fed the rhythm again.
High—high—low.
Then broke it.
Low—high—body.
Then paused.
Half a beat.
Too small to notice.
Just enough to tempt.
Elio committed.
Seeing the opening, he lunged forward. His long stick thrust along the outside line while his short stick rotated for a trap-and-disarm he had drilled dozens of times.
For a fraction of a second—
It worked.
Their weapons locked.
Leverage shifted.
Elio applied torque—
And then—
Mr. Morales let go.
One stick dropped intentionally.
The sudden release disrupted Elio's balance. Morales' free hand shot forward, checking Elio's wrist.
In the same motion, he rotated under the trapped line and reclaimed control of the bind.
A twist.
A snap of the wrist.
Elio's long stick tore free from his grip and skidded across the floor.
Before he could transition fully to single-weapon recovery—
A wooden tip stopped inches from his throat.
Silence filled the room.
The fallen stick rolled once…
Then stilled.
Elio's chest rose and fell heavily.
Mr. Morales' expression remained calm—not triumphant, not mocking.
Measured.
"You read the pattern," Mr. Morales said quietly.
Elio nodded, still catching his breath.
"I broke it."
The lesson wasn't speed.
It wasn't technique.
It was experience.
Knowing when your opponent believes they understand you—and turning that certainty against them.
Elio tightened his grip on his remaining short stick.
He had learned quickly.
But today, experience won.
"Ha… ha… ha… I guess I lost again," Elio said between breaths. "Ha…"
Exhaustion finally caught up to him. His entire body ached as he collapsed onto the padded floor, sweat soaking through his shirt.
Mr. Morales, meanwhile, still looked as if he could continue for another round.
"Hahaha!" the older man laughed. "Don't worry about it. You almost had me there."
He extended a hand.
"But you've still got a long way to go. So keep training."
Elio grabbed his hand and allowed himself to be pulled to his feet. Steam rose faintly from both of them after the intense spar.
They moved to the corner where their bags were placed, leaning against the wall while catching their breath. Each grabbed a water bottle.
"Thanks for the spar, Mr. Morales," Elio said. "I guess I still need more practice. But… I had fun."
Mr. Morales chuckled.
"Kid, don't be discouraged by losing. In just a week and a half, you've become surprisingly proficient."
He shook his head in amazement.
Elio had absorbed everything he taught and applied it in sparring almost immediately. It had reignited Mr. Morales' passion as an instructor, pushing him to intensify the training over the past thirteen days.
Elio still lost every match.
But the gap was closing.
"Alright," Mr. Morales said, clapping his hands once. "That wraps up today's training. We've got another session tomorrow."
He grinned.
"Rest is also part of training. You can't train if your body refuses to move."
They packed their belongings before heading toward the lobby.
Of course, Elio didn't forget about Iggy waiting in the pet area. After checking his things, he turned back to Mr. Morales.
"Thanks again for today's session, Mr. Morales. See you tomorrow."
Mr. Morales waved him off.
As Elio and Iggy walked away from the training center, the older man remained standing at the entrance.
He watched Elio's back as the young man disappeared down the street.
"…I knew you had it in you," Mr. Morales murmured quietly before returning inside.
-----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
(Afternoon)
"Ugh… finally. Home sweet home."
Elio collapsed onto the couch the moment he and Iggy entered the apartment. His muscles screamed in protest after the intense training and long commute.
Meanwhile, Iggy trotted over slowly and stared at him.
Then he barked.
"Bark! Bark!"
(Hey, human. Food. Now.)
Elio groaned.
"Alright, alright. Give me a few minutes, Iggy. I'll make you a snack. I still have to prepare dinner anyway."
Iggy huffed.
"Bark, bark."
(You humans are useless unless you're cooking.)
Elio ignored the insult and leaned back, trying to enjoy a brief moment of rest.
Then his phone rang.
[DING!]
"Hm?"
Elio picked it up.
The moment he saw the notification, a bad feeling crept up his spine.
Slowly, he opened it.
His suspicions were confirmed.
[First Mission for All Members of the Group Chat]
[World: Remnant (RWBY)
Transfer Location: Forest clearing outside the City of Vale
Mission: Stop the Anomaly
Reward:
• 2,000 System Points
• 1 Random Coupon for Each Member
• 1 Unique Reward for Each Member
Failure: Pruning of this timeline.
Note: Time in all other worlds will be paused except for the mission world. Transfer will commence once all members are ready.
Note: Information about the Anomaly can only be viewed by the Administrator. Administrator permission required to share mission details.]
Elio stared at the screen in silence.
For a long time.
His brain struggled to process what he was reading.
Then he groaned loudly.
"Ahhh, man! I just got home from training!"
He slumped deeper into the couch.
"Can't I catch a break for five minutes?!"
His body still ached.
His arms were numb.
And now the system had decided it was the perfect time to send them on their first mission.
Something told him this mission would be trouble.
The kind of trouble that was way above their current level.
Meanwhile, Iggy glanced at the phone screen.
Then back at Elio.
"Bark, bark."
(If this mission delays dinner, I'm blaming you.)
Elio groaned again.
"…I hate this system."
------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
(TO BE CONTINUED)
Name: Eliandro "Elio" Cruz
Ability: Quick Learner
Weapon: Bakal na Krus (Iron Cross)
Familiar: Iggy
Multiverse Chat Group
Administrator: Eliandro "Elio" Cruz (Username: Reluctant_Recluse)
Members:
Erza Scarlet (Username: Fairy_Titania)
Qrow Branwen (Username: Unlucky_Alcoholic)