The building sat at the edge of Henderson Falls where Main Street dissolved into industrial warehouses and forgotten lots, a two-story structure that looked like it had been a factory once before someone converted it into something else entirely, with reinforced windows and a door made of steel that suggested the people inside valued security or privacy or both. I'd passed it a dozen times during my runs without really seeing it, my attention always focused on the familiar landmarks that reminded me of who I used to be rather than noticing new additions to a town I'd assumed would remain frozen in time. The sign above the door was understated, just a simple metal plate with the word "CRIMTHOS" etched in bold letters that caught the morning light and threw it back in sharp angles, and underneath in smaller text: "Traditional Martial Arts - By Invitation Only."
By invitation only, which explained why I'd never heard anyone mention this place during my first week back in Henderson Falls, why neither Phoenix nor Raven nor even Viktor had referenced it when discussing the town's martial arts scene, and why the building itself seemed to exist in a kind of purposeful obscurity that discouraged casual interest or random walk-ins. I stood across the street for ten minutes, watching the entrance and seeing no movement, no signs of life except for the subtle glow of lights visible through the reinforced glass that suggested someone was inside despite the early hour. My curiosity had been triggered yesterday when Dante mentioned seeing fighters entering this building before dawn, people who moved with the kind of discipline and focus that marked serious martial artists rather than casual hobbyists, and he'd described their style as something he'd never seen before, combinations that blended striking and grappling in patterns that defied easy categorization.
The decision to approach took another five minutes of internal debate, weighing my curiosity against my reluctance to insert myself into yet another martial arts situation where I'd have to explain who I was and what I wanted and why someone with my history deserved any kind of consideration or respect. But standing across the street accomplishing nothing felt worse than potentially being rejected, so I crossed and knocked on the steel door, three solid impacts that echoed in the quiet morning air and announced my presence to whoever might be listening inside.
The door opened almost immediately, revealing a woman maybe forty years old with silver streaking through her black hair and eyes that assessed me in the three seconds before she spoke, taking in my build and posture and the unconscious fighting stance I'd adopted without meaning to. "You're Cray Creed, former professional circuit fighter, current disappointment to Master Chen, and recent addition to Phoenix Hart's collection of broken fighters looking for redemption in an underground gym that barely meets minimum safety standards."
"That's a comprehensive summary of my last week delivered with impressive accuracy and minimal sympathy," I replied, caught between amusement and annoyance at being so thoroughly catalogued by someone I'd never met.
"I'm Silas Vex, I run this dojo along with five other instructors who've achieved master level in Crimthos, and we maintain strict standards about who we allow to train here because our martial art isn't something you can learn casually or approach with half-hearted commitment," she explained, not moving from the doorway or offering any indication that I'd be invited inside despite having answered my knock.
"I saw your sign about invitation only, so I'm guessing I'm not on your approved list of potential students given that I didn't even know this place existed until yesterday," I acknowledged, preparing to leave because clearly I'd made a mistake in coming here without some kind of formal introduction or referral.
Silas smiled slightly, an expression that suggested she was enjoying some private joke at my expense. "Actually you've been on our radar since you arrived in Henderson Falls, we've been watching how you train with the kid at Henderson Park, how you handle yourself at The Crossing, how you responded to Viktor Draven's recruitment attempts, and we've been discussing whether you might be suitable for learning Crimthos despite your obvious character flaws and tendency toward self-destructive behavior."
"That's both flattering and deeply invasive, and I'm not sure how I feel about being surveilled by people I don't know for reasons that haven't been explained," I said, my defensive instincts activating even as curiosity kept me planted in place rather than walking away.
"Crimthos requires a specific type of practitioner, someone who understands suffering and has been broken by life in ways that make them appreciate the philosophy underlying our techniques, and your very public failure followed by your attempt to rebuild yourself here in your hometown suggests you might possess the humility and desperation that makes students receptive to our teachings," Silas continued, finally stepping aside to gesture me into the building's interior.
The entrance led into a reception area that was surprisingly professional, with wooden floors and walls decorated with calligraphy that I couldn't read but assumed represented important concepts or principles related to Crimthos philosophy. Beyond the reception area, I could see into the main training hall, a space easily three times larger than Master Chen's dojo, with padded floors and mirrored walls and equipment that looked well-maintained but not flashy or commercial like Viktor's gym. Students moved through forms in synchronized patterns, seventeen people ranging in age from teenagers to what looked like someone in their sixties, all wearing simple black uniforms without rank indicators or decorative elements, their movements flowing from one technique to another with the kind of precision that comes from thousands of hours of disciplined practice.
"Crimthos was developed thirty years ago by a group of martial artists who felt that existing styles had become too specialized, too focused on either sport competition or traditional forms at the expense of practical application in real combat situations where rules don't exist and survival depends on adaptability," Silas explained as we walked toward the training hall, her voice carrying the tone of someone who'd given this speech many times but still believed every word.
"So it's a mixed martial art, blending different styles into something comprehensive," I suggested, having heard similar origin stories from dozens of modern martial arts that claimed to have discovered the perfect synthesis of various fighting traditions.
"It's more than simple mixing, it's a philosophical approach that views combat as a conversation between opponents where each technique represents a statement that demands a response, and mastery comes from expanding your vocabulary to the point where you can speak fluently regardless of what your opponent says," Silas corrected, stopping at the edge of the training hall where we could observe without interrupting.
I watched the students move through their forms, noticing immediately that their style incorporated elements I recognized from karate, judo, boxing, and what looked like Filipino martial arts, but blended together in combinations that created something distinctly different from any individual component. A teenage girl executed a spinning elbow strike that flowed directly into a leg sweep that transitioned into a ground control position, the entire sequence taking maybe three seconds and demonstrating the kind of technical fluidity that required both physical skill and deep conceptual understanding. Next to her, a man in his thirties worked through striking combinations that emphasized rapid entries and exits, closing distance with explosive speed, delivering multiple impacts, and escaping before any counter could develop, his footwork intricate and precise in ways that reminded me of high-level boxing but with additional dimensions that boxing didn't explore.
"How many techniques are in your curriculum," I asked, trying to get some sense of the system's scope and whether it was something I could realistically learn given my current mental and physical state.
"Crimthos contains approximately four hundred documented techniques across eight major categories: striking, grappling, throws, joint locks, ground fighting, weapons defense, multiple opponent scenarios, and environmental adaptation," Silas answered, and I felt my stomach sink at the enormity of what she was describing.
"Four hundred techniques sounds impossible to master, most traditional styles have maybe fifty to a hundred core techniques that get refined over years of practice," I protested, my mind already rebelling against the idea of trying to absorb that much information when I was still struggling to rebuild my confidence in the basics.
"Most traditional styles limit themselves artificially because their founders wanted something that could be taught systematically and tested for belt ranks, but Crimthos doesn't use belt ranks because we recognize that mastery is individual and non-linear, some students excel at striking while struggling with grappling, others develop ground skills quickly but never achieve fluent stand-up fighting," Silas explained, gesturing toward the students who were now pairing off for drilling exercises.
"So how do you track progress if there's no ranking system, how do students know whether they're improving or just spinning their wheels and wasting time," I challenged, genuinely curious about how such a large system maintained quality control without traditional hierarchical structures.
Silas pointed toward six people wearing red patches on their uniforms, barely visible against the black fabric but marking them as different from the other eleven students. "Those are our masters, practitioners who've demonstrated comprehensive understanding across all eight categories and who can teach any technique in our curriculum with proper context and application, they serve as living examples of what's possible but they don't claim to have completed Crimthos because completion is a myth that traditional martial arts perpetuate to give students false certainty about their abilities."
"And the other eleven students, where are they in their development," I asked, watching as the group split into smaller clusters with masters moving between them to offer corrections and demonstrations.
"They range from six months of training to eight years, each progressing at their own pace based on aptitude and commitment and the specific challenges that brought them to Crimthos in the first place," Silas said, her attention focused on a young man who was struggling with a particular takedown entry, his timing slightly off in ways that made the technique ineffective.
We watched for another fifteen minutes as the class worked through drills that emphasized adaptation and problem-solving rather than rote repetition, masters presenting scenarios that required students to select appropriate techniques from their developing vocabulary and apply them under pressure that increased as the drill continued. I saw mistakes and corrections, saw frustration and breakthrough moments, saw the kind of authentic learning that happens when people are genuinely invested in improvement rather than just checking boxes for rank advancement. The youngest student looked maybe thirteen, working with an intensity that reminded me of Dante, and I wondered briefly if this might be a better environment for him than the informal training sessions we'd been conducting at Henderson Park.
"Why are you telling me all this, why invite me inside and explain your system when you could have just told me at the door that I'm not welcome here," I finally asked, turning to face Silas directly rather than continuing to watch the class.
"Because we've been waiting for someone like you to arrive in Henderson Falls, someone with legitimate fighting experience who's been humbled enough to learn but not broken enough to be useless, someone who could potentially become a bridge between Crimthos and the other martial arts communities in this town that currently ignore or dismiss us," she answered with a directness that suggested this was a calculated recruitment rather than a spontaneous invitation.
"You want me to join your dojo so you can use my name recognition and connections to legitimize Crimthos and expand your influence beyond this building that most people don't even know exists," I summarized, recognizing a business proposition when I heard one even if it was being dressed up in philosophical language.
Silas nodded without apparent shame or embarrassment. "Yes, we want to expand our student base because Crimthos deserves broader recognition and because we believe our approach to martial arts offers something valuable that the other schools in Henderson Falls don't provide, and your involvement would accelerate that process considerably."
"What's in it for me besides becoming a marketing tool for a martial art I don't know anything about and haven't tested against any kind of real opposition," I countered, not willing to commit to something just because someone claimed it would be beneficial without understanding the actual costs and expectations.
"You'd receive comprehensive instruction from six master-level practitioners with decades of combined experience, you'd have access to training partners who are serious about improvement rather than social validation, you'd learn a system designed specifically for real combat rather than sport competition or traditional demonstration, and you'd be part of something that's growing rather than stagnating in tradition or drowning in commercialization," Silas offered, ticking off benefits like she'd prepared this pitch in advance.
The class was transitioning into free sparring, students pairing off with protective gear and engaging in controlled but intense exchanges that tested their ability to apply techniques under resistance. I watched a master-level woman spar with a newer student, seeing how she controlled the pace and intensity to challenge him appropriately while preventing actual injury, offering real-time coaching between exchanges and demonstrating alternatives when his techniques failed. The newer student was learning faster than he would have in solo drilling, forced to adapt to unpredictable responses and solve problems in real time rather than executing predetermined sequences in controlled environments.
"I need to see more before I decide anything, I need to understand what I'd actually be learning and whether your four hundred techniques are legitimate combat tools or just an impressive-sounding catalog that looks good on paper but doesn't translate to actual fighting," I stated, maintaining my skepticism even as curiosity pulled me toward acceptance.
"Fair enough, stay for the rest of this session and observe, ask questions when appropriate, and after class ends I'll demonstrate some foundational techniques from each category so you can evaluate their practical application," Silas agreed, seeming unsurprised by my hesitation.
For the next hour, I watched Crimthos practitioners work through combinations that challenged my understanding of how martial arts could be organized and taught, seeing techniques that blended seamlessly between ranges and modes in ways that most specialized styles couldn't accommodate. A striking exchange would flow into a clinch that transitioned to a throw that ended in a submission attempt, the entire sequence representing maybe ten seconds of continuous action with no artificial stops or resets. When students made mistakes, masters corrected them immediately but without harshness, pointing out specifically what went wrong and offering two or three alternatives that might work better depending on circumstances.
The youngest student, the thirteen-year-old girl with intense focus, sparred with one of the masters and held her own for several exchanges before being taken down and submitted, but even in defeat she moved with confidence and technical proficiency that exceeded what I'd seen from students with years more experience at traditional dojos. She reset immediately after tapping, no frustration or disappointment visible, just analytical assessment of what had worked and what hadn't worked and how she might approach the next round differently.
Class ended with a brief meditation period where everyone sat in silence for five minutes, presumably reflecting on the training session and organizing the information they'd absorbed, and then students bowed to the masters and to each other before beginning to leave, a few staying behind to work on specific techniques they wanted to refine. Silas gestured for me to follow her onto the training floor, now mostly empty except for two students working on ground fighting in the corner and one master cleaning equipment.
"Let me show you some foundational techniques from our striking category, these are entries that we teach relatively early because they represent high-percentage options that work against most opponents regardless of style," Silas said, moving to an open area of the mat and gesturing for me to stand across from her.
She demonstrated a lead hand strike that looked initially like a standard jab but incorporated elements that made it more versatile and dangerous, the punch capable of being thrown as a range-finding probe, a setup for power strikes, or a damaging blow in its own right depending on how much commitment she put into hip rotation and weight transfer. "This is what we call the Interrogation Strike because it asks your opponent a question about their defensive priorities and forces them to reveal information through their response, if they prioritize head defense you know body strikes will land more easily, if they focus on their centerline you know angles will be open."
I nodded, seeing immediately how the concept extended beyond just the physical technique to include tactical and strategic dimensions that most martial arts relegated to advanced instruction rather than building into foundational movements. She showed me three variations of the same basic punch, each optimized for different ranges and different opponent responses, and I practiced them slowly while she corrected minor details in my structure and timing.
"Now a grappling technique that we teach early because it's both offensive and defensive, allowing you to control an opponent who's trying to clinch while also creating opportunities for your own takedowns or strikes," Silas continued, demonstrating a collar tie that seemed straightforward until she showed me how it could transition into six different outcomes depending on how the opponent tried to escape or counter.
We worked through techniques for twenty minutes, Silas demonstrating and me attempting to replicate, her corrections precise and helpful without being overwhelming or condescending. I learned a throw that utilized principles from judo but incorporated striking setups that made it available in different contexts than traditional judo throws. I learned a leg lock that approached the submission from an angle I'd never considered, making it available from positions where conventional leg locks would be impossible. I learned entries for clinch positions that created immediate offensive opportunities while maintaining defensive integrity, preventing the common problem of sacrificing safety for aggression.
"How long would it take to learn all four hundred techniques at a level where I could actually use them in real fighting situations," I asked after we'd worked through samples from each of the eight categories, my body tired but my mind energized by the complexity and sophistication of what I'd seen.
"That's an impossible question to answer because learning isn't linear and real fighting situations vary so dramatically that no amount of technique accumulation guarantees success, but if you trained consistently for three to five years with regular pressure testing and adaptation, you'd have a comprehensive skill set that would make you dangerous to anyone regardless of their background or training," Silas estimated, her honesty refreshing compared to martial arts schools that promised mastery in months or claimed their system could overcome any opposition.
"Three to five years is a long time to commit to something, especially for someone in my position who doesn't know if I'll even stay in Henderson Falls that long or whether I'll decide that fighting isn't worth pursuing anymore," I pointed out, my habitual pessimism surfacing despite my genuine interest in what Crimthos offered.
Silas shrugged, unconcerned by my reservations. "Then don't commit to three to five years, commit to one month and see how you feel at the end of that period, we don't require long-term contracts or demand loyalty oaths, we just ask that students show up consistently and train with genuine effort while they're here, and if after a month you decide Crimthos isn't for you then you leave with more knowledge and skill than you had before."
The offer was reasonable, probably more reasonable than I deserved given my track record of starting things with enthusiasm and abandoning them when difficulty or boredom set in. "What's the financial cost, I'm assuming a dojo with this kind of facility and this many master instructors isn't operating on donations and goodwill."
"Standard rate is two hundred dollars per month for unlimited training access, but we have scholarship positions available for students who demonstrate commitment but lack resources, and we'd be willing to offer you a reduced rate in exchange for occasionally teaching seminars at other schools or participating in demonstration events that raise Crimthos visibility," Silas explained, again being direct about the transactional nature of our potential relationship rather than pretending it was purely about martial arts purity.
Two hundred dollars per month was actually less than I'd expected given the quality of instruction and facility, probably subsidized by the wealthier students or by outside funding sources that Silas wasn't mentioning, and the scholarship positions suggested genuine commitment to making Crimthos accessible rather than just serving affluent martial artists who could afford premium pricing. The reduced rate offer in exchange for promotional work felt manipulative but also honest about its manipulativeness, which somehow made it less objectionable than if they'd pretended my participation wouldn't benefit them commercially.
"I need to think about it, talk to some people whose opinions I trust, and figure out whether adding another training commitment on top of everything else I'm trying to do makes sense for where I am right now," I said, buying time to process everything I'd learned and observed during the past two hours.
"That's fine, we're not going anywhere and the offer remains open indefinitely, but I'd encourage you not to overthink it because overthinking is how intelligent people talk themselves out of opportunities that might change their lives in positive ways," Silas advised, walking me back toward the entrance.
As we reached the door, one of the master instructors approached, a man maybe fifty years old with gray hair and the kind of weathered face that suggested extensive experience with actual violence rather than just controlled training. "Silas, I wanted to meet Cray Creed before he left, I'm Marcus Stone and I've been following your career since your first professional fight."
"Nice to meet you, though I'm surprised anyone in Henderson Falls was paying attention to regional circuit fights that barely drew crowds outside the local market," I replied, shaking his extended hand and noting the strength in his grip without it being performative or aggressive.
"I pay attention to fighters who show genuine martial arts foundation rather than just athletic ability and willingness to brawl, and your early fights demonstrated technical sophistication that most modern fighters lack because they've only trained for sport competition rather than studying traditional martial arts first," Marcus explained, his compliment specific enough that it felt genuine rather than flattering.
"That sophistication didn't help me much when my career fell apart and I lost the fights that actually mattered," I countered, my reflexive self-deprecation emerging despite knowing it was counterproductive and annoying to people who were trying to be supportive.
Marcus smiled tolerantly. "The fights that mattered to your career maybe, but not the fights that matter to your development as a martial artist, and losing badly teaches more than winning easily ever could if you're willing to learn from defeat rather than just being destroyed by it."
We talked for another ten minutes, Marcus sharing insights about specific techniques he'd noticed in my old fight footage and suggesting how Crimthos approaches might have changed outcomes if I'd had access to different tools and strategies. His analysis was sophisticated and demonstrated genuine study rather than casual observation, and I found myself simultaneously flattered by his attention and uncomfortable with being analyzed so thoroughly by someone I'd just met.
I left the Crimthos dojo with more questions than answers, my mind full of techniques and concepts and possibilities that both excited and overwhelmed me, and I walked through Henderson Falls trying to organize my thoughts into something resembling a coherent decision about whether to add this training to my already complicated attempt to rebuild my life and identity in a town that still wasn't sure whether to welcome me or reject me.