One week passed.
The heavy iron doors of the practical combat arena stayed closed. The air inside smelled completely of sweat, ozone, and cold steel.
Seven days of swinging weapons had changed the freshman class. The chaotic, clumsy mess of the first day was gone. The memory crystals had burned the foundational stances into their nervous systems. Their bodies were finally starting to catch up to the downloaded data.
But they were still amateurs. They still made dangerous mistakes.
A memory crystal gives you the perfect blueprint. It does not give you the muscle memory of a veteran. That only comes from physical repetition.
Jin stood near the steel wall. He raised his heavy broadsword high above his right shoulder. He engaged his dense, Level 7 muscles. He brought the massive iron blade down in a brutal, diagonal chop.
Whoosh.
The blade cut the air. He stopped it exactly three inches above the dirt floor. He held the terrible weight steady.
He was not swinging randomly anymore. The angle of the blade was correct. His wrists were locked tight to prevent the heavy iron from snapping his bones.
He reset his stance. He chopped again.
Instructor Thorne walked slowly through the rows of practicing students. The giant man did not keep his eyes closed today. He watched them closely. He was hunting for flaws.
Thorne stopped next to a boy using a long iron spear.
The boy thrust the spear forward with both hands. He grunted, putting all his upper body strength into the strike.
Thorne reached out. He slapped the wooden shaft of the spear with his bare hand.
The simple slap contained immense physical force. The spear was instantly knocked off its trajectory. The boy's hands were ripped open by the friction of the wood violently twisting out of his grip. The heavy spear clattered into the dirt.
"Your grip is entirely on the front hand," Thorne said coldly. He looked down at the boy rubbing his bleeding palms. "A spear thrust comes from the back hand pushing. The front hand only guides the tip. If you grip the front too tight, an enemy will just knock it away and cut your throat. Pick it up. Do it again."
Thorne kept walking. He corrected them one by one. He kicked legs that were positioned wrong. He slapped elbows that were bent too far. He did not praise anyone. He only pointed out the exact way they were going to die.
After an hour of brutal corrections, Thorne walked back to the center of the arena.
He raised his massive right hand.
"Stop," Thorne commanded.
The sound of hundreds of steel weapons slicing through the air instantly ceased. The students froze in their stances. They lowered their weapons. They panted heavily, looking at the giant instructor.
Thorne crossed his arms over his chest.
"Your form is getting acceptable," Thorne admitted. "You are no longer swinging like blind farmers. But your strikes are weak. You have no real intent behind the metal."
He looked at the exhausted faces of the wealthy heirs and the poor scavengers.
"You think learning a flashy combination makes you dangerous," Thorne said. "You think unlocking five different sword techniques makes you a master. You are wrong."
Thorne dropped his arms to his sides. He took a slow breath. He prepared to deliver a lesson on the reality of combat.
"A legendary Martial Emperor from the ancient era once said something very important," Thorne announced. His deep voice carried a tone of absolute, reverent respect. "Listen closely to his wisdom."
The students leaned forward slightly. They were eager to hear the secret combat philosophy of an ancient god.
"The Emperor said: I do not fear a person who knows ten thousand different moves," Thorne quoted perfectly. "But I fear the person who knows only one move, but has practiced it ten thousand times daily."
The arena was completely silent. The students absorbed the deep, profound meaning of the quote. It was a lesson on absolute consistency. It was a mandate to master the basics before attempting the complex.
Jin stood near the back wall. He held his heavy broadsword resting against the dirt.
He heard the quote. He froze.
His dark eyes widened slightly. His cold, corporate mind completely derailed for a fraction of a second.
He processed the exact wording. I do not fear a man who has practiced ten thousand kicks once, but I fear the man who has practiced one kick ten thousand times.
Jin stared blankly at the giant instructor. A deep wave of absolute bafflement washed over him.
Did Bruce Lee transmigrate to this universe? Jin ran the variables in his head. It was completely absurd. But the quote was identical. He was a logistics manager from Earth. He had seen the old movies. He knew the famous lines.
Did a 20th-century martial arts actor from Earth somehow cross the dimensional void, punch his way through the violent hierarchy of the Apex Empire, and ascend to become a literal Immortal Emperor?
Jin actually felt a sudden urge to laugh. It was the most ridiculous piece of data he had encountered since arriving in this world of magic and monsters.
He quickly suppressed the thought. He forced his face back into a cold, blank mask.
It did not matter if Bruce Lee was an Immortal Emperor. It did not matter how the quote crossed the universe. The logic behind the words was completely sound. Repetition builds perfection. Perfection kills the target.
"Do not try to learn a second move until your first move is flawless," Thorne finished his speech. "Get back to work."
The sound of steel instantly returned to the arena.
Jin pushed the bizarre thought of Bruce Lee out of his head. He raised his heavy broadsword again. He did not try to learn a fancy parry. He did not try to learn a spinning backhand strike.
He just engaged his Level 7 core, locked his wrists, and chopped downward.
One move. Ten thousand times.
A few feet away, Luna was practicing her own single move.
She stood with her feet planted firmly in the dirt. She held the wooden handle of her kusarigama. She did not look at Jin. She was entirely focused on the heavy iron weight at the end of her chain.
She threw the weight forward.
The chain rattled loudly. But this time, it did not jerk her off balance. She had reached Foundation Level 5. Her control over the space around her was growing.
As the iron ball reached the end of the chain, Luna pulsed a small amount of her spatial energy. The air around the iron weight rippled. She slightly warped the distance, absorbing the violent kinetic shock.
She pulled her left arm back. The heavy iron ball whipped backward.
It did not drag the sharp sickle toward her face this time. The space distortion kept the chain perfectly aligned. The iron weight slapped neatly into her open palm.
It was a massive improvement. She was no longer a danger to herself. But she was still incredibly slow. If a wolf lunged at her, she would only have time for one throw. She needed to throw and catch the chain a thousand more times before she was ready for the jungle.
Rian and Elin were practicing nearby.
Rian was thrusting his heavy ash-wood spear against a thick wooden dummy. Thwack. Thwack. Thwack. He focused entirely on pushing with his back hand, exactly as Thorne had just instructed. His bruised knuckles bled slightly, but he did not stop.
Elin was practicing her footwork. She held her twin iron daggers close to her chest. She stepped forward, slashed the empty air, and immediately stepped back. She repeated the exact same three steps over and over until her boots carved a deep trench in the dirt.
Nobody complained.
Nobody dropped their weapons and asked for a water break. The rich kids did not whine about their sore muscles. The poor kids did not cry about their bleeding hands.
The three-month timer was ticking down every single second.
They all understood the cold reality of the Genesis Zenith Academy. You could cry to Instructor Thorne, and he might just kick you out. But if you cried in the jungle, the beasts were not going to listen to your complaints.
A Core Formation monster did not care if your arms were tired. It did not care if you were a noble heir or a starving scavenger. If you made a mistake, the beast would just tear your throat out and taste your blood.
Jin brought the heavy broadsword down again. His back muscles burned with intense heat. He pulled Aether into his lungs and swung the iron back up. The hostile acquisition required absolute preparation. He kept swinging.