The months following the initial, mind-numbing stillness Alexander endured gave way to a new, equally baffling phase of his "inhuman training." The dojo still reeked of damp earth and old iron, but now, occasionally, there was the faint thwip of air being precisely displaced, or the sudden, sharp crack of wood, quickly silenced.
Master Thorne, leaning against a perpetually dusty wall, gnawing on what might have been a fossilized turnip, finally deemed Alexander ready for the next level. "Enough with the furniture imitation, boy!" Thorne barked, his voice like rocks tumbling down a hill. "The Calm Mirror is forged. The feather no longer flinches. Good. Now, the feather must learn to become the needle that pierces the world's bloated ego!"
Alexander, who had perfected the art of looking profoundly thoughtful while internally cataloging every single dust mote in the dojo, straightened his posture. Here we go. More sitting, probably. Or maybe staring at a particularly aggressive squirrel until it surrenders.
"You want to fight? You want to strike?" Thorne continued, spitting a fragment of turnip onto the floor. "Forget all the flashy garbage those preening peacocks on your father's 'television box' do! All that grunting and spinning like a drunk top! Bah! Noise! Chaos! A Beyonider doesn't announce their intentions with a dance routine. We are the intention!"
He hobbled over to a corner, retrieving a thin, almost invisible silk thread with a single, minuscule bead attached to it. He dangled it in front of Alexander.
"Your first lesson in true striking, boy," Thorne declared, his eyes glinting. "The Still Point."
Alexander braced himself. Finally, a punch skill! Maybe a heavy bag? Something satisfying to hit?
"You will hit this bead," Thorne instructed, his voice low and menacing, "with your fist. But you will not move the thread. You will not disturb the air around it. You will find the 'still point' within the bead itself the single atomic particle that is its true center and you will strike only that."
Alexander stared. Is he serious? Hit a bead without moving the thread? What in the cartoon logic is this? My mom would make me take a nap if I tried this. I just want to hit something really hard, preferably without an existential crisis about atomic particles.
Days turned into a torturous ballet of frustrated precision. Alexander would lunge, his fist a blur, only for the thread to sway wildly, the bead dancing mockingly. "LOUDER THAN A FREIGHT TRAIN, YOU LUMMOX!" Thorne would shriek, banging his cane. "I can hear the air scream when you move! Are you trying to punch the atmosphere?! Again! Until your punch is a whisper, and your whisper is a hammer!"
Alexander's knuckles ached. His shoulders burned. He tried to mimic the serene stillness of his "Calm Mirror" training, to find the core of the movement, to eliminate all wasted energy. He imagined his fist as a silent bullet, appearing from nothing. This is worse than sitting. At least sitting, I only wanted cookies. Now I want to punch him without moving the air, just to prove I can do it! He missed his father's booming cheers, even his mother's gentle "Ay, that looks painful." At least that meant there was action.
Slowly, agonizingly, it began to click. He started seeing not just the bead, but the space around it. He honed his focus until his consciousness narrowed to a pinpoint. He learned to feel the subtle current of his own breath, the minute shift of his weight, the invisible resistance of the air. Then, one afternoon, with a barely perceptible flick of his wrist, his fist ghosted forward. There was no sound, no displaced air, no sway of the thread. Only the bead, suddenly, impossibly, cracking clean in half.
Thorne dropped his turnip. "Well, I'll be... you actually did it, you little demon. You actually became the whisper that ruptures reality. Now, do it a thousand more times until it's as natural as breathing... though, frankly, your breathing is still too loud!"
Next, came the Unseen Current. Thorne placed Alexander in the center of the dojo, this time blindfolded. "The world moves in currents, boy," Thorne rasped, circling him. "Your opponents are currents. Their feints, their breaths, their very thoughts are ripples. You already feel them. Now, you will ride them. You will kick them, not with force, but with the inevitable flow of the river!"
Alexander was instructed to strike targets Thorne would set up – sometimes a single, dried leaf, sometimes a barely visible line of chalk on the floor, sometimes Thorne's own loose robe – only when Alexander felt the unseen current of the old man's subtle movements or the almost imperceptible air shifts caused by Thorne's mere presence.
"Feel the current, boy!" Thorne would shout, then subtly shift his weight. Alexander would lash out, often missing wildly, his leg flailing. "A CLUMSY OX DROWNING IN A PUDDLE!" Thorne would bellow. "The current doesn't announce itself with a splash! It's a whisper of inevitability! You are the inevitable whisper!"
Alexander stumbled, sweat stinging his eyes beneath the blindfold. I am so sick of whispers. My legs feel like noodles. I don't feel a current; I feel gravity trying to pull me into the floor! Is this enlightenment or just a very elaborate way to make me trip? Mom, I need a hug. And maybe a GPS because I'm lost in the current.
But Alexander had learned perseverance. He forced his mind to become a vast, still lake, sensing every minute tremor on its surface. He stopped looking for the current and started feeling it in his bones. He connected his own body to the flow, becoming part of the subtle movements around him. He learned to differentiate between a feinted breath and a genuine shift in weight, between a trick and a true opening.
One afternoon, Thorne performed a series of rapid, subtle feints around Alexander, trying to create a chaotic "current." Alexander stood still, blindfolded, his face placid. Then, a single, fluid movement. His leg shot out, not in a powerful, arcing kick, but a low, precise sweep that seemed to emerge from the floor itself. It brushed the very edge of Thorne's worn sandal, causing the old master to let out a surprised yelp and briefly lose his balance.
Thorne stared, rubbing his foot. "You... you little goblin! You actually rode it! You felt the unseen! My own damn current! This is why I stopped teaching... they get too good! Now, do it a thousand more times, until you can trip a ghost in a hurricane!"
Days blurred into weeks, and weeks into months. Alexander's body, already efficient, became a coiled spring of terrifying precision. The Still Point became his hammer, striking with invisible power. The Unseen Current became his tripwire, sweeping opponents off their feet before they even registered a threat. These new offensive tools blended seamlessly with his defensive Calm Mirror and his reactive Instinct Engine. He wasn't just defending or countering; he was dismantling. Quietly.
Master Thorne watched Alexander move, a rare, almost imperceptible smile touching his lips beneath his perpetually grumpy facade. Alexander was no longer just a student; he was becoming the living embodiment of the Beyonider Style. The old man still grumbled, still found fault, but a deep, quiet pride settled in his ancient bones.
"You're not a boy anymore, Alexander," Thorne rasped one evening, watching Alexander execute a flawless Still Point on a hanging target that barely swayed. "You're a blade. A very, very quiet blade. But a blade needs a purpose, boy. A very sharp purpose. A storm is brewing, Alexander. And you, my silent monster, are the eye of it."
Alexander simply nodded, his blue eyes holding a new, deeper stillness. He felt the aches, the exhaustion, the lingering internal cries for his mom's cookies, but underneath it all, a cold certainty was hardening. He was being forged. And the storm, he instinctively knew, was indeed coming.
The muffled thwip of Alexander's latest "Still Point" strike, expertly splitting a hanging dried leaf without even a tremor, filled the dusty dojo. Master Thorne, slumped in his usual spot, was mid-chew on what Alexander strongly suspected was another fossilized turnip, eyes narrowed in grudging approval.
"Hmph," Thorne grumbled, a sound like a small, disgruntled badger. "Took you long enough, you slow-witted prodigy. That leaf has been mocking you for days. Your punch still sounds like a whisper, but at least it's a whisper that means business. Now, let's see if you can manage to not trip over your own feet while riding a current... it's the only entertaining thing you do, besides looking perpetually confused."
Alexander, outwardly serene, mentally sighed. One more perfect strike and he's still complaining. It's always something. Maybe if I move quietly enough, I can sneak a cookie from his secret stash. No, wait, he probably has a tripwire made of old bones and an air horn.
Just as Thorne was winding up another insult, the dojo's front door, which usually announced its opening with a theatrical groan, swung inward with a confident, almost cheerful swish. Thorne nearly choked on his turnip. His eyes, usually suspicious, widened into something akin to alarm, then quickly hardened into a familiar mask of irritation.
"Ah, Father," a smooth, impeccably dressed voice announced. A man Alexander recognized from a framed photo on Thorne's desk – a younger, significantly less disheveled version of the old master – stood in the doorway. He wore a tailor-made suit that probably cost more than Alexander's entire house, and a smile that seemed professionally practiced. This was Master Thorne's son, Arthur Thorne, the millionaire business owner who regularly offered to buy his eccentric father a proper dojo, an offer Thorne always responded to with a flurry of cane-banging and expletives. Beside him stood a woman, elegant and serene, his daughter-in-law, Catherine.
"Arthur. Catherine," Thorne grumbled, his voice strained, as if acknowledging their presence caused him physical pain. "To what do I owe this... intrusion upon my sacred hovel?" He subtly tried to hide the fossilized turnip behind his back.
Arthur chuckled, a warm, rich sound. "Just stopping by, Father. Catherine wanted to say hello. And," he added, his gaze drifting to the silent Alexander, "someone insisted on tagging along."
From behind Catherine's silk-clad leg emerged a girl. She was Alexander's age, maybe a hair taller, with a cascade of dark, shiny hair and eyes that sparkled with intelligence and a hint of mischief. She was dressed in stylish, comfortable athletic wear, clearly expensive, and moved with a confident, almost athletic grace that Alexander immediately registered. His Calm Mirror perception identified her as highly capable, even before she spoke.
Her eyes, however, weren't on Master Thorne. They landed directly on Alexander. They widened just slightly, taking in his lean frame, his quiet posture, and then, settling on his bright blue eyes. A small, genuine smile touched her lips. Alexander, even at his young age, was undeniably handsome, his features already hinting at the sharp, commanding presence he would grow into.
Alexander, who could face a pebble to the nose without flinching, felt a flicker of something unfamiliar. He was used to being invisible, the quiet kid, the weird one who spent all his time in a dusty dojo. Nobody looked at him like that. He gave a polite, almost imperceptible nod.
The girl stepped forward, her confidence radiating. "Grandpa!" she chirped, ignoring Thorne's grumpy demeanor entirely. "You didn't tell me you had a student! And he's got... really cool eyes." She winked at Alexander. "I'm Nana. that old geezer's granddaughter. And you're... Alexander, right? Heard you're pretty good. My dad talks about you sometimes."
Thorne groaned. "Nana! Don't encourage him! He's barely a sentient dust bunny! And your father talks about Alexander? What is this madness?" He gave a sharp glare towards his son, Arthur, who merely whistled innocently, looking away. "I explicitly told you on the phone to keep this under your expensive hat, didn't I, boy?" Arthur responded by looking away and whistling more.
Thorne then turned his head to Nana, his expression softening only marginally.
"Oh, just that you're 'obsessed' with him and that he's 'the chosen one' or something," Nana said brightly, making air quotes, clearly enjoying her grandfather's discomfort. Her mother, Catherine, gave a polite, apologetic smile to Alexander.
"Obsessed?!" Thorne exploded, nearly dropping his cane. "It's called rigorous instruction! And he's not chosen, he just happens to be the only idiot who didn't quit! Now, what do you want, Nana? You didn't come all this way just to make fun of your poor old, misunderstood grandfather."
Nana's smile only widened. She bounced slightly on the balls of her feet. "Well, I heard you were teaching him some 'secret moves.' And I'm competing with top tier fighters from my elementary school for combat arts, so I thought... maybe a little friendly sparring?" Her gaze was fixed on Alexander, a challenge in her sparkling eyes. "Just a light spar, Grandpa. I promise I won't use my full power against your 'sentient dust bunny' here."
Alexander, for his part, felt a strange mix of annoyance and intrigue. She thinks I'm a dust bunny? And 'light spar'? I bet she's never faced anyone who actually doesn't flinch. This could be... interesting. And definitely not boring. My internal screams approve of this development.
Thorne glared at Nana, then at Alexander, then back at Nana. "Sparring? With my First User of the Beyonider Style? Are you out of your mind, child? He'll dismantle you before you even throw a punch! You're all flash and no substance! You train at those schools that teach you how to pose for the cameras, not how to actually fight!"
"Oh, come on, Grandpa! Just a little friendly match!" Nana insisted, already stepping onto the clean portion of the dojo floor. She eyed Alexander, a competitive gleam in her eyes, mixed with something else that made Alexander feel… warm. He was used to being either ignored or seen as a quiet oddity. Being seen as handsome and potentially interesting was a novel sensation.
Alexander simply met her gaze, a tiny, almost imperceptible smirk playing on his lips. He was used to Master Thorne's theatrics, but this girl was something else entirely. He gave Thorne another calm nod. Bring it on, old man. This might actually be fun.
Thorne threw his hands up in exasperation, nearly hitting a spider web. "Fine! Fine! But don't come crying to me when he makes you question your life choices! And Alexander, no breaking any precious, expensive bones! Her father pays for my turnips!"
Alexander just took his stance, his muscles already humming. Nana, meanwhile, was warming up with graceful, fluid movements, a confident energy radiating from her. She was good. Alexander could see that much. But Alexander knew a deeper stillness. He wondered how she would react when she hit the Calm Mirror, when her confident attacks met nothing but impenetrable calm.
This was no longer just about the Beast Instinct or Ultra Instinct. This was about a new kind of challenge. And maybe, just maybe, a reason to want to visit the dojo even on days when Thorne's grumbling felt particularly intense.
Nana's warm-up included a low spinning kick that barely stirred the air – a move Alexander had only just mastered himself weeks ago, in painstaking detail, after days of trying to not trip over his own feet. It was impressive. She moved like a trained dancer, every motion economical and precise, a stark contrast to Alexander's own almost invisible movements.
"You stand really still," Nana observed, a mischievous glint in her eyes as she settled into a ready stance, facing him. "Are you like, part of the furniture here?"
Alexander's face remained placid, but internally, a tiny, amused spark flickered. That's the idea. He simply nodded once, a gesture that conveyed both acknowledgment and a subtle challenge. It was a strange feeling, being looked at so intently, not with pity or exasperation, but with genuine curiosity and competitive energy. Nobody's ever looked at me like I was… worth watching, not outside of Master Thorne's peculiar scrutiny.
Master Thorne, meanwhile, had found another chunk of his fossilized turnip and was muttering to himself, "Foolish child. Thinks fancy kicks matter. This is not a ballet recital, Nana."
Nana lunged first, a quick, almost flashy jab aimed at Alexander's face. It wasn't telegraphed, and it carried a surprising amount of speed. Alexander's Calm Mirror kicked in. He didn't blink. He didn't flinch. His head barely shifted, the punch slicing through the air inches from his nose. His eyes, clear and unblinking, tracked her fist as if time itself had slowed.
Nana's eyes widened slightly. Most people flinched, even the top tier fighters from her elementary school. He just… didn't. She followed up with a series of rapid-fire strikes, aiming for his torso, his legs. She tried feints – a shoulder dip that hinted at a right hook, a sudden shift of weight that suggested a low kick. Alexander registered every flicker, every minute ripple in her intention. Her feints didn't even work at all. He just effortlessly dodged. His movements were tiny, almost imperceptible. A lean, a sway, a step that seemed to disappear into the floor itself. Her punches and kicks zipped through empty air where he had been a fraction of a second before. He was like smoke, there and then gone, without even a ripple of displaced air.
Nana gritted her teeth, a flicker of frustration crossing her features. Her movements became sharper, more aggressive, less like a dance and more like a hunt. She unleashed a complex combination, ending with a powerful, high roundhouse kick that whistled past Alexander's ear. It was a beautiful kick, full of power and speed. But Alexander was already moving. His left leg, seemingly without conscious thought, swept low in an Unseen Current, brushing the back of Nana's knee.
It wasn't a hard kick, barely a touch. But it found the precise moment of her off-balance, the subtle current in her movement. Nana gasped, her powerful kick losing all its momentum as her body momentarily tipped. She stumbled forward, catching herself just before she fell.
Thorne let out a loud, theatrical sigh, part exasperation, part hidden delight. "See, Nana-bug? All that flash and you almost ate the floor. The Beyonider finds the unfindable!"
Nana straightened, a bead of sweat trickling down her temple. Her initial confidence was still there, but now mixed with genuine bewilderment. "How… how did you do that? I barely felt it. It was like… my leg just decided to stop working for a second."
Alexander didn't answer with words. As Nana reset, he stepped forward, his motion fluid, almost lazy. He seemed to float. Then, in a movement that was so subtle it was practically invisible, his right fist darted out. It wasn't fast in a blur-of-motion way. It was fast in a it-just-appeared-there way.
Nana's eyes widened, recognizing the danger, but it was too late. Alexander's fist stopped precisely, gently, barely a hair's breadth from her chin. It was The Still Point, delivered with terrifying accuracy. She hadn't even seen it begin, let alone finish.
She froze, her breath catching in her throat. Her heart hammered against her ribs. The sheer, effortless precision was unnerving. This wasn't just skill; it was something else entirely. Her body screamed at her to react, to block, to move, but Alexander's calm, unblinking gaze held her transfixed. He pulled his fist back, just as quietly as he had launched it.
Nana swallowed, her competitive fire temporarily doused by a cold wave of something akin to awe. "Whoa," she breathed, her voice barely a whisper. "Grandpa… what exactly are you teaching him?"
Thorne chuckled, a dry, raspy sound, finally putting down his turnip. "I'm teaching him to be a headache, Nana. A very, very quiet headache. Now, don't you two dare break anything important. Your father complains about the insurance deductibles."
Arthur Thorne, who had been watching the exchange with a professional, almost detached interest, now stepped forward slightly, his practiced smile faltering just a touch. He looked from Alexander to his father. "He's a monster genius, isn't he, Father?" Arthur's voice was low, devoid of his usual polished cadence, replaced by genuine curiosity and a hint of something uncomfortably close to admiration.
Master Thorne's perpetually grumpy facade cracked. A guttural chuckle, deep and rough like rocks tumbling down a very steep hill, rumbled from his chest. Thorne just laughed.
"Speaking of Raging Storm, where I will be sending Nana for high school," Arthur continued, turning his gaze back to Alexander, a thoughtful glint in his eye. "It's one of the top five famous combat high schools in the region. Have you ever considered sending Alexander there, Father? He clearly has a… unique talent. He would undoubtedly excel."
Thorne's laughter died instantly. His face, already a roadmap of grumbles, folded into a look of profound disgust. "Raging Storm?!" he practically spat, as if the words themselves tasted foul. He slammed his cane on the dusty floor, sending a cloud of fine particles into the air. "Bah! That glorified circus tent? All they teach is how to preen for the cameras and punch air with dramatic flair! My Alexander isn't some performing monkey! He's… he's the Quiet Storm! And the Quiet Storm doesn't need your flashy academies, Arthur. He's already learned more here than any of those poseurs ever will!"
Arthur merely raised an eyebrow, a flicker of amusement in his eyes at his father's predictable outrage. Catherine, ever serene, just offered Alexander a small, sympathetic smile.
Nana was still staring at Alexander, a new kind of intensity in her eyes. It wasn't just the blue eyes now. It was the unreadable calm, the impossible precision, the silent power. She had come expecting a fun spar, perhaps to subtly show off her own talents. Instead, she had just encountered a different world.
He's really handsome, Nana thought, a blush creeping up her neck and across her cheeks, a warmth she hadn't anticipated. And so incredibly skilled. My elementary school was Raging Storm too, but they don't teach that kind of… stillness. Not like this.
Alexander gave another small nod. He felt a quiet satisfaction. This girl, with her bright energy and surprising skill, saw something. He was no longer just the weird, quiet kid training in the dusty dojo. He was a challenge, an enigma. And a part of him, a part he hadn't known existed until that moment, actually enjoyed being seen.
Their spar had ended, but something new had definitely begun between them, a silent challenge that transcended simple competition, hinting at a connection that might just bridge their two very different worlds. Nana, the future star among the top tier fighters from her elementary school, found herself utterly fascinated by the boy with the calm eyes and the terrifyingly silent punches. And Alexander, the Beyonider's first, felt a flicker of warmth in his otherwise solitary, intense world.