Chapter 3: The Outline of the Fist
His parents were the first to notice the physical changes.
It began with his coordination. At three years old, Ryan no longer moved like other children. The wobbly, stumbling gait was gone, replaced by a solid, centered presence. When he fell, he would instinctively roll to disperse the impact. He didn't move with the clumsy bouncing of a toddler, but with the refined economy of a trained adult—calm, precise, and rhythmic.
But it was his reaction speed that was truly astonishing.
One afternoon, while his mother was in the kitchen and his father was on the balcony unpacking tools, Ryan was in the courtyard practicing. He was working on a simple combination, alternating straight punches and hooks, switching his stance every ten sets.
The accident happened on the thirtieth set.
A sharp, metallic clang echoed from the floor above—the sound of a failing support. A small piece of cement plaster broke loose and plummeted towards the courtyard. In this old district, such accidents were dangerous; even a glancing blow could break a bone.
"Ryan, look out!" his father yelled.
Before the warning was fully formed, Ryan was already a blur of motion. He didn't look up. In a single, fluid pivot, he slid into a shadowy corner of the yard, evading the danger he couldn't possibly have seen.
The piece of plaster slammed into the exact spot where he had been standing, shattering and kicking up a cloud of dust.
For a moment, the courtyard was silent.
A cold sweat broke out on his mother's brow as she rushed out, pulling him into a frantic hug. "Are you hurt? Did it hit you?"
His father stood frozen, his eyes fixed on the scuff mark Ryan's foot had left on the concrete. He didn't know martial arts, but he knew what he had just witnessed wasn't luck. It was a trained response.
Ryan just shook his head, offering a placid smile. "I'm fine. I just got lucky."
He used the word "lucky," but he knew it was a lie. It was his first taste of something beyond pure physical reaction.
Lying in bed that night, he replayed the moment in his mind. He hadn't seen the danger. His body had moved before his mind had processed the event. It wasn't instinct, but something deeper.
An action triggered not by sight or sound, but by a perceived ripple in the environment itself, a subconscious warning from a place deeper than thought. He recalled descriptions of Nen—of users sensing killing intent before it manifested.
This wasn't Nen— but it was an echo of it. He was standing in the shadow of the doorway.
He told his parents nothing. He simply continued his practice, focusing more intensely on the rhythm of his footwork, on the control of his core with every turn. He had a new variable to track: the threshold of this new sense.
A few days later, he was watching a late-night show on the old TV—a "Classic Battles" segment from the Heavens Arena archives. It was produced for the general public, full of flashy commentary.
But Ryan saw something else beneath the surface. He saw a warrior with a grappling hook who, for the first ten seconds of a fight, used no Nen at all. His approach was pure skill: footwork, feints, spatial pressure, and control. The opponent's movements were all based on conventional combat logic.
Ryan understood in a flash: Nen-users were not helpless without their power. They were formidable fighters first. Nen was a weapon they added to an already deadly arsenal.
The revelation solidified his path. He had to train as if he would never awaken Nen. Strength was not the ability itself, but the foundation it was built upon. He wasn't just trying to "get stronger"; he was trying to be ready when power finally arrived.
As the weather cooled, he implemented a "Record Day." Every seven days, he would perform a full self-review.
First, he tested his action control: could he complete a three-punch combo five times with minimal deviation?
Second, he measured his recovery: was his body adapting to the strain, or was he pushing too hard?
Third, simulated combat: could he effectively fight against an imaginary opponent, reacting to an imaginary attack within a single second?
He used chalk to draw "entry lines" on the ground, creating a virtual opponent in his mind—right-handed, aggressive, favored high attacks. He would then run his drills, a solitary dance of parries, dodges, and counters against an invisible foe.
To an outsider, it was a child's game. To Ryan, it was a complex matrix of psychological timing, physical efficiency, and spatial awareness. His "report card" was a series of symbols carved onto a loose brick hidden behind the wall: a triangle for stable rhythm, a slash for delayed reaction, a dot for controlled breathing.
That evening, his routine was interrupted.
His father came home an hour late, his face a grim mask of fatigue and frustration. He entered without a word, his left arm in a makeshift splint, his hand swollen within a thick wrap of bandages.
"What on earth happened?" his mother gasped, dropping her spatula.
"Scaffolding stairs came loose," his father grunted, his teeth clenched. "They were tightening a cable below, no spotter. I was just in the wrong place. Lucky it only sprained my wrist, didn't hit my head."
"They should have cordoned that off!" his mother said, her voice tight with anger. "What are the supervisors thinking?"
Ryan listened quietly. Loose stairs, steel cables, no warning line. The construction site where his father worked wasn't a normal one. After dinner, he brought his father a cup of water. "Dad," he asked casually, "is working at the Tower dangerous?"
His father's expression softened. "It has its moments. The structure is complicated, especially the newly sealed floors. They're always moving old support cables around for the renovations. When something goes wrong, we have to fix it fast."
"Sealed floors?"
"Yeah." His father took a sip of water. "Parts of the tower aren't open to the public. Not for fighting. We just do external work, reinforcing the structure. The bosses say they're for special use. We don't ask questions."
Ryan nodded slowly, committing the information to memory. Sealed floors. The Heavens Arena wasn't just a public stage. Hidden within its colossal frame were secret zones, places beyond the reach of ordinary people. He had to piece together the real map of this world from these fragments of gray information.
Back in his room, he carved a new record with a bamboo stick: Ground Training - Rhythm Breakthrough - First Cycle Achieved. He placed it with the others. He couldn't predict the future, but he knew that today, he was better than yesterday. His breath was steadier, his punches were truer, and his understanding of the Tower was deeper.
He was still impossibly weak— but he had learned to observe, to practice, and to wait.
Like a blade of grass before a storm, perfectly still, yet poised for the wind.