The oppressive summer heat clung to everything, seeping even into the shadows of the old dojo. The air, thick and humid, shimmered outside, but inside, dust motes danced in sparse sunlight, illuminating a scene of strange, intense discipline. For two months Alexander had endured the mind-numbing stillness required to forge his Calm Mirror and sharpen his Instinct Engine, pushing past boredom and mental static until they became second nature. Now, a new—equally baffling—phase of his "inhuman training" began. 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 while 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. He wondered, briefly, how much summer remained. Still four months, right? Plenty of time to endure whatever torture the old man had cooked up.
"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 drunk tops! 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 like a hypnotist's pendulum.
"Your first lesson in true striking, boy," Thorne declared, his eyes glinting with predatory satisfaction. "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 dropping to a menacing whisper, "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 in the air. "LOUDER THAN A FREIGHT TRAIN, YOU LUMMOX!" Thorne would shriek, banging his cane against the floor. "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 each 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—the invisible currents, the minute pressures, the delicate balance of forces. 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 itself. Then, one sweltering 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, blindfolded with a strip of worn cloth that smelled suspiciously of ancient sweat. "The world moves in currents, boy," Thorne rasped, circling him like a predator. "Your opponents are currents. Their feints, their breaths, their very thoughts are ripples in the water. You already feel them. Now, you will ride them. You will kick them, a strike to hurt, redirect their force, and disrupt their balance, flowing like the inevitable river!"
Alexander was instructed to strike targets Thorne set up—sometimes a single, dried leaf, sometimes a barely visible line of chalk on the floor, sometimes Thorne's own loose robe—but only when he felt the unseen current of the old man's subtle movements or the almost imperceptible air shifts caused by Thorne's presence. The kick had to sting, guide the target's momentum aside, and throw it off-balance.
"Feel the current, boy!" Thorne shouted, then subtly shifted his weight. Alexander lashed out, his leg flailing through empty air, missing wildly. "A CLUMSY OX DROWNING IN A PUDDLE!" Thorne bellowed. "The current doesn't announce itself with a splash! It's a whisper of inevitability! Your kick must hurt, redirect, and disrupt! You are the inevitable whisper!"
Alexander stumbled, sweat stinging his eyes beneath the blindfold. I am so sick of whispers. My legs feel like overcooked 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 through countless hours of mind-numbing stillness. 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, in the subtle vibrations through the floorboards, in the whisper of fabric and the rhythm of breath. He connected his 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, trying to create a chaotic current of false signals. Alexander stood still, blindfolded, his face placid as a mountain lake. Then, a single, fluid movement. His leg shot out, a low, precise kick that emerged from the floor itself. The Unseen Current struck Thorne's sandal with a sharp sting, redirecting his forward momentum and disrupting his balance. Thorne yelped, stumbling slightly, his robe fluttering as he caught himself.
Thorne rubbed his foot with wounded dignity, his eyes wide with grudging respect. "You... you little goblin! You rode the unseen! My own damn current! That kick stung, boy, and threw me off like a leaf in a storm! This is why I stopped teaching—they get too good! Now, do it a thousand more times, until you can sting, redirect, and trip a ghost in a hurricane!"
Days blurred into two months of relentless refinement. Alexander's body, already efficient from his defensive training, became a coiled spring of terrifying precision. The Still Point became his hammer, striking with invisible power that could crack reality itself. The Unseen Current became his tripwire, a kick that stung to hurt, redirected force, and disrupted balance, toppling opponents before they registered the threat. These offensive tools blended seamlessly with his defensive Calm Mirror and reactive Instinct Engine. He wasn't just defending or countering anymore; he was dismantling—quietly, inevitably.
Master Thorne watched Alexander move through his exercises, 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 with every movement, but a deep, quiet pride settled in his ancient bones like warmth from a long-awaited fire.
"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 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, a cold certainty was hardening like steel in a forge. He was being forged. And the storm, he instinctively knew, was indeed coming.
The muffled thwip of Alexander's latest Still Point strike, splitting a hanging dried leaf without a tremor in the air, 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 sounds like a whisper, but at least it's a whisper that means business. Now, let's see if you can manage not to 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 of old bones and an air horn.
Just as Thorne was winding up another insult, the dojo's front door—usually announcing its opening with a theatrical groan—swung inward with a confident, cheerful swish. Thorne nearly choked on his turnip. His eyes, usually suspicious, widened into something akin to alarm, then 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, less disheveled version of the old master—stood in the doorway. He wore a tailor-made suit that probably cost more than Alexander's house, and a smile that seemed professionally practiced. This was Arthur Thorne, the millionaire business owner who regularly offered to buy his eccentric father a proper dojo, an offer Thorne always met with 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 their presence caused physical pain. "To what do I owe this... intrusion upon my sacred hovel?" He subtly hid the fossilized turnip behind his back.
Arthur chuckled, a warm, rich sound that filled the dusty space. "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, Alexander's age, maybe a hair taller, with a cascade of dark, shiny hair and eyes sparkling with intelligence and mischief. She wore stylish, comfortable athletic wear, clearly expensive, and moved with confident, athletic grace that Alexander registered instantly. His Calm Mirror marked her as highly capable, even before she spoke.
Her eyes locked onto Alexander, taking in his lean frame, quiet posture, and bright blue eyes. They widened slightly, a genuine smile touching her lips. Alexander, even at his young age, was undeniably handsome, his features hinting at a sharp, commanding presence to come.
Alexander, who could face a pebble to the nose without flinching, felt an unfamiliar flicker. He was used to being invisible, the quiet kid in a dusty dojo. Nobody looked at him like that—with interest, appreciation. He gave a polite, almost imperceptible nod.
The girl stepped forward, confidence radiating like warmth from a fire. "Grandpa!" she chirped, ignoring Thorne's grumpy demeanor. "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 like a man in physical pain. "Nana! Don't encourage him! He's barely a sentient dust bunny! And your father talks about Alexander? What is this madness?" He glared at Arthur, who whistled innocently, looking away. "I explicitly told you on the phone to keep this under your expensive hat, didn't I, boy?" Arthur whistled more conspicuously.
Thorne turned his baleful gaze to Nana, softening only marginally—from murderous to deeply annoyed.
"Oh, just that you're 'obsessed' with him and he's 'the chosen one' or something," Nana said brightly, making air quotes with delight at her grandfather's discomfort. Catherine offered Alexander a polite, apologetic smile.
"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, misunderstood grandfather."
Nana's smile widened, bright and challenging. She bounced on the balls of her feet like a boxer warming up. "Well, I heard you were teaching him some 'secret moves.' And I'm competing with top-tier fighters from my elementary school combat arts, so I thought... maybe a little friendly sparring?" Her gaze fixed on Alexander, a challenge burning in her eyes. "Just a light spar, Grandpa. I promise I won't use my full power against your 'sentient dust bunny' here."
Alexander felt a mix of annoyance and intrigue. She thinks I'm a dust bunny? 'Light spar'? I bet she's never faced someone who doesn't flinch. This could be... interesting. And definitely not boring. My internal screams approve.
Thorne glared at Nana, then Alexander, then back at Nana, his eyes darting like a cornered animal. "Sparring? With my First User of the Beyonider Style? Are you out of your mind, child? He'll dismantle you before you throw a punch! You're all flash and no substance! You train at those schools that teach you to pose for cameras, not fight!"
"Oh, come on, Grandpa! Just a little friendly match!" Nana insisted, stepping onto the clean dojo floor with the confidence of someone who'd never lost a fight that mattered. Her competitive gleam mixed with something that made Alexander feel... warm. Being seen as handsome and interesting was a novel sensation, sending a flutter through his chest.
Alexander met her gaze, a tiny smirk on his lips. He was used to Thorne's theatrics, but this girl was different—bright, confident, unafraid. He gave Thorne a calm nod. Bring it on, old man. This might actually be fun.
Thorne threw his hands up, nearly hitting a spider web. "Fine! Fine! But don't come crying when he makes you question your life choices! And Alexander, no breaking precious, expensive bones! Her father pays for my turnips!"
Alexander took his stance, muscles humming with readiness. Nana warmed up with graceful, fluid movements, radiating confidence like heat from a summer sidewalk. Her form was textbook perfect, movements economical and precise. But Alexander knew a deeper stillness. He wondered how she'd react when her attacks met his Calm Mirror's impenetrable calm.
This was no longer about Beast Instinct or Ultra Instinct. This was a new challenge. And maybe, just maybe, a reason to visit the dojo even when Thorne's grumbling felt unbearable.
Nana's warm-up included a low spinning kick that barely stirred the air—a move Alexander had mastered weeks ago after days of not tripping over his own feet. It was impressive, executed with the fluid precision of someone trained since childhood. She moved like a dancer, every motion economical, contrasting Alexander's near-invisible movements.
"You stand really still," Nana observed, settling into a ready stance with a mischievous glint. "Are you, like, part of the furniture here?"
Alexander's face remained placid, but a tiny, amused spark flickered internally. That's the idea. He nodded once, a gesture of acknowledgment and subtle challenge. Being watched with curiosity and competitive energy felt strange—nobody saw him as worth watching, except Thorne's peculiar scrutiny.
Thorne, clutching another chunk of turnip, muttered, "Foolish child. Thinks fancy kicks matter. This is not a ballet recital, Nana."
Nana lunged, a quick, almost flashy jab aimed at Alexander's face. It wasn't telegraphed, carrying speed and precision. Alexander's Calm Mirror kicked in automatically. He didn't blink or flinch. His head barely shifted, the punch slicing inches from his nose with a whisper of air. His clear, unblinking eyes tracked her fist as time slowed to a crawl.
Nana's eyes widened. Most fighters—even her top-tier classmates from elementary school—flinched. He just... didn't. She followed with rapid-fire strikes at his torso and legs, testing his defenses. She tried feints—a shoulder dip hinting at a right hook, a weight shift suggesting a low kick. Alexander registered every ripple in her intent. Her feints didn't register as threats. He dodged effortlessly, his movements tiny, almost imperceptible—a lean, a sway, a step vanishing into the floor. Her punches and kicks zipped through empty air where he'd been a fraction of a second before, like smoke dissipating without a trace.
Nana gritted her teeth, frustration flickering. Her movements sharpened, less dance-like, more predatory. She unleashed a complex combination, ending with a powerful, high roundhouse kick whistling past Alexander's ear with the force of a baseball bat—a kick that had ended many matches. But Alexander was already moving. His left leg swept low in an Unseen Current, a precise kick that stung the back of Nana's knee, redirecting her kick's momentum and disrupting her balance. She gasped, her powerful kick faltering as her body tipped, the sharp sting forcing her to stumble forward, catching herself just before falling, hands slapping the dojo floor.
Thorne let out a theatrical sigh, part exasperation, part 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 confidence mixed with bewilderment. She rubbed her knee, wincing slightly. "How... how did you do that? That kick—it stung, and my leg just... stopped. It was like you turned my own kick against me."
Alexander didn't answer with words. As Nana reset her stance, shaking out her leg, he stepped forward, his motion fluid, almost lazy, floating across the floor. His right fist darted out, so subtle it was practically invisible, materializing from nothing. Nana's eyes widened, sensing danger, but it was too late. The Still Point stopped precisely, gently, a hair's breadth from her chin, delivered with terrifying accuracy. The punch had simply appeared, already at its destination.
She froze, breath catching, heart hammering. The effortless precision was unnerving, transcending normal martial arts. Her body screamed to react, but Alexander's calm, unblinking gaze held her transfixed. He pulled his fist back, as quietly as it had come, smooth as rewinding time.
Nana swallowed hard, her competitive fire doused by awe. "Whoa," she breathed, barely a whisper. "Grandpa... what exactly are you teaching him?"
Thorne chuckled, a dry, raspy sound like autumn leaves, setting down his turnip. "I'm teaching him to be a headache, Nana. A very, very quiet headache. Now, don't break anything important. Her father complains about insurance deductibles."
Arthur, watching with detached interest, stepped forward, his practiced smile faltering. He looked from Alexander to his father, his businessman's eye seeing something extraordinary. "He's a monster genius, isn't he, Father?" His voice was low, stripped of polish, tinged with admiration.
Thorne's grumpy facade cracked like old leather. A guttural chuckle rumbled from his chest, pure pride. "Speaking of Raging Storm, where I'll send Nana for high school," Arthur continued, eyeing Alexander thoughtfully. "It's a top-five combat high school in the region. Ever considered sending Alexander there, Father? His talent would excel."
Thorne's laughter died like a snapped wire, his face folding into disgust. "Raging Storm?!" he spat, as if the words tasted like rotten fish. He slammed his cane, sending dust exploding into the air. "Bah! That glorified circus tent? They teach preening for cameras, not fighting! My Alexander's no performing monkey! He's... the Quiet Storm! He's learned more here than those poseurs ever will!"
Arthur raised an eyebrow, amused at his father's outrage. Catherine offered Alexander a sympathetic smile.
Nana still stared at Alexander, a new intensity in her eyes—not just his blue eyes, but his unreadable calm, impossible precision, silent power flowing like an invisible current. She'd expected a fun spar to show off her talents. Instead, she'd met a different world—a realm of skill with new rules.
He's really handsome, Nana thought, a blush creeping up her neck, bringing unexpected warmth. And so skilled. Raging Storm didn't teach this... stillness. This is something else.
Alexander gave a small nod, a quiet satisfaction settling in his chest. This girl, with her bright energy and skill, saw something in him—beyond the weird, quiet kid in a dusty dojo. He was a challenge, an enigma, worth watching. A part of him, unknown until now, enjoyed being seen.
Their spar ended, but something new began—a silent challenge hinting at a connection bridging their worlds. Nana, a future star among her elementary school's top-tier fighters, was fascinated by the boy with calm eyes and terrifyingly silent punches. And Alexander, the Beyonider's first student, felt a flicker of warmth in his solitary world—a warmth beyond the summer heat, tied to being truly seen for the first time.