Chapter 5: A Calm Mind
Winter always lingered in Tower City, the April air still carrying a damp chill. It was the perfect weather for children to burn off their pent-up energy, their shouts echoing across the neighborhood's open grounds.
For them, it was play. For four-year-old Ryan, it was the perfect cover.
He was small for his age, ninety centimeters tall and a few pounds lighter than his peers. But within that slender frame operated a mature and meticulous physical management system. Every training task was wrapped in the guise of "reasonable play," designed to fly under adult radar.
Jumping over puddles by the wall was actually ten sets of explosive, short-distance leaps. "Helping out" by moving chairs and buckets was a drill in lifting and carrying heavy objects. A "game of catch" was a self-timed sprint, turning to intercept the ball at maximum speed.
His parents had long since grown accustomed to his quiet competence. "Our Ryan has always been so independent," his mother would say. "He insists on carrying things himself." His father would laugh. "Don't let his size fool you. He's got strong bones."
They had no idea these were all components of a deliberate, calculated training schedule, evaluated on a weekly cycle for precision and recovery speed. He knew he couldn't push for raw power yet; his bones were still developing. But he could master control: of his body, his breath, his rhythm.
This evening, after finishing his sit-ups, he headed out for his nightly reaction practice when an obstacle appeared. At the end of the alley, a group of older boys was loitering by a concrete wall. The leader, a six-year-old in a red plaid jacket with a brutish haircut, was twirling a wooden stick.
His name was Rex, the local troublemaker. Ryan had seen him before but had always kept his distance. He intended to do so now, skirting the edge of the group.
But Rex spotted him. "Yo, shorty," he called out with a sneer. "Scared of us?"
Ryan didn't respond, his pace unwavering.
"Hey! I'm talking to you! Playing deaf?" Rex was clearly looking for trouble. He dragged his stick along the ground as he approached, a pair of lackeys snickering behind him. "Careful, Rex, you might scare him. He's not a fighter."
Ryan stopped. His face remained a placid mask, but his mind was already running calculations.
Rex. Dominant, seeks validation through confrontation. Superior height and reach, but foundation is unstable, center of gravity too high. Threat Level: Negligible. Optimal Response: Non-confrontational evasion. Avoid escalation, preserve cover.
"Why aren't you talking?" Rex's face was inches from his. The wooden stick nudged Ryan's shoulder, a clear, probing provocation. The air grew quiet.
In the next second, the stick swung hard at Ryan's shoulder. It was a fast, clumsy strike that would have startled any normal child.
But Ryan's body simply… shifted. A slight tilt, a half-inch slide of his back foot. It was the most efficient movement possible, perfectly tracing the edge of the attack's trajectory. His center of gravity remained flawless.
Rex, expecting resistance that never came, stumbled forward with his own momentum. He tripped over his own feet and fell with a thud into the dust.
His friends stared for a beat, then erupted in laughter. "Way to go, Boss Rex!"
Ryan didn't laugh or gloat. He took a single step back, widened his eyes, and let his mouth fall slightly open. He held the pose, a perfect portrait of a child scared into paralysis.
Just then, the gate to his yard creaked open. "Ryan!" his mother cried out, seeing the scene from a distance.
She ran to him, pulling him close and checking him for injuries. "Were they bullying you again?"
Ryan buried his head in her side, then looked up, blinking slowly. "He... he just ran at me," he whispered. "I couldn't move, and then... he fell."
His tone was pitch-perfect: surprise, helplessness, a hint of lingering shock. His mother hugged him tight, then turned her fury on the other boys. "What are you doing, picking on someone so much smaller than you? How old are you?!"
The boys stammered excuses before scattering. Rex scrambled to his feet, his face burning with humiliation, and stormed off without a word.
"It's okay, sweetie," his mother cooed, stroking his back. "Mom's here. No one will bully you."
Ryan nodded meekly into her shoulder. But as he turned away, his eyes were as cold and calm as still water. It was the first successful field test of his two primary skill sets: combat evasion and psychological warfare. He had not only neutralized the physical threat but had also weaponized his parents' protective instincts to reinforce his disguise.
He had won. Not against Rex, but against the world's expectation of who he was.
Back in his room, he pulled out his wooden training log.
First real-world conflict response. Strategy: Non-direct confrontation.
Opponent: Dominant personality. Unstable center of gravity.
Action: Minimal evasion, guiding opponent to lose balance.
Cover: Display shock and helplessness. Triggered parental protection successfully. No suspicion aroused.
Conclusion: Objective achieved. Next step: stress-state data collection.
His knuckles whitened as he gripped the carving tool. The moment of the dodge replayed in his mind. It wasn't just muscle memory. His body had sensed the trajectory of the attack a split-second before it launched. It had perceived the flaw in the rhythm of his opponent's aggression.
For the first time, he truly understood. The body's most advanced danger sense didn't rely on the eyes or ears. It relied on predicting rhythm.
He opened his training plan and crossed out "evasion training." He wrote a new heading: Reflexes.
A new training module began to form in his mind. He would move beyond symmetrical exercises. Real combat was asymmetrical. He needed to master the explosive power of a one-sided twist, a sudden lunge. He would build drills with random, popping obstacles to force directional judgment under pressure. He would measure his own margin for error, tracking how a single misstep impacted his balance. He would map his own body's response time in a crisis.
This was the first time he had converted real combat experience into training data. From now on, training wasn't just preparation. It was feedback.
In his parents' eyes, he was still their quiet, timid, sensible little boy. But only he knew the truth. With calmness as his edge and silence as his sheath, he was sharpening himself, piece by piece, into a weapon.
This collision was just the beginning.
And he was ready.