The second time Serik faced Garron, the air felt different.
Not heavier. Not lighter. Just… thinner. Like the world was holding its breath, waiting to see how badly this would go.
Serik stood in the middle of the yard with his stance set, ribs still sore under the bandages. The pain dulled to something bearable, but it sat there like a warning.
Across from him, Garron just grinned, chains clinking around his ankles as he rolled his shoulders.
"You look better standing than you did on the ground," Garron said. "I liked you more when you were coughing."
Serik didn't answer. He focused on his breathing. In. Out. Don't rush. Don't think about last time. Don't think about cracking ribs and not being able to breathe.
Jons watched from his usual place, hands folded behind his back, gaze steady.
They began.
The first punch came faster than Serik expected. He blocked with both arms and still felt the impact all the way to his spine. He tried to circle around, tried to use footwork like with Rudren, but Garron didn't care about angles. He just kept stepping forward like a walking wall.
"Run around all you like, kid," Garron laughed. "When you get tired, I'll break something new."
Serik darted in to land a jab to the side of Garron's knee. It connected, but the man barely staggered.
"Cute," Garron said.
Then his fist crashed into Serik's shoulder and sent him spinning.
That set the tone for the week.
—
On the second day, Jons woke Serik before dawn.
"Outside," was all he said.
They ran. Not the calm, steady runs Serik was used to. This time Jons mixed in sprints. Sudden stops. Direction changes. Backward runs. Jumps over low obstacles. Serik's lungs burned. His ribs complained with every hard breath, but Jons' voice never rose.
"Again."
"Faster."
"Don't lose your center just because you are tired."
By the time they returned to the yard, sweat had soaked through Serik's shirt. His legs felt like wet sand.
"Break?" Serik panted.
Jons looked at him. "No. Your opponent will not wait for you to catch your breath."
Garron was already there, sitting on a rock, picking something out from under his fingernails with a tiny piece of metal.
"Took you long enough," he said. "I'm getting bored down here. You know, kid, boredom is dangerous for people like me. Makes me want to… improvise."
Serik clenched his fists. "Shut up."
Garron laughed. "Oh? Got a tongue now?"
They fought.
It went worse than the day before.
Tired legs. Sloppy dodges. Slow recovery. Garron exploited all of it. Every time Serik tried something, Garron smashed through it. He didn't even dodge most of Serik's hits; he just let them land and hit back twice as hard.
Halfway through, Garron started talking between blows.
"You ever hear someone scream while you pull out their teeth?" he asked, swinging a heavy backhand that sent Serik stumbling.
Serik spat blood and lunged again. Garron caught him by the wrist, twisted, and shoved him onto the ground.
"It's funny," Garron went on casually. "At first they cry. Then they beg. Then eventually, they just… go quiet. Their minds break before their bodies. I like that look."
"Shut your mouth," Serik snarled through gritted teeth, struggling to stand.
"Why?" Garron leaned over him, grinning too wide. "Is it making you angry?"
Serik tried to punch him. It didn't land. Garron kneed him in the stomach for the effort.
Later that night, when Serik lay in bed staring at the ceiling, his ribs aching all over again, he realized something that made him feel sick:
He wanted to hurt Garron badly.
Not just win.
Hurt him.
—
By the third day, the routine was set.
Morning: running, but harder. More resistance, more sprints, more sudden stops. Jons added in simple strength drills too—push-ups, pull-ups on the old wooden beam, squats while holding bags of sand.
Afternoon: Garron.
The third fight, Serik lasted longer—not because he got stronger overnight, but because he started getting angry faster.
When Garron shoved him into the dirt and planted a foot on his chest, Serik grabbed his ankle and pulled with everything he had. Garron actually hopped back a step, caught off guard.
"There we go," Garron said. "There's that little spark."
"Keep talking," Serik panted, struggling to stand. "Maybe I'll knock that smile off."
"Oh?" Garron tilted his head. "Big words from something that fits under my boot."
He kept talking. Stories of people he'd hurt. Of villages that never woke up. Of jobs he took just because he wanted to see how long someone could scream and beg.
Jons listened silently, face untouched by emotion, but in his mind:
This man is filth. But useful filth—for now.
When Garron mentioned a family he'd burned alive "because the pay was late," Serik snapped.
He charged without thinking, swinging wild, angry blows that had no form.
Garron loved it.
"YES," he shouted, laughing. "That's it! That's the face I wanted!"
He beat Serik bloody that day.
Jons let it go on longer than usual before stepping in. Long enough for Serik to understand something simple and cruel:
Losing control didn't make him stronger. It made him easier to break.
—
By the fourth day, Serik's patience was wearing thin.
His body was tired. His mind was tired. Every time he closed his eyes, Garron's words crawled back in.
"I've killed kids your age, you know."
"Stop talking."
"Some cried. Some begged. It didn't matter. When they stop moving, they all look the same."
"I said shut up!"
He fought harder that day. Not necessarily smarter, but harder. He attacked more, retreated less. He started using his elbows, his knees, anything he could, even if it hurt him too.
At one point he managed to slam his forehead into Garron's chin.
Garron staggered and spat blood.
For a brief flicker of a moment, Serik felt triumph.
Then he saw Garron's face.
He was smiling. Eyes wide. Breathing heavier.
"Oh," Garron said. "That almost hurt."
He grabbed Serik by the hair and slammed him into the ground.
Jons' fingers twitched at his side.
He's losing too much control, Jons thought.
Later, while Serik sat at the table with an ice pack pressed to his head, Jons placed a cup of the bitter mixture in front of him.
Serik glared at the liquid. "…It's not working."
"It is," Jons said.
"Then why do I still lose?"
"Because Garron is stronger than you," Jons answered simply. "And because anger alone will not change that."
Serik's jaw clenched. "I really want to hurt him."
"I know," Jons replied. "That is why you must be careful."
—
By the fifth day, anger sat in Serik's chest like a second heartbeat.
Training ramped up again. Jons shifted the focus from raw running to sharper changes of direction. Quick lunges forward, fast retreats, sudden lateral slides. Serik's legs burned, but his movements began to carry a little more bite.
"You must not meet force with force every time," Jons said as Serik stumbled. "Sometimes you avoid. Sometimes you redirect. Sometimes you break the force from the side rather than the front."
Serik wiped sweat from his chin. "But he just walks through everything I throw at him."
"Then throw something different," Jons answered.
That afternoon, Garron greeted him with his usual grin.
"You look like death, kid. I like it. Makes the breaking easier."
"Die in a ditch," Serik muttered under his breath.
Garron laughed. "Oh, now we're talking."
The fight that day was messy.
Serik tried to use angles—stepping away instead of straight back—but his body still lagged behind his intentions. Sometimes it worked. Sometimes Garron's fist still found him. When Serik managed to land a solid hit to Garron's knee, the man hissed and retaliated twice as hard, throwing him to the dirt like a rag.
At one point, while Garron had him pinned with a knee on his chest and a hand on his throat, he leaned in close enough that Serik could smell his breath.
"If I ever get out of here," Garron murmured, "I'll show you what real fun is. I'll go to the next town over and make you listen to how loud they scream."
Something in Serik snapped again—not into wild flailing this time, but into a cold, sharp thread of fury that settled in his gut.
"I'll kill you before that," he rasped.
Garron blinked.
Then he smiled wider.
"I'm counting on it."
—
On the sixth day, Serik woke up already angry.
His body protested every movement, but he moved anyway. Stretches. Light drills. Breathing exercises. He ate quickly, barely tasting the food, and went outside before Jons even called him.
Jons watched him shadowbox for a few minutes.
His form is cleaning up, he thought. But his eyes are getting darker.
Training that morning was brutal. Jons had him doing combinations on a hanging sack of sand—punch, kick, elbow, step out, repeat. Correcting his form when he twisted wrong, made him repeat sets when his shoulders rose in tension.
"Again," Jons said.
Serik grunted, sweat dripping off his chin.
"Again."
Serik's fists hit the sack harder. Imagining Garron. Imagining that grin.
By the time Garron was brought out of the cellar, Serik already looked like he'd been fighting for an hour.
Garron looked delighted.
"Look at you," he said. "Little monster in the making."
"I'm nothing like you," Serik snapped.
"Keep saying that," Garron replied. "Maybe one day you'll believe it."
The fight that day didn't last very long, but something new happened.
Garron threw a heavy punch toward Serik's face.
Serik slipped under it and, for the first time, didn't just dodge—he used Garron's momentum, grabbed his wrist, and slammed an elbow into the man's arm.
Garron snarled in pain, yanking his limb back.
Serik followed with a knee to the thigh.
It landed.
Garron's leg jolted. He actually stumbled.
They locked eyes.
"You little sh—" Garron started.
"Shut up and fight," Serik spat.
It earned him a vicious backhand that sent him spinning, but as he lay there spitting blood in the dirt, chest heaving, something sharp and vicious inside him wouldn't back down.
He wanted Garron dead.
He was honest enough with himself now to admit that.
—
On the seventh day, Serik could barely lift his arms.
His knuckles were swollen. His ribs ached. His shoulders felt like someone had strapped weights to them during the night. Even turning his head too quickly made something hurt.
But when Jons asked, "Can you stand?"Serik said, "Yes."
They went outside.
The sky was overcast, clouds heavy and rolling. The yard felt closed in, smaller somehow.
Garron stepped out, chains clinking, grin already in place.
"I've been thinking, kid," he said conversationally as he rolled his neck. "You remember that man I told you about? The one who begged while I burned him?"
Serik's hands curled into fists.
"I think," Garron went on, "you're starting to sound like him."
"Say one more thing," Serik said, voice low, "and I'll break your teeth."
Garron laughed, delighted. "There he is. There's the killer hiding under all that 'morality.'"
They fought.
Serik pushed himself harder than he had all week. He used every correction Jons had given him. Every angle, every breath, every bit of timing he'd learned. He landed more hits that day than ever before.
And still lost.
Garron was too strong, too heavy, too used to real killing. He adapted quickly. He learned Serik's new tricks even as they were used on him. By the end, Serik was on his back again, dirt in his mouth, chest burning, vision pulsing at the edges.
Garron stood over him, breathing a little heavier than at the beginning, but still standing.
"You're getting close," he said quietly.
Serik glared up at him.
"One of these days," Garron said, "you're actually going to scare me."
Jons called an end to the day's session.
He watched as Serik dragged himself up, shoulders shaking, rage and frustration burning hot behind his eyes.
Young master, you thought you climbed a mountain, but what people fear the most is a wall—a wall that seems insurmountable no matter what you do.A mountain can be climbed, but a wall… sigha wall can only be overcome, Jon thought.
The question is: How will you overcome this wall?By force? By patience? By breaking it, or by learning the path hidden behind it?
'What for answer will you give?'
That night, lying in bed, staring at the dark ceiling, Serik's body screamed with pain, but his mind wouldn't rest.
He replayed every fight of the week. Every insult. Every story Garron told. The way the man laughed at suffering. The way he enjoyed breaking things.
His hands, resting on his chest, curled slowly into fists.
He didn't just want to win anymore.
He wanted to end Garron.
And that thought didn't scare him as much as it should have.