The yard felt smaller this morning.
Maybe it was the tension. Maybe it was Garron's presence. Maybe it was the quiet way Jons watched them both, as if measuring the thickness of something only he understood.
Whatever it was, the air pressed down harder with each day.
The first week after Serik's recovery began with speed.Not grace. Not style.Just raw, desperate speed.
Jons had him running until the world blurred around the edges.Forward. Backward. Sharp turns. Dodging wooden poles. Jumping narrow trenches Jons dug into the dirt overnight.
Serik stumbled more than he succeeded.
But every time he fell, Jons' voice came steady:
"Up."
That was all.
No comfort.No scolding.Just "Up."
By midday, sweat soaked Serik's clothes. His breathing was a broken rhythm. His ribs twinged every time he twisted.
Then Garron would appear.
Dragging his chains.Grinning.Like this backyard was his favorite playground.
"Look at you," he chuckled on the first day. "You move like a scared rabbit."
Serik shot back, "You look like a pig that learned to walk."
Garron laughed, delighted. "You're getting braver. Good. Makes the breaking sweeter."
The fights were disasters.
Serik moved faster, yes — but Garron needed only one moment. One sloppy dodge. One bad angle. One slip. He caught Serik by the throat once, hoisted him off the ground like he weighed nothing, and threw him onto the dirt so hard the air burst from his lungs.
Jons watched silently.
He is learning speed, he thought. But not yet control.
By the end of Week One, Serik lay on his bed each night barely able to move. His hands trembled. His knuckles were bruised and swollen. His ribs throbbed. His breathing was shallow.
But something else hurt more:
His pride.
He couldn't touch Garron yet.Not meaningfully.Not enough to matter.
And that stung.
WEEK TWO
Week Two was worse.
Jons shifted the focus to technique. Precise movement.Small corrections.
"You are fast enough now," he said quietly one morning. "Your body must learn what to do once you reach your opponent."
So Serik spent hours repeating combinations:
elbow → knee → step-off
jab → hook → pivot
low kick → retreat → re-enter
wrist grab → twist → shoulder smash
Jons corrected everything. The angle of Serik's knee.The position of his shoulders.The tension in his jaw.
"You are too stiff," Jons said.
"You are too loose."
"You breathe too late."
"Your stance collapses."
Serik muttered curses under his breath but kept going.Harder.Faster.
Then came Garron.
And technique meant nothing.
Garron didn't give him room to try anything complicated. He didn't dance like Rudren. He didn't play for openings.
He smashed through everything.
"You're trying to fight pretty," Garron snorted on Monday, swatting Serik's punch aside. "Stop that."
Serik spat, "Shut your mouth."
Garron pinned him to the ground, his breath hot and rancid. "Pretty fighting is what gets people killed."
He punched Serik in the stomach once.Just once.
Serik curled in on himself, gasping.
Jons took a single step forward before stopping.Not to save Serik — but to observe.
He loses focus when insulted, Jons noted.Emotion dictates his timing. That must be fixed.
By Wednesday, Serik was losing his temper more often.
Garron would talk — always talk — and Serik would feel his heart hammering faster in anger than fear.
"Ever watched someone get cut into pieces?" Garron asked casually while throwing a punch that bruised Serik's cheek.
"Die." Serik swung wildly. "Die, die, die!"
Garron laughed so loudly Jons' eyebrow lifted a fraction.
"Oh, kid… that's adorable."
Then he side-stepped Serik, grabbed him by the back of the neck, and slammed him face-first into the dirt.
That night, Serik sat at the table, a cold cloth pressed to his swollen cheek.
"It's not working," he muttered.
Jons poured him another dose of the bitter liquid. "It will."
"When?"
Jons stirred the mixture once. "When you get a grip on your emotions."
Serik clenched his jaw.
"Then teach me how to stop feeling."
Jons paused.For the first time that week, something almost like a sigh left him.
"No," he said quietly. "A person who feels nothing becomes like Garron."
Serik looked away. He hated that answer. He hated how true it was.
By Friday, Serik moved differently.
Not better.Just… harsher.
His steps landed with more weight. His punches came faster. His shoulders were tense even at rest.
When Garron stepped into the yard that day and grinned, Serik felt something in his chest tighten.
"You look pissed," Garron said. "Good. Makes this more fun."
The fight hit harder than before.
Serik actually landed two clean hits — one to Garron's ribs, one to his thigh. Both hits made Garron grunt.
A small victory.
And Serik clung to it.
But Garron was done playing.
He pressed forward, relentless. He broke Serik's guard with a single shove. He rammed a knee into Serik's stomach. He punched him across the face and sent him staggering.
Then he grabbed Serik's hair, yanked his head back, and whispered:
"You're so close to becoming just like me."
Serik saw red.
"Shut up!"He slammed his forehead into Garron's jaw.
It landed.Garron's teeth clicked sharply.
Serik rushed in again, swinging, screaming, cursing—
"FUCK YOU!"
Garron barreled through the punches, grabbed Serik by the throat, and slammed him to the ground so hard everything went white.
Jons stepped forward.
Not to save him. Just to be sure Serik was breathing.
Garron wiped blood from his lip. "Almost hurt."
Serik didn't get up for a long time.
That night, Serik lay staring at the ceiling. His chest hurt. His ribs ached. His throat was sore.
But that wasn't what bothered him.
What bothered him was how easy it had been to imagine killing Garron.
He pressed a hand over his eyes, breathing slowly.
Is this what fighting does to you? Or is this what he is turning me into?
His jaw tightened.
No… I'm choosing this.
His fists curled slowly, trembling.
"I'll kill him," he whispered.
Not loud.Not angry.
Just certain.
And that certainty didn't scare him anymore.