Ivan followed the instructor deeper into the gym. The room reeked of sweat and leather—gloves smacking pads, sneakers squeaking against the polished floor, grunts of exertion echoing like percussion. His muscles, already singing from exhaustion and his earlier trials, tensed in anticipation.
"Step forward," the instructor said, scanning the room with a tired, discerning eye. "This one will test you."
From across the room, she appeared—slightly shorter than he expected, but every inch radiating power. Silver hair glinted under the fluorescent lights, cascading over dark skin that seemed to absorb and reflect nothing, a mask of calm intensity. Her dark eyes scanned him briefly, expressionless, then settled, evaluating with surgical precision.
Maria Dacascos.
Ivan's body reacted instinctively. Height didn't matter here; the aura she carried pressed like weight on his chest. Her presence was not just physical—it was measured, precise, and deadly. His own heartbeat sharpened, adrenaline spiking in response. This is not a sparring partner. This is a living, breathing test.
She slid her gloves on with fluid precision. No flourish, no hesitation. The room felt suddenly smaller, the sounds dulling, his focus narrowing to the faint hum of her movement, the subtle shift in her stance. He knew instinctively she was not just waiting to fight—she was calculating, measuring, recording every micro-reaction he made.
Ivan raised his fists, a loose wrestling stance—he knew this was not his domain. Grappling was his strength; striking was instinct, not training.
"Begin," the instructor barked.
Maria didn't move immediately. She was a stone in the gym, unyielding, cold. Ivan lunged first, testing the waters with a jab. His fist cut through the air, and she leaned slightly aside—not a full dodge, not a reaction yet, just a minimal adjustment that let the punch slide harmlessly past her cheek.
Ivan's eyes widened, heart hammering. She's not just fast. She's precise… calculating.
He tried again, a cross aimed for her torso. She shifted, pivoting her hips just enough to redirect his momentum. Her gaze never wavered, cold and indifferent, but he felt it—every microsecond of observation, measuring his reach, his reaction, his intent.
He lunged, lowering his level, attempting a body lock—the one territory he could claim. For a heartbeat, he felt control, the sweet click of leverage aligning with instinct. His forearms pressed against her ribs, his grip tight, his weight pressing forward.
But Maria was no ordinary fighter. She planted her feet deliberately, twisted subtly, and countered—not with brute force, but with perfect timing. Her knee met his side as he tried to adjust, and he winced, the sting biting deeper than he expected. He was experienced, but she was precise. Every movement was calculated to make him feel the force without letting her expend unnecessary energy.
A palm strike, sudden and sharp, landed squarely on his face. His grip loosened instinctively. The world spun for a fraction of a second. She didn't advance, didn't retreat—she waited. She observed.
Then came the final test: a fluid roll, a front headlock flip, executed with textbook perfection. Ivan hit the mat hard, air rushing from his lungs, chest rebelling against the impact. He was sprawled, breath ragged, limbs aching—not just from exertion, but from the flawless application of Maria's technique.
She stepped back, stance still controlled, eyes locked on him with clinical evaluation. Not hostility, not cruelty—just assessment.
Ivan lay there for a heartbeat, lungs heaving, blood pounding in his ears. She could kill me. And she's not even trying. His body still trembled from the encounter, his wrestling instincts screaming for leverage, for movement, for control.
Maria's eyes, however, betrayed a flicker—just the slightest acknowledgment of potential. Not bad, they seemed to say. Not hopeless.
The instructor nodded in approval. "Stand," he commanded. "You will survive in this class if you can learn from moments like this."
Ivan rose, muscles screaming, but a new clarity settled over him. He understood now: Maria was not an obstacle born of chance. She was a measuring stick, a living benchmark of what Nam-il High expected of its fight class students.