It had been a day like any other.
Back then, Will lived in the Twin Cities of Minnesota—Minneapolis. The part of the city where the snow turned to slush fast, where the bus stops smelled like old smoke, and where the corner store had a scratched-up ATM and a bell over the door that sounded tired.
Will lived in a rougher area. Will's father drank. The smell sat in the apartment even after the bottles got tossed, and the kitchen trash always had glass clinking at the bottom.
Will's father was a mean man. Will remembered that part easy, even years later. The wrongs didn't come back as one big memory, they came back as small things—his father's heavy steps in the hallway, the way the air felt tighter when a door shut too hard, the instinct to watch hands instead of faces. If Will had been more passive, maybe he wouldn't have been hit so much. But even before the world hit the wall, Will had a defiant streak. Will refused to cower to his father.
Asshole, Will thought, and kept walking like the word didn't weigh anything.
Will's mother had left his ass for greener pastures when John was ten and Will was seven. She didn't take her two sons. They never saw her again. Will didn't turn her into a villain in his head. She had been a woman with good intentions that never came to fruition. She got tired of her husband treating her like a punching bag. Then she was gone.
Will didn't know what she told herself about that, but Will knew what it looked like day to day. Will and John got by together. John did the grocery math. Will learned how to stay small when it mattered and loud when it didn't.
His name had been Will Johnson in the past. It was ironic he got the same first name again.
But his first life? Will was just any other kid.
Will turned fourteen and walked down the tracks.
Will stayed on the gravel shoulder beside them, where weeds pushed up through the rocks and the ground shifted under his shoes with a steady crunch. A chain-link fence ran along one side, bent in places, patched with cheap wire. The air smelled like cold metal and damp dirt. Somewhere behind a building, a dog barked twice and stopped.
Will was husky and pudgy then, but he wasn't as soft as he used to be. The pudgyness was still there, but it was starting to get replaced by firmness underneath. His hoodie stretched a little across his shoulders. When Will shoved his hands into the pocket, the sleeves rode up and showed his wrists. His breathing got louder if he walked too fast, so Will kept his pace steady. Brown hair. Brown eyes. Acne skin. His genetics had been less superior at the time on looks, and it showed most in his face under harsh daylight. Will kept his shoulders loose, walking like he wasn't in a hurry and wasn't looking for anyone.
Humanity would improve later with the baptism of Ki and people cultivating. A lot of sickness and disease would be cured. Ki was an amazing thing even for those who chose to remain mortal and not seek enlightenment of the heavens.
In the last two years, as Will grew bigger and bigger, kids his age took a second look before trying anything. Will being a white kid with a dead beat father had very little going for him. He had been in more than one tussle when he was younger. Will wasn't afraid to stand his ground, but Will didn't want to start anything either. If someone stared too long, Will kept his face blank and his eyes moving, like he didn't notice.
People didn't just use fists anymore. You always had to assume someone was packing. Will didn't want to bring a fist to something that might turn into a gun fight, so Will kept it simple—don't stare, don't mouth off, keep moving.
And besides, Will wasn't in any gang. Will didn't need any beef. People stayed away from Will, and Will stayed away from other people.
Will kept walking toward a local MMA gym where he volunteered.
The MMA gym sat in a rougher part of town, but it was in decent shape. The sign out front wasn't fancy—just block letters and a logo that had seen a few winters. Inside, the place smelled like disinfectant, sweat, and that faint rubber stink that lived in old mats no matter how much you scrubbed. The front door rattled when it shut. A space heater hummed near the entry in the colder months. The walls were a mix of painted cinderblock and plywood panels where people had hung flyers, fight cards, and taped-up schedules that changed every week.
The location was by design. The gym had some internationally ranked fighters in MMA now, and the neighborhood kept people honest. If you wanted to train, you showed up. If you didn't, you didn't last.
It had been opened by an Army veteran who retired at forty-eight after thirty years of service. Reggie Potter had been a mixed martial arts maniac his whole life. He still moved like a man who had spent decades on hard floors—stiff in the morning, looser once he warmed up, always watching posture and balance out of habit.
Reggie had chosen the Twin Cities on purpose because it was home, and he'd chosen this location on purpose because he wanted the hungry. Reggie said it plain when people asked why he didn't put the gym somewhere nicer. "The kids with nothing," Reggie would say, tapping a finger against the front desk, "they understand what a win feels like. They chase it different."
The gym had come a long way in a few short years. Before they were famous, Will had started helping around for free when he was eleven. More than once, Will had been caught outside standing on a garbage can, looking through a higher window to watch class. He didn't even try to play it off when someone spotted him. He just stayed there until someone told him to move.
Will was fascinated by it all, and it was better than going home and dealing with his father.
John preferred the library down the street. John was really smart—closet genius smart—but there were only so many opportunities in their neighborhood, and their parents didn't give a shit.
Will swept and cleaned around the gym when he could. Some nights, if Reggie wasn't there to kick him out, Will would delay going home for a few hours.
Later Will would be able to train for an hour or so. Al would only give simple instructions like, "Run the stairs," or, "Push-ups. Sit-ups." Will would do it with everything he had. He didn't complain. He didn't try to bargain. Will just counted in his head, felt his arms shake, and kept going until Al told him to stop.
Will thought it was really cool.
Right now, Will had a broom in his hands. He pushed dust and tape scraps into a pile along the edge of the mat, keeping the bristles off the training surface like he'd been told. His eyes kept drifting anyway.
Nathan and Roger were sparring.
They were working on striking—hands, feet, angles, timing—and they were doing it in that controlled way that still sounded rough up close. Gloves popped. Shins slapped. Shoes squeaked when someone reset their stance.
Both fighters were middleweights in MMA. In most major promotions, middleweight is the 185-pound class—guys who cut weight to hit that number, then rehydrate for the fight. It sits between welterweight at 170 and light heavyweight at 205. Middleweights usually have enough size to make clinch work and body shots matter, but they still move fast enough that timing and footwork decide exchanges.
Roger had more of the ideal fighter body—tight waist, long reach, everything sharp where it needed to be sharp. His shoulders sat high and narrow, and his legs looked like they'd been built from roadwork and rounds on the bag. Even when Roger was just bouncing in place, his hands stayed close to his cheeks like he'd been corrected a thousand times. The problem was Roger liked to commit. When Roger decided to throw, he threw hard.
Nathan looked tougher in a different way. Nathan wasn't built pretty, but he was built practical. His frame was compact through the torso, and his shoulders were wide enough that his shirt always pulled a little across the back. Nathan's face stayed calm, but his eyes didn't drift. Nathan watched the centerline, watched hips, watched feet. Nathan didn't waste punches just to be busy. In Will's opinion, Nathan was okay physically, but mentally Nathan was a cut above the rest. Nathan didn't quit.
Nathan was African American, mixed—more white than dark. His hair was kept short enough that sweat didn't cling, and his jaw looked like he shaved because it was easier than letting anything grow. He wore a tight gym shirt that showed you where his shoulders ended and his arms started. When Nathan moved he didn't bounce. Nathan slid. When Nathan shifted his weight, it was quiet. When Nathan reset, his chin stayed tucked like it belonged there.
Roger was European descent, white and pale, head shaved clean. Under the bright gym lights his scalp looked almost shiny, and Will was pretty sure Roger was balding under that shave. Roger was in his late twenties. Roger's stance was crisp, feet set right, knees bent enough to move, but his habit showed up every time he tried to land something heavy. His shoulders loaded, his hips turned, and his midsection forgot to protect itself for a beat.
Al watched from the side. Late fifties. African American. He was lean the way older military guys got when they stayed active—thin waist, ropey forearms, calves that looked like they'd done miles without complaining. Al stood with his arms crossed and his weight on one foot, then shifted to the other like he was never fully resting. A stopwatch hung from his neck on a lanyard. When Al spoke, he didn't raise his voice. He just said the correction once and expected it to stick. His eyes tracked feet more than fists, and when he saw a mistake he watched it happen twice to confirm it wasn't a fluke.
Will loved watching Nathan fight because not only was Nathan relentless, Nathan was smart.
Will swept a few more strokes, then paused long enough to watch a dozen exchanges.
Roger jabbed, stepped in, threw a right with some force. Nathan slipped and checked the next kick, gloves high, breathing steady.
Will's gaze dropped to Roger's ribs when Roger threw again.
Roger was over extending slightly. Every time Roger put real force into a strike, Roger's midsection opened for a beat. Not wide open, not obvious to someone new, but open enough.
Nathan saw it too.
"Three exchanges," Will thought, eyes flicking between Roger's shoulders and his hips.
One exchange.
Two exchanges.
Three.
Roger committed, his elbow flared just enough, and Nathan stepped in and buried a punch into Roger's side. Solid. Clean. Roger folded and went down to a knee, glove braced on the mat.
Al lifted a hand. "Break."
Nathan backed off immediately, then walked to his corner and rolled his shoulders once, breathing through his nose like he was already thinking about the next round.
Al sighed and pointed at Roger with two fingers. "I've told you over and over, Roger."
Roger stayed kneeling for a second, then got up slow, testing his side with a palm like he was checking damage.
Al turned his head and looked at Will. "What did you see, boy?"
Will straightened a little, broom still in his hands. "Every three to five exchanges, when Roger throws a strike with any kind of force, Roger leaves his midsection open."
Al grinned. A bit of tobacco showed in his teeth. Al leaned to the side and spit into the bucket next to him.
Al continued, "When could Nathan have ended this little bout?"
Will thought about it. Will knew Roger's habits, and Nathan knew them too. Will had seen the opening three times. After the fifth exchange, Will saw it the first time, so that was what Will told Al.
"After the fifth exchange," Will said. Will kept his voice even and his eyes on the mat like he was answering a question in class. "That was the first time Roger overcommitted with real force and left his midsection open. It showed again a couple exchanges later, and then again right before Nathan took it."
Al glanced back toward the mat and then looked at Nathan. "You see that?" Al said. Al's tone wasn't angry. It was the same tone he used when he corrected foot placement. "You got guts, kid, and you're smart, but you need to be smarter."
Nathan nodded once, breathing steady, gloves resting on his hips. "Yes, sir," Nathan said, then reached for his water bottle without taking his eyes fully off Al.
Al shifted his attention to Roger. "And Roger," Al said, "you're a better pound-for-pound fighter with superior reach. Keep your distance. You give that up every time you try to make it a brawl."
Roger just nodded. Roger didn't argue, didn't explain. He wiped his face with the edge of his glove and looked down at the mat for a second, like he was resetting. From Will's point of view, Roger still looked a little frustrated. Roger usually took correction personally. Another thing not to like, Will thought, and he went back to sweeping.
Will pushed the pile into a tighter line along the edge of the mat. The broom bristles hissed over the concrete. Will kept his head down, but his ears stayed open.
Al watched Will for a second, then said, "Kid, let's hit the bag for a bit. I'll instruct you."
Will's heart leapt. Will stopped sweeping without meaning to, then caught himself and set the broom handle against his leg like he had planned it. Will had been here over a year, and Al hardly paid a second of attention to him beyond basic exercises.
Since Will started volunteering, Will always had old sweats and a sweater or hoodie. Today it was a hoodie, just in case he got told to exercise. The cuffs were stretched and the pocket was worn thin, but it was warm and it didn't snag when he moved.
Will was always listening to Al and the other trainers. Will didn't just hear them in the moment and forget it. Will took the words home and replayed them. He spent hours shadow training whatever he heard—how to jab, how to level change for a takedown, how to pummel for inside control, how to keep his hips under him when he sprawled. Will did it in cramped spaces, in socks on cheap carpet, with the TV down low so he didn't wake his father.
John didn't really care for that stuff, so Will couldn't spar with John. John would still give input from time to time, though, like he was grading a math problem. John was exempt smart.
Al stood Will in front of a heavy bag with the chain creaking overhead. The bag had old tape marks on it—where people aimed, where the vinyl was scuffed from years of knuckles and shins. It wasn't the clean, new kind of bag either. It was heavy in the way old bags got, packed tight and dead-feeling until you hit it right.
Al flicked two fingers at the center line of the bag. "Strike the bag," Al said.
Will set his feet the way he'd heard a hundred times—lead foot slightly turned, rear heel light, knees soft. Will raised his hands, chin tucked without forcing it. Will pushed out a jab, straight and careful. His lead shoulder rolled up, his fist touched the bag, and he pulled it back to his cheek.
The bag barely moved. Will felt it in his knuckles anyway, like the bag had weight behind it and didn't care what a fourteen-year-old thought he was doing.
"Strike it again," Al said.
Will jabbed again, snapping it a little more. The bag rocked an inch and came back slow. Will didn't chase it. Will reset where he stood, eyes on the tape mark, hands up.
"Kick the bag," Al said.
Will took a small step out. Will's hands stayed up. Will turned his hip over and drove a basic round kick into the bag with his shin. The impact was duller than he expected, like kicking a thick tree. It shoved the bag away a few inches. Will retracted his leg quick and planted his foot, making sure his balance didn't fall apart.
Al spit into a nearby can. "That was pretty good," Al said. "You learn this all by watching?"
In the gym, all Will ever did was physical training workouts. Nothing actually technical. Will shook his head.
"No, sir," Will said. "I listen and practice at home."
Al looked Will over—feet, hands, shoulders—like he was checking if Will was faking it. Then Al nodded once.
"Hit this bag with as much as you can," Al said.
Will stepped closer. Will took a breath and drove a right hand into the tape mark. He turned his hip like he'd been told, tried to keep his wrist straight. The bag jumped and the chain rattled, but the hit stung through his knuckles and up his forearm. Will didn't shake his hand out. Will just brought it back to guard and swallowed the sting like it was part of the deal.
Al didn't smile. Al pointed at the jump rope hanging off a hook. "Grab the jump rope, kid. Do double unders till you cannot."
Will was a little disappointed, but Will grabbed the rope. The handles were slick from sweat, the cord stiff with age. Will stepped onto the open strip of floor and started.
The rope snapped under his shoes. Two spins per jump. Will kept his elbows close and made his wrists do the work. The first thirty seconds felt fine. After a minute his calves started burning. His breathing got loud, and sweat gathered under his hoodie at the back of his neck.
Will made it past two minutes without missing. On the next set, his timing clipped once. The rope caught his shoe and slapped the floor.
Will stopped, reset, and started again without looking at Al.
Al lifted a hand after a bit. "Alright."
Will let the rope fall still. He stood up straight, chest rising and falling hard. His forearms felt tight from the bag. His legs felt hot from the rope.
"Kid," Al said, "you're relentless. Keep up the good work. Do what you're doing."
Will nodded once and waited, rope handles still in his hands.
"From now on," Al said, "you keep doing your volunteering. When you're done here, you stay for an hour of conditioning. I'll lay it out on a paper for you. I don't got time to baby sit you."
Will kept his eyes on Al and listened.
"Twice a week," Al said, "instead of volunteering, you'll come in and one of the newer coaches will instruct you in mixed martial arts. Other stuff is on you in your alone time."
Al pointed the rope at Will like it was a pen. "At sixteen, you'll get to show me what you can do."
Al spit, wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, and walked away.
Will wrapped the rope around his fist once so it didn't drag. Then Will went back to work.
Will remembered this day because it was his last part of "normal."
Will remembered how excited he felt over something that should've been small—Al paying attention, Al giving him real work, Al saying he expected something from him. Will felt like he'd been given an opportunity, and looking back, he still remembered the way his chest had felt walking out of the gym with sweat on his neck and a plan in his head.
If he'd been given the opportunity, Will knew in hindsight he could have been a fighter in that gym.
Unfortunately fate had other ideas.
An apocalypse of epic proportions.
But it was worth it, because looking back Will wouldn't have traded the normal for what he got. Enlightenment of the heavens and cultivation?
It was worth the billions who died and every price he had to pay. Will didn't even cringe at what he had lost. Will's will was unbreakable, and his conviction absolute.