The walk home was longer than usual.
Ethan's feet moved on autopilot, carrying him through the familiar streets of the slum while his mind raced with calculations.
Thirty-five thousand credits.
He needed thirty-five thousand credits.
His mother worked twelve-hour shifts at the bakery. His father had been bedridden for three years. His younger sister's school fees were due next month.
And now he had five months to become a Senior Martial Student.
The weight of it pressed down on his shoulders, heavier than any training dummy.
He reached his home, a small, cramped house squeezed between two others. The paint was peeling. The roof leaked when it rained. But it was home.
Ethan paused at the door, listening.
The house was silent.
His mother would be asleep. His father would be in his usual restless state, drifting in and out of consciousness. His sister would be curled up on her thin mattress.
He pushed the door open slowly.
The living room was dark, lit only by the faint glow of the moon through the single window. A worn-out couch sat in the corner. A small table held a cold pot of tea.
Ethan tiptoed past his sister's room.
Through the crack in the door, he could see her small figure under a thin blanket, her face peaceful in sleep.
He felt a pang in his chest.
She was 12 years old. She deserved a proper bed. Proper food. A future that didn't involve waking up at dawn to help their mother at the bakery.
He clenched his fists.
Not yet.
He couldn't tell them yet.
His mother would sell everything, her wedding ring, her grandmother's necklace, the little savings they had tucked away, just to support him.
She would do it without hesitation.
And he couldn't let that happen.
He would tell them after he became a Senior Martial Student. After he had the hundred thousand credits in hand.
Until then, he would keep this to himself.
Ethan crept into his small room and sat on the edge of his bed.
The night stretched before him, long and quiet.
He couldn't sleep.
Every time he closed his eyes, he saw the punching machine's display.
105 kilograms.
He had been a cleaner until yesterday.
Now he was a Junior Martial Student.
Comprehension could be fed to him like a medicine, but his body needed to learn. His muscles needed to remember. His instincts needed to sharpen.
If he became complacent, if he relied entirely on the system, his foundation would crumble like sand.
He waited.
An hour passed.
Two hours.
Finally, the house fell completely silent. His mother's soft snoring drifted from the main room. His father's labored breathing steadied into something calmer.
Ethan slipped out of bed.
He moved like a ghost, his footsteps silent on the creaky floorboards. He pushed the door open and stepped into the cool night air.
The slum was asleep.
The streets were empty. The clotheslines hung still. The only sound was the distant barking of a stray dog.
Ethan made his way to the small park near the edge of the neighborhood.
It was a pathetic excuse for a park, a few rusted benches, a cracked fountain that hadn't worked in years, and a patch of dead grass.
But it was empty.
And it was his.
He stood in the center of the clearing, took a deep breath, and began.
The Iron Fist Technique flowed through him like water.
His body moved with a grace that surprised even him. The punches came naturally. The rotations were smooth. The breathing was synchronized.
But it wasn't enough.
He needed to make it perfect.
He punched again.
And again.
And again.
His fists cut through the air with sharp whistling sounds. His feet pivoted and turned, his weight shifting with each movement.
Sweat began to bead on his forehead.
His muscles burned.
His arms ached.
But he didn't stop.
The system had given him comprehension. It had opened the door.
But he had to walk through it himself.
He punched until his knuckles were raw.
He moved until his legs trembled.
He breathed until his lungs screamed for air.
And then he punched some more.
---
The first rays of dawn painted the sky in shades of orange and pink.
Ethan collapsed onto the dead grass, his chest heaving.
His entire body was on fire.
Every muscle screamed in protest. His arms hung limply at his sides. His legs felt like jelly.
But he was smiling.
His fists had grown faster. More precise.
He could feel the difference.
Not in force. Not yet. But in control.
His foundation was solidifying.
He lay there for a long moment, staring up at the waking sky.
Then he forced himself to his feet.
Time to go home.
---
Ethan slipped back into the house just as the first sounds of morning stirred.
His mother was already in the kitchen, her back to him as she stirred a pot of porridge.
She looked tired.
She always looked tired.
Dark circles under her eyes. Wrinkles that shouldn't belong to a woman her age. Hands that were calloused from years of kneading dough.
"Ethan?" she said without turning around. "You're up early."
"Couldn't sleep," he lied smoothly.
She turned and studied him for a moment.
Her eyes narrowed slightly, taking in his sweaty hair, his flushed cheeks, the way he held his arms.
"You've been exercising," she said. It wasn't a question.
Ethan's heart skipped.
"Just some light jogging, Mom. You know. Staying healthy."
She stared at him for a moment longer.
Then she sighed and turned back to the pot.
"Go shower. You smell like a pig. And don't forget to eat before you leave."
Ethan felt a wave of relief wash over him.
He quickly made his way to the small bathroom at the back of the house and turned on the hot water.
The steam filled the small space as he stepped under the stream.
The heat seeped into his aching muscles, loosening the knots that had formed during the night.
He stood there for a long time, letting the water work its magic.
When he finally stepped out, his body still ached, but the sharp pain had dulled to a manageable throb.
He dressed quickly in his training clothes and returned to the kitchen.
His mother had already left for work.
On the table sat a bowl of porridge, still warm, with a small piece of bread beside it.
Ethan smiled softly.
He ate quickly, savoring the warmth of the porridge, and left the house.
---
He arrived at the dojo at exactly five in the morning.
The doors were already open.
Inside, several students were already practicing, their movements synchronized and determined. The sound of fists striking dummies echoed through the hall.
Ethan nodded at a few of them as he passed and made his way to the back.
Master Tim was already there, standing in the center of the training ground.
"You're on time," he said approvingly. "Good. Follow me."
He led Ethan up the stairs to the third floor.
The training ground here was pristine. The wooden floors gleamed under the soft light. The walls were lined with practice weapons.
This was where the elite trained.
The students who had reached the Perfect Completion Stage.
The ones who had a chance at becoming true Martial Warriors.
Tim stopped in the center of the room and turned to face Ethan.
"Show me your technique."