The Fist King moved. Not fast. Not flashy. Just gone. And suddenly right in front of him.

Kael didn’t get another warning. One moment he was standing there, irritation still fresh from being called late, and the next something slammed into his face hard enough to snap his head sideways.

His vision blurred instantly as his body staggered, boots scraping against loose stone before he barely caught himself from falling off the narrow path.

For a second, he didn’t even understand what had happened.

Then the pain caught up.

"What the Fuck old man!"

"Don’t curse at your master."

The second hit came before the sentence could finish.

This time it wasn’t his face. It was his ribs. The impact folded him in half like paper, the air in his lungs bursting out in a dry, choking gasp as his feet left the ground for a brief second before he crashed down onto the rocky slope.

Kael coughed violently, a mix of spit and blood hitting the ground as his body tried to recover from the shock.

"...You son of a..." he forced out, pushing himself up with one hand, the other clutching his side.

Another blow, again, same spot, folded him back.

Kael’s lungs pushed everything they had in them. But surprisingly there was no blood this time. Didn’t feel good either though.

The fourth strike came from above, a downward blow that crashed into his shoulder and drove him straight back into the ground, harder than before.

Something in his arm gave a sickening jolt, not quite breaking, but close enough that his entire limb went numb for a second.

"Stand up, defend yourself properly," the Fist King said.

There was no anger in his voice. No raised tone. No intensity. Just instruction, flat and absolute.

Kael stayed down for a second longer, breathing unevenly, his body screaming in protest. His head rang, his ribs throbbed, and that burning inside his chest, the one he thought had calmed down, was starting to flare again from the stress.

He wanted to curse at the Fist King, but this backwater, archaic, primitive world man would probably make him regretted getting the words out. He gulped them down and replied "...You call this sparring?" Kael muttered, spitting to the side as he forced himself up again.

No answer came. Only another step forward.

Kael’s eyes sharpened slightly. This time, he saw it. The movement. Barely. He raised his arms, instinct kicking in, trying to guard, but the punch went straight through it. Not literally, but it felt like it. His arms were there. He blocked. And yet the fist still crashed into his face like his defense didn’t matter.

The world spun.

Kael stumbled back, nearly losing his footing completely this time as his heel slipped against loose gravel. He caught himself at the last second, breath ragged, eyes unfocused.

"...That’s bullshit," he muttered, more to himself than anything.

"Don’t use that tone with your master." The Fist King said, calm, collected. And... perhaps Kael was imagining it, but somewhat... enjoying this.

That made Kael even more pissed.

He adjusted his stance again, slower this time, more careful. When the next strike came, he tried something different. Instead of blocking, he moved. Or tried to. The result was worse. The fist didn’t miss. It followed. Adjusted. And caught him mid-motion, slamming into his jaw from the side and sending him crashing into the rock wall behind him hard enough that dust shook loose from the impact.

Kael slid down it, vision flashing white for a brief second.

"Too slow," the Fist King said.

Kael laughed. It came out broken, strained, and more bitter than anything.

"Yeah? No shit."

"No cursing." The Master said.

He pushed himself up again, slower this time, his body protesting every inch of the movement. His legs trembled under him, his ribs screamed with every breath, and his shoulder still felt half-dead from the last hit, but he forced himself upright anyway.

He barely had time to steady his footing before the next strike came. It slammed into his stomach, folding him slightly, not enough to drop him this time, but enough to knock the air out of him again. Before he could recover, another hit followed, this one crashing into his back and driving him forward a step, and then another, lower, catching his leg and nearly taking it out from under him.

There was no rhythm to it. No pattern. No technique Kael could read or adapt to. Every strike came just slightly wrong, just slightly earlier, just slightly faster than his body wanted it to be. Every attempt to block failed. Every attempt to dodge failed harder. Every movement he made was answered, corrected, and punished immediately.

It wasn’t sparring.

It was one-sided.

It was overwhelming.

It was...

"Abuse," Kael coughed out after the next hit dropped him to a knee. "This is just straight up abuse."

No reaction. No denial. No acknowledgment. Just another step forward.

Kael clenched his teeth. Something in him snapped, not physically this time, but mentally. Not fear. Not panic. Frustration. Pure, boiling frustration.

"Yeah... alright," he muttered under his breath as he pushed himself up again, swaying slightly. "Got it."

He didn’t raise his guard this time. Didn’t prepare to block. Instead, he turned and ran.

Fast as his battered legs could carry him.

If this was training, he wanted no part of it. If this was what being a disciple meant, he’d take his chances somewhere else. Behind him, there was no immediate pursuit. No footsteps. No sound.

For a brief moment, Kael thought,

Good.

Another Four hours later, Kael’s pace had slowed to a crawl. His body felt like it had been ground down from the inside out. Every step hurt. Every breath dragged. The earlier beating hadn’t faded, it had settled, deep into muscle and bone, making even simple movement feel like a chore.

But he kept going.

Because distance meant safety.

Because distance meant space.

Because distance meant,

"...You’re later."

The voice came from in front of him.

Kael stopped. Slowly. Very slowly, he lifted his head.

The Fist King stood there, right in the middle of the path leading further down the slope. Same posture. Same expression. Like he had never moved. Like the last four hours hadn’t happened.

Kael stared at him.

Then laughed.

It wasn’t loud. It wasn’t even strong. Just tired.

"...You’ve gotta be kidding me."

The Fist King didn’t respond. He simply looked at him. Then took a step forward.

Kael didn’t run this time. Didn’t argue. Didn’t even try to explain. Because something had already settled in his mind during those four hours.

There was no "away."

Not from this.

The first punch came slower than before. Not because the Fist King had slowed down, but because Kael saw it. Just enough. His body reacted. Not correctly. Not well. But differently. And when the fist crashed into him again, sending him staggering back, something shifted. Not the pain. Not the outcome. But the way his body took it.

The Fist King’s eyes narrowed slightly. Not in approval. Not yet. But in recognition.

"Again," he said.

And Kael, bloody, exhausted, and very aware that he had made a terrible decision, forced himself back up.

This was going to be a very fucked up training arc he thought.