Bond Master

Promised Adventure (2)

"Give me exactly two minutes, Sergeant, and I will be right back out on the floor!" Ren called out as he hurried past, noticing that Corvina had already changed into her flexible training cargo pants and light boots.

"Bare feet and athletic shorts, kid! Shirt is entirely optional today!" one of the senior students shouted back from the ring, waving a rough towel toward the locker room doors.

That was the standard, traditional training outfit for the academy's mixed martial arts track, designed to prevent clothing fabric from tangling during intensive grappling maneuvers, so Ren didn't think twice about the instruction as he stripped out of his formal uniform. He changed rapidly, grabbing his fresh water bottle and a coarse cotton towel from the locker room shelves before stepping back out onto the hard-packed dirt of the arena.

"Not bad at all," one of the older senior proctors noted, offering an appreciative nod as Ren walked up to the edge of the ring without a shirt. "He's still quite young, but he’s already built up an excellent bit of lean muscle mass. Solid, balanced, and completely packed with core strength."

Ren's working-class background in the foundry sector had already given him a tough baseline, but the continuous, high-grade physical feedback he had been receiving from Grim’s rapid evolution to the Awakened tier had completely accelerated his physical development. His skeletal frame had broadened, his core was exceptionally tight, and his muscles were lean and compact.

None of the students assigned to this advanced martial arts class possessed pure, over-bulked bodybuilder physiques; excessive muscle mass would severely interfere with their flexibility, speed, and rotational balance during a close-quarters grapple. Of course, raw human biology didn't mean nearly as much when supernatural elite abilities were involved. Many of the pure Warrior Classes received massive, permanent physical enhancements as they practiced their high-tier forms, gaining muscle density that was easily as good or better than the feedback Ren inherited from his hound.

Sergeant Corvina walked to the center of the stone ring, her sharp eyes scanning over Ren and the gathered senior assistants. "Alright, Barrett, we will start the afternoon block with a quick, intensive sparring session to see exactly how much of yesterday's training you actually managed to remember. I personally provided you with a premium memory drop resource to help your mind retain knowledge, so I hold exceptionally high expectations for your performance today."

Ren climbed up onto the stone platform, his bare feet gripping the cold, coarse surface. He couldn't easily tell exactly how powerful these older students were supposed to be when everyone was dressed in identical, simple training shorts, but the opponent Corvina paired him up with was only a tiny bit larger than he was, and only slightly more heavily muscled.

"This will be a standard, continuous three-minute evaluation round," Corvina announced, raising her hand to signal the proctors. "No gauntlets, no magic spikes, pure physical fundamentals. Stations ready. Start."

The moment the command left her lips, Ren’s opponent—a second-year warrior named Derrick—slid forward with practiced ease. Derrick darted out a lightning-fast left jab, testing Ren's reaction speed and guard alignment.

Relying entirely on the flawless mental blueprints provided by last night's memory drop, Ren instinctively swatted the fist aside with his forearm, instantly driving his body forward to launch a sharp, rising knee strike toward Derrick's ribs.

Because his baseline stature was slightly shorter than the older warrior's, Ren knew it was entirely to his practical advantage to close the distance as fast as possible, forcing a tight, inside fight where the other boy's superior arm-reach advantage wouldn't mean anything at all.

He had learned that vital structural lesson the hard way yesterday while getting brutally beaten down by Instructor Tyson and Corvina. His current combat repertoire was incredibly small—consisting only of a few basic punches, straight knees, dropping elbows, and standard forearm blocks—but he hoped his enhanced physical coordination would be enough to get him through the next three minutes without hitting the dirt.

Derrick flinched slightly as the knee strike narrowly missed his flank. Recognizing Ren's raw closing power, the older boy tilted his upper body back, launching a sudden, dangerous counterstrike aimed directly at Ren's exposed jaw. Ren tucked his chin, ducking beneath the trajectory of the fist, and violently drove a short, powerful punch straight toward Derrick's stomach.

The opponent was incredibly fast, moving with a fluid, rhythmic agility that was nearly as fast as Sergeant Corvina's own combat steps. Instead of wasting his stamina attempting to block or parry the heavy core blow, Derrick smoothly danced out of the way, utilizing a rapid side-step that completely removed his body from Ren's effective punching range.

The sudden movement immediately put Ren back on the defensive as Derrick pivoted on his heel, launching a swift, continuous flurry of counterattacks.

Ren kept his guard high, his bare forearms absorbing a series of rapid jabs and hooks. As the seconds ticked away, Ren realized that while Derrick was exceptionally fast, his raw physical strikes were noticeably weaker than Sergeant Corvina's, or the older student was purposefully holding back his full strength to evaluate the first-year student limits. For an entire minute, Derrick failed to land a single solid, clean hit on Ren's core, while Ren launched a few heavy, sweeping kicks to try to break Derrick's stance and force his way back into a tight grapple.

It simply wasn't working. Derrick was a seasoned trainee; he had quickly figured out the exact trick to Ren's inside fighting style, using long-range front kicks and well-timed knee strikes to keep Ren from ever closing the distance. The two warriors moved in a continuous, grueling circle across the stone platform, completely locked at an absolute impasse until the proctor's timer finally dinged, signaling the conclusion of the round.

"Not a terrible effort from either of you," Sergeant Corvina admonished them, stepping into the center of the ring with her arms crossed, her expression completely neutral. "But the fact remains that neither of you could manage to land a single, decisive hit to save your lives. Your spacing was entirely defensive, and your transition entries were sloppy."

Derrick dropped his guard, leaning forward with his hands on his knees as he panted heavily for air, his skin glistening with sweat. He looked up at Corvina with a dry, exasperated grin, shaking his head.

"With all due respect, Sergeant, the kid is short, solid as a brick, and stupidly fast on his bare feet," Derrick complained, wiping his brow with his forearm. "If you truly want someone who can easily beat him up in a standard, close-quarters sparring match this early in the semester, you need to ask the heavy Monk-Classes from the western sectors to step into the ring, not an agility striker like me. Trying to pin his center of gravity down is like trying to catch a shadow."