The steady hum of essence-powered mechanisms filled the dojo, accompanied by the low whirring of three mechanical training puppets. Their alloy frames gleamed under the soft glow of the overhead lights, their essence cores pulsing faintly within their chests. Each one stood in a different stance, their postures reflecting distinct martial disciplines—one was a swift and precise striker, another a brutal grappler, and the last a fluid evasive fighter.
Denwen exhaled, his muscles coiling like a compressed spring.
Three at once. This was new.
Vorden leaned against the wall with his arms crossed, watching closely. "I've increased their strength and speed to the peak of rank one," he said casually. "Since you've been making scrap metal out of single puppets, I figured I'd make things more interesting."
Denwen rolled his shoulders, eyeing his opponents. This wasn't just a test of strength—it was a test of survival. Three enemies at once meant that brute force alone wouldn't cut it. If he allowed them to coordinate their attacks, he'd be overwhelmed in an instant.
His only option? Outthink them.
The puppets moved.
Clank. Whir.
The striker lunged first, its metal feet barely making a sound as it shot forward with lightning speed. Its body twisted mid-air, sending a devastating spinning kick toward Denwen's ribs.
Denwen's instincts screamed. He barely sidestepped in time, the force of the kick ripping through the air where he had just been standing. The moment his feet touched the ground, the grappler moved in, aiming to close the distance.
Denwen had studied this one before. Its movements were deceptive—slow at first, but relentless once it got a grip. If it got a hold of him, it wouldn't let go until his bones cracked.
It lunged, hands outstretched.
Denwen didn't retreat. He moved forward.
At the last moment, he twisted his body, using the puppet's own momentum against it. His arm shot out, grabbing its wrist and pulling it into the striker's range.
Boom!
The striker's next kick slammed straight into the grappler's side. The impact sent the grappler staggering, its balance momentarily thrown off.
Denwen didn't hesitate. He moved.
He dashed toward the evasive fighter, the last remaining puppet that had yet to engage. It was different from the others—its stance was loose, fluid, constantly shifting like a predator waiting for an opening.
Denwen faked a right jab.
The puppet reacted instantly, twisting away from the strike.
But that was exactly what Denwen wanted.
He had studied this one too. It was programmed to dodge rather than block, prioritizing evasion over counterattacks. That meant its weak point wasn't in its defense—it was in its recovery.
Denwen had already shifted before it could stabilize. He shot his leg out in a sweeping kick, catching its foot mid-step.
Clang!
The evasive fighter collapsed, its balance completely destroyed.
Two left.
The grappler had recovered from the accidental hit and was moving in again, its metallic limbs clicking into place as it prepared to grab him. The striker was already repositioning, waiting for a clean shot.
Denwen's mind worked at full speed.
If he attacked the striker, the grappler would grab him. If he focused on the grappler, the striker would land a decisive blow. It was a trap.
So he did something unexpected.
He attacked neither.
Instead, Denwen dashed backward. His heel skidded against the floor, leading both puppets toward the fallen evasive fighter. He then pivoted suddenly, shifting his direction at the last second.
The striker had been mid-motion, preparing a powerful kick. But instead of striking Denwen, its attack landed directly on the evasive fighter as it was getting up.
Boom!
The evasive puppet went flying, crashing into the dojo wall. Its circuits sparked violently before going completely dark.
One down.
Denwen turned to the remaining two, sweat beading on his forehead. His breath was steady, but the fight was far from over.
The striker adjusted its stance. The grappler flexed its fingers.
Denwen exhaled. Two left.
The striker made the first move again, darting toward him with inhuman speed. This time, it didn't jump—instead, it feinted low, attempting to bait Denwen into dodging the wrong way.
Denwen saw through it.
Instead of dodging outward, he moved inward, closing the gap instead of creating distance. The striker's kick missed by a hair, but Denwen was already reacting. He twisted, his elbow driving into the puppet's knee joint.
Crack!
The striker's leg buckled under the impact. The damage wasn't fatal, but it was enough. Denwen followed up immediately, driving a brutal kick into its chest.
Boom!
The puppet slammed into the floor, its core flickering violently before shutting down.
Two down.
Only the grappler remained.
Unlike the others, the grappler didn't hesitate. It charged straight at him.
Denwen clenched his fists. This one was built differently—it didn't rely on technique, only overwhelming force. Even with all his skill, one wrong move and he'd be caught in a hold he couldn't break free from.
So he didn't let it get close.
The moment it lunged, Denwen sidestepped just enough to avoid its grasp. Then, he slammed his knee into its elbow joint.
Crack!
The grappler's arm snapped backward at an unnatural angle. But even with a broken arm, it still kept moving.
Denwen clicked his tongue.
"Stubborn."
The grappler lunged again, forcing Denwen onto the defensive. He dodged, ducked, and weaved through its relentless grabs, waiting for the right moment—then he saw it.
The grappler's legs.
Unlike its arms, they weren't as reinforced. If he took them out—
Denwen spun, driving a brutal kick into the back of its knee.
The grappler collapsed.
Before it could recover, Denwen struck again and again, his fists pounding against its exposed core.
BOOM! BOOM! BOOM!
The final hit sent the puppet crashing onto its back, sparks flying from its circuits.
Silence.
Denwen exhaled, shaking off the numbness in his knuckles. He expected some praise, maybe even an approving nod from Vorden.
But instead, he found the instructor staring at him with sharp, calculating eyes.
"Something wrong?" Denwen asked, feigning ignorance.
Vorden said nothing for a moment, then clicked his tongue. "Your growth rate is unnatural."
Denwen wiped the sweat from his forehead. "I train hard."
Vorden narrowed his eyes. "Hard work doesn't explain how a so-called D-grade talent is already outpacing peak-rank-one training puppets."
Denwen felt the air grow heavier.
This was dangerous.
Over the past few weeks, Vorden had been testing him, pushing him in ways that seemed less about training and more about evaluation. The man wasn't just observing his strength—he was measuring it.
A bad sign.
Denwen knew that if someone like Vorden truly suspected him of lying about his talent, things could escalate beyond mere training. At best, he'd be forced into public scrutiny. At worst? He'd be labeled a threat.
Vorden took a step forward, his eyes still locked onto Denwen.
"Stay still for a moment," he said. "I want to check something."
Denwen's heartbeat slowed.
This wasn't a simple examination. He knew how talent checks worked—some could detect subtle essence fluctuations, measuring whether someone's talent was truly what it seemed. Others, particularly those experienced with soul readings, could bypass superficial grades entirely.
Denwen wouldn't let that happen.
As Vorden reached out, Denwen shifted slightly, adjusting his posture in a way that forced Vorden's hand toward his shoulder instead of his core. The moment contact was made, Denwen channeled a faint pulse of essence, subtly disrupting the flow between them. It was a risky move—but necessary.
Vorden's eyes flickered. His brow furrowed slightly, and for a moment, Denwen thought he might have noticed something.
Then, with a small shake of his head, Vorden withdrew his hand.
"Never mind," he muttered. "Maybe I'm overthinking things."
Denwen relaxed inwardly but kept his expression neutral.
Vorden sighed, rubbing the back of his neck. "Regardless, those training puppets aren't cutting it anymore. At this rate, you'll be breaking them every damn session."
He turned toward the storage room, muttering something under his breath before glancing back. "Forget the puppets. You're training with me from now on."
Denwen raised an eyebrow. "You're replacing mechanical enemies with yourself? That seems reckless."
Vorden smirked. "Oh, don't worry—I'm not about to hold back just because you're a student." He cracked his knuckles. "You've already learned four distinct martial arts under me, yeah?"
Denwen nodded.
"Good. Then it's time I introduce you to something different—Brawler Arts."
The name alone made Denwen instinctively straighten his posture.
Vorden stepped forward, his stance shifting in an instant. Unlike the precise, measured positions of traditional martial arts, this one was… wild. It had a looseness to it—yet despite the lack of rigid form, it felt refined, efficient, deadly.
"Martial arts are structured," Vorden said. "Each has rules, techniques, foundations that define them. But in a real fight? Rules don't mean shit."
He stepped forward and threw a casual jab at Denwen. Denwen dodged—but barely. The speed was deceptive. Way faster than before.
Vorden grinned.
"Brawler Arts take the best elements of multiple martial arts and combine them into something unpredictable. It doesn't rely on set movements—it adapts. The more styles you know, the more dangerous it becomes."
Denwen narrowed his eyes. "So it's just a mix of everything?"
"No." Vorden suddenly lunged.
Denwen instinctively blocked, but the moment he raised his arms, Vorden's attack changed. Instead of following through with a strike, he used the momentum to spin, bringing his knee straight toward Denwen's ribs.
Denwen barely twisted away in time, but the sheer force grazed him, sending a sharp sting through his side.
Vorden straightened, smirking. "See? If that had been a normal martial art, you'd have predicted the next move. But this? This is designed to be unreadable."
Denwen rubbed his ribs, already calculating how such an unpredictable style could be countered.
Vorden clapped his hands together. "Normally, I wouldn't even think about teaching this until someone's mastered at least four different arts to a high level. But…"
He grinned, stepping back into stance.
"Fuck it. A genius will always be a genius."