Ability Development

In the late spring afternoon, sunlight lingered longer over the western district of Tower City. The standing water between the alleys had receded, exposing the weathered gray-white patterns of old bricks. In the yard, five-year-old Ryan stood before a pomelo tree, his toes lightly touching the ground as his body sank slightly.

He took a deep breath, then suddenly pushed off with his right foot, raised his leg forward, drove with his knee and thigh, and struck precisely below the trunk with his arched instep.

"Bang."

The bark trembled lightly, shedding a few specks of dust.

He did not cry out in pain or immediately repeat the movement. Instead, he tilted his head slightly and carefully examined the top of his foot, the position where he recovered his center of gravity, and his posture after drawing in his knee. Then he stepped back and adjusted his footwork again.

This was his eighteenth kick of the day.

These were basic kicking techniques he had learned from television programs—there had been no systematic instruction, but with his understanding of training science from his previous life, he already knew what he needed to focus on: not how much force he could produce, but whether the angle was correct, whether the movement flowed smoothly, and whether it was likely to cause injury.

Ryan never aimed to make something look "decent" in a single attempt. What he pursued was getting closer to the "standard movement template" every single time.

He collectively called this training period his "imitation martial arts learning phase." His learning materials mainly came from two sources:

The City Self-Defense Manual and Illustrated Guide to Basic Combat Movements that his father had collected in his youth and kept among the family books;

The "Heaven's Arena recap programs" and "safety education skits" shown on television after dinner.

He copied the illustrations and clips he could see into his notebook stroke by stroke. When he could not draw something accurately, he used crayons to make a "key-point connection diagram," marking which leg moved first and which shoulder dropped first.

He was not "imitating combat." He was rebuilding a "movement expression language system."

His mother often saw him gesturing along with the television screen from the kitchen. "This child is kicking again."

"Just practicing for fun," his father said dismissively. "It's good. Boys should move their muscles and bones."

At first, they thought he was simply overflowing with energy. But after several weeks, Ryan had not missed a single day, nor had he cried or fussed because of falls, strains, or fevers. On the contrary, he ate with more appetite and slept more soundly every day. Occasionally, he even took the initiative to carry water or sweep the floor, his movements clean and efficient.

His mother gradually began to accept it.

"If he wants to practice, let him. He isn't greedy for play anyway, and training might make him braver."

But in Ryan's own eyes, this was merely the point where his training logic had entered the "sustainable management stage."

He never trained until he was exhausted in one go, nor did he perform uncertain movements—every exercise went through three stages of review:

Was there an unreasonable path of force generation?

Did it exceed the load-bearing limit of his current skeleton?

Would it cause sluggish physical function after continuous training?

The first rule of the "physical training code" he had made for himself was: "No matter how urgent it is, never damage the long-term foundation."

Thus, when designing his exercises, he strictly followed three principles: "daily total intensity limits," "joint repetitive-load checks," and "post-training static cooldown." Even for something as simple as sit-ups, he scheduled them for an hour after lunch, when his circulation was relatively stable. His fixed daily task of "three laps around the yard" also had to meet the standards of "no holding his breath, no tensing his shoulders, no sudden sprinting."

He understood clearly that even with an adult's willpower, a five-year-old body had to grow step by step according to the physical laws of this world.

This was the "agreement" he had reached with this world—

I won't violate the rhythm of growth, and you'll open the doors to the future for me, one layer at a time.

At dusk, his father crouched in the yard repairing a broken wooden chair. He watched Ryan finish his final lap, sweat glistening over him, then stop beneath the tree and wipe the beads of sweat from his forehead with his sleeve.

"Why don't you go inside and play with your toys?" his father asked.

Ryan considered for a moment, then gave a short yet convincing answer. "I want to become stronger someday."

His father paused, then laughed. "That's a good thought. I'm just afraid your enthusiasm will only last three days."

"It won't." There was not the slightest hesitation in his tone. "If I practice every day, I won't forget."

His father looked at his small but resolute back and said nothing more, only nodding.

No one knew the depth of understanding and execution hidden behind those words: "practice every day."

Ryan knew that while these movements could not yet be called "combat," he had already turned physical training from passive growth into a scheduled module for "advancing objectives."

Every punch and every lap he ran was not for today's physical fitness, but so that one day in the future, in some Hunter battle scenario, he could have a little more judgment, a little more speed, and a little better chance of survival than others.

As dusk approached, slanting sunlight fell over one corner of the yard. Ryan took off his jacket and hung it by the windowsill. Wearing only a short-sleeved shirt, he stood barefoot atop a small brick platform. The ground had just been sprinkled with water and still carried a faint, cool dampness. He stood completely still, as if waiting for something.

The next second, he stomped forward fiercely. His left leg drove his body into a turn while his right hand swiftly traced an arc—the fist did not strike any target, stopping in midair as if it were about to collide with some "invisible opponent."

This was the "Imaginary Cross-Training, Form Four" he had set for himself today.

After becoming proficient in basic boxing, Ryan gradually introduced "simulated enemy-and-self offensive and defensive rhythms" to build combat-thinking habits. He imagined himself as the disadvantaged side in a fight between two people, forced to rely on reactions and footwork to evade, counterattack, and control the rhythm. He trained in stages:

Stage One: Attack → Defend → Retreat

Stage Two: Defend → Feint a retreat → Counterattack

Stage Three: Evade → Break position → Intercept

Each stage consisted of five repeated movements per set, with slow jogging between sets to regulate his breathing. After every three sets, he made small adjustments to his movement path according to the behavior of his "imagined enemy," ensuring that his movements were not only reasonable, but also had "behavioral correspondence."

He knew real combat would not follow a script like practice. But only by first letting his body grow accustomed to finding rhythm amid change could he remain calm when facing a real opponent in the future.

Yet no matter how thoroughly he prepared, mistakes would always happen.

That time, while performing the Stage Three combination of "Evade → Break position → Intercept," he lost his balance on the wet ground at the instant he drew back his leg and turned, and his entire body pitched toward the brick surface.

Instinctively, he twisted his torso and landed on his right shoulder to absorb the impact. His knee struck the edge of a protruding brick, and sharp pain flashed through it.

He did not cry out in pain, nor did he get up immediately.

He lay flat on the ground, taking a deep breath like a completely relaxed child. Then he slowly sat up and lowered his head to inspect the wound.

The outer side of his knee had been lightly scraped, with a thin layer of blood beading from it. He pressed it with his sleeve, calmly rose to his feet, walked over to a nearby bucket, scooped up some water to rinse it, then tore off a small piece of cloth from the inside of his shirt and tied it around the wound.

The whole process took no more than two minutes. His expression remained calm throughout, without the slightest sign of panic.

At dinner, his mother saw the strip of cloth tied around his right knee and asked in surprise, "How did that happen?"

"I slipped while running," he said.

"Does it hurt?"

"A little."

"Are you still going to train?"

"I'll change locations tomorrow. The ground there is too slippery."

His mother did not ask any more questions, only reminding him, "Be careful. Don't push yourself too hard."

His father glanced over from the side and said quietly, "This kid has never cried out in pain since he was little. I think he won't be worse than anyone else when he grows up."

Ryan did not explain.

He knew his training was not "endurance-based suffering," nor was it meant to perform toughness. He was simply accustomed to treating every mistake, injury, and failure as part of the correction mechanism.

That night, he wrote in his training log:

[Loss-of-Balance Fall Incident No.: C-07]

Cause: Wet ground + excessive shoulder rotation caused center-of-gravity displacement;

Result: Minor knee abrasion; treatment time under 2 minutes;

Optimization: Move tomorrow's practice area to dry bricks; add "slip-and-fall center-of-gravity self-rescue response" drills;

Assessment: Behavioral judgment correct; emotional control good; stress response handled appropriately.

He had never doubted his training method because of a fall, nor did he think pain meant anything in particular.

To him, this was simply an unavoidable point along the path of growth.

The next day, he continued training.

Before starting, however, he deliberately used a mop to dry the bricks. He also changed the starting angle of his punches, drawing in his leg along a more reasonable arc to finish the movement.

He was like a stone being polished. He did not hurry to shine, yet with every abrasion, he honed his edges into the sharpness best suited to himself.

Not far away, his mother sat beneath the eaves stitching shoe soles, occasionally looking up at him.

She no longer anxiously called out as she had before, "Don't run so fast," or "Be careful not to fall." Instead, she let him practice until the sky darkened before calling him inside for dinner.

At that moment, she understood that Ryan, though he never competed with others, showed off, or caused trouble, was truly striving to live in his own way.

And what she could do was not interfere.

Ryan knew that he had moved beyond the stage of "exercising for physical fitness" and had officially entered the track of "training for combat."

He did not move quickly, but he moved with absolute steadiness.

Because he had long since decided: he would rely neither on talent nor on fortunate encounters. He would only rely on the steps of "practicing once every day" and keep walking upward.