Wharton moved.
He used no flashy techniques, just the simplest, most direct punch-a lunging straight punch. His fist drove straight toward Loa's chest with a rush of wind, carrying plenty of power and no lack of speed.
Loa sidestepped it, reaching out at the same time to lay a hand on his forearm and guide it forward.
Wharton felt a force drawing him forward. He stumbled two steps before regaining his footing. He turned back to look at Loa, his eyes lighting up.
"Again."
This time, Wharton got serious. He lowered his center of gravity and attacked with alternating fists, every punch packing a solid impact. At twelve years old, the boy's fists already carried considerable weight, each punch whistling through the air.
Loa only defended, never attacking. He moved his feet and shifted his body, evading Wharton's attacks one after another. Even when he occasionally raised a hand to block, his touch was light, using the incoming force to deflect it.
Too fast, Wharton thought. My fists can't even touch him.
He stopped attacking, stepped back twice, and stared at Loa for a while.
"Are you a Rank 7 Warrior?" he asked.
Loa shook his head.
"Rank 8?"
He shook his head again.
Wharton frowned. After a moment's thought, he asked, "Just now... you weren't using battle-qi?"
"Right."
Wharton drew in a sharp breath.
Without using battle-qi, relying on technique and reflexes alone, he had neutralized every one of his attacks. Just who was this man?
"Still want to fight?" Loa asked.
"Yes!"
Wharton charged again. This time, he no longer used only his fists. Fists, elbows, knees, legs-his entire body became a weapon. This was the close-quarters combat taught at O'Brien Academy, and he had practiced it thoroughly.
Loa countered each move as it came.
He blocked a