Continuation of Chapter 1

Four years later

I close my eyes and steady my breath, standing before Drax. His voice rumbles like thunder, a constant reminder of my imperfections. The training grounds stretch before us, filled with smoldering embers and ash.

"Lin," Drax growls, his voice heavy. "No powers. No weapons. Just your skill."

I nod, dropping into a low stance. Kung fu. No shortcuts. I lunge forward with a quick jab, aiming for his chest, but Drax moves like smoke, sidestepping with ease. Before I can counter, his palm slams into my chest, sending me back. I hit the ground hard, gasping for breath.

"Sloppy!" he barks, stepping back. "You’re thinking too much. Flow with the energy around you."

I scramble to my feet, this time moving with more intent, my body flowing into a series of rapid punches and kicks. Drax parries effortlessly, but I press on, anticipating his counters. My foot sweeps low, aiming for his legs, but he blocks and counters with a strike that nearly catches my ribs.
I twist away, barely avoiding his attack, but the effort leaves me breathless. Drax halts, watching me closely. "Better," he mutters. "But you need more focus. Again."

I know this training is shaping me, making me sharper, faster—but there’s always more to learn.

Years pass, and now I face Marger. His energy is wild, untamed, electric. Where Drax was steady, Marger is chaos—a storm waiting to be unleashed. He tosses two gleaming marto cutlass swords at me, and I catch them. The weight is strange after years of using only my fists. I grip the hilts tightly, feeling the cold metal vibrate with potential.

"Show me what Drax taught you," Marger says with a smirk, his voice laced with challenge.

I don’t hesitate. I swing the swords with everything I’ve got, slicing through the air. But Marger is everywhere at once—dodging effortlessly, his movements too fast to track. He weaves through my strikes, his body a blur, like lightning avoiding the earth. Before I can register his position, I feel the light tap of his hand on my shoulder, and I stumble forward, nearly dropping the swords.

"Too slow," he laughs, circling me. "Move like the storm, Lin—unpredictable, fast."

Frustration rises, hot and sharp, but I swallow it down. I take a breath, steadying myself. Tighten my grip. I need to let go of the rigid movements, the methodical strikes Drax drilled into me. With Marger, I must flow.

I adjust my stance, let my body relax, and swing again. This time, the blades feel different—an extension of my arms rather than tools in my hands. I’m no longer attacking with brute strength, but with grace, with speed. Marger throws a rapid flurry of strikes, his movements a blur of silver and shadow. I meet them, matching his speed, adjusting to his rhythm.

My heart races as I parry his blows, sparks flying where our blades clash. The sound of steel against steel fills the air, sharp and electrifying. For the first time, I feel the flow he speaks of, the storm raging within me as the blades become a natural extension of my instincts.

"You’re starting to understand," Marger says, his voice cutting through the chaos. But then he strikes again, faster, harder. "But keep up!"

My arms ache with the effort, sweat stinging my eyes, but I don't falter. I push past the exhaustion, each swing more fluid, more precise. Marger’s smile fades as I begin to anticipate his moves, meeting him blow for blow.

To be continued….