Night settled fully over Greyhaven.
The orphanage had gone quiet after dinner. The younger children had long since drifted to sleep, and even the usual murmurs of the halls had faded into stillness.
Arin waited.
Ten minutes.
Maybe fifteen.
Just enough for the noise of the day to disappear.
Then he stood.
The ground outside was dark.
A faint chill lingered in the air as Arin stepped onto the open yard. The tree at the far end stood silent, its branches stretching wide over the worn patch of earth beneath it.
He hung the lantern first.
The soft glow spread outward, pushing back the darkness just enough to carve a small world of its own.
Then he moved to the sack.
The same one he had filled that morning.
Heavy.
Dense.
Unforgiving.
He looped the rope tightly around its neck and threw it over a thick branch. The wood groaned slightly under the weight, but held firm.
Arin adjusted it carefully.
Lower.
Then higher.
Until it hung just above his face level.
Perfect.
He stepped back.
Raised his fists.
And struck.
THUD.
The impact was dull.
Heavy.
The sack barely moved.
Arin exhaled slowly.
Then struck again.
THUD.
Pain shot through his knuckles.
He didn't stop.
Punch.
Punch.
Kick.
The sack swayed slightly now.
Each impact sent a dull vibration through his arms and legs.
This wasn't like the training he remembered.
This wasn't controlled.
This wasn't safe.
This… was real.
A thought surfaced in Arin's mind—uninvited, but familiar.
Bangalore.
A different life. A different body.
He had tried training back then. Gym memberships, strict routines, endless repetitions. He had started more than once… and quit just as many times. It had always felt the same—too boring, too slow, too painful.
But this…
This was different.
Because this wasn't about fitness.
This was about survival.
His fist struck again—harder this time.
The sack swung wider. Pain flared across his knuckles, sharp and immediate, but he ignored it. A faint smile crept onto his face.
He had always loved fighting.
Even back then.
Late nights spent watching mixed martial arts, studying movements, angles, timing. From childhood, it had started with kung fu films, then Shotokan Karate training during his school years—the discipline, the forms. He had even earned a red belt.
But as he grew older, he began to see it more clearly.
Styles like kung fu and karate were beautiful—no doubt about that. Their movements were precise, almost artistic.
But in real combat?
Beauty wasn't enough.
Real fighting was different.
Messier. Faster. Brutal.
That was when he discovered mixed martial arts.
For over a year, he trained consistently—learning the fundamentals of boxing, kicks, and grappling. He understood how to move, how to control distance, how to read an opponent's reach and timing. It wasn't just about throwing strikes anymore; it was about positioning, balance, and awareness.
For the first time, fighting had felt… real in his previous world.
————-
THUD.
His fist slammed into the sack again.
This time—
Harder.
More precise.
The movement cleaner.
He pivoted.
Kicked.
The impact echoed through the quiet yard.
Pain shot up his leg.
He didn't stop.
Again.
Again.
Again.
The sack didn't forgive mistakes.
It punished them.
Every strike came with a cost.
Knuckles burning.
Shin aching.
Muscles tightening.
But Arin didn't slow down.
His breath grew heavier.
His body screamed.
But his mind remained sharp.
Images flashed in his mind.
Not just Varek Sorn.
But Captain Dorian Halborn as well.
Two completely different fighters.
Two completely different styles.
And yet—
Both terrifying in their own way.
Varek's raw, overwhelming force.
Dorian's precision, control, and effortless dismantling of a stronger opponent.
Neither of them moved like anything Arin had seen in his previous world.
Not human.
Not by those standards.
Arin clenched his jaw.
"…Then I've been thinking about this all wrong."
His guard rose instinctively—one hand near his chin, the other slightly forward.
"If they can reach that level…"
He stepped in.
A sharp jab snapped forward.
"…then I can too."
The fist recoiled instantly, followed by a clean cross. The sack jerked under the impact.
"If this world allows it…"
He shifted his weight.
A low kick drove into the side of the sack, the dense mass resisting him with a dull, punishing thud.
"…then I'll take it."
His movements began to flow.
Not wild.
Not random.
Structured.
Deliberate.
Left hand guarding his chin.
Right hand snapping forward in quick combinations.
Jab.
Cross.
Hook.
The rhythm built naturally, his body remembering patterns long buried in muscle memory.
He stepped in closer.
An uppercut drove upward into the sack, followed immediately by a tight hook.
The recoil stung his knuckles, but he didn't hesitate.
The sack swung back.
He pivoted.
A sharp elbow cut through the air—
A spinning elbow that slammed into the side of the sack with a heavy thud.
Pain shot through his arm.
He ignored it.
He closed the distance again.
Grabbed the sack briefly.
Drove a knee into it—
Once.
Twice.
The impact rattled through his entire body.
This wasn't practice anymore.
This was an adaptation.
His breathing grew heavier.
Faster.
But his mind remained clear.
Focused.
This world was different.
The limits he once believed in—
They didn't apply here.
So he pushed further.
Harder.
Faster.
The sack swung wide again.
Arin stepped back.
Adjusted his footing.
Then he moved.
He spun.
His body turning with controlled force—
And then—
His back leg whipped through the air in a clean, snapping arc.
A spinning kick.
The impact landed perfectly.
The sack jerked violently.
The rope strained.
The entire structure shuddered under the force.
Arin landed.
Barely steady.
Breathing hard.
Sweat dripping down his face.
His hands trembled.
His legs burned.
Every muscle screamed.
Pain.
Everywhere.
But for the first time—
It felt right.
Arin understood something now.
Something that changed everything.
His gaze drifted down to his waist, to the dagger resting there.
Sanctis Aquila.
A quiet realization settled deep within him.
There would be no lasting fatigue.
No permanent damage.
No limits holding him back.
A slow smile formed on his lips.
"…Then I don't have to hold back."
He stepped forward again.
This time—without restraint.
His strikes came faster. Harder. Less controlled.
Punches that would have shattered bone.
Kicks that strained muscle and tore at his balance.
Movements pushed beyond what his body should have endured.
Pain exploded through him.
Every strike punished him in return.
Every movement pushed him closer to collapse.
But he didn't stop.
Because this time…
There were no consequences.
Only growth.
The lantern swayed gently in the night breeze, its light flickering across the ground in uneven waves.
The orphanage remained silent behind him.
The world slept.
And beneath the tree—
Arin Valcrest drove himself past his limits again and again, breaking his body with every strike, every breath, every step forward.
Arin Valcrest broke himself…
So he could rebuild stronger.