Flow

Orion left Rylan's study, his mind still weighing the conversation. He had one week before the gala—one week to sharpen himself, not just mentally, but physically.

His last training session with Ren had exposed a flaw that gnawed at him like a wound left untreated.

"You're too reactive, Orion."

Ren's voice echoed in his mind, sharp and undeniable.

"You predict your opponent. Don't get me wrong, you are amazing at it, even better than me who is enhanced as the Apex, but what happens when you're unable to predict the opponent's movement? You freeze."

At the time, Orion had scowled, sweat dripping from his chin as he struggled to catch his breath. He wanted to argue, but what could he say? Every time he lunged, Ren was already moving.

Every time Orion attacked, Ren had a counter waiting. It was like fighting smoke—his strikes hit nothing, his footwork always a half-step too slow. He was playing into Ren's hands without even realizing it.

Frustration boiled in his chest. Orion prided himself on his ability to read his opponents, to see their next move before they made it. But what good was foresight if he couldn't force them to make the wrong move? If he couldn't dictate the flow of battle?

That night, he logged into Ares Combat Simulator, a full-immersion VR combat simulator used by elite trainees, duelists, and even professional fighters. Unlike scripted training exercises, every opponent was real—a person with instincts, experience, and unpredictable tactics.

Tonight, Orion wasn't here to win.

He was here to break himself down and rebuild from scratch.

The first match was brutal. His opponent, an aggressive brawler with a relentless forward momentum, didn't hesitate to punish Orion's mistakes. The simulated combat arena was a dimly lit industrial complex, flickering neon casting long shadows as the brawler closed the distance with alarming speed.

Orion tried to bait him into overextending, to lead him into a disadvantageous position. Instead, he mistimed his retreat, and a crushing elbow slammed into his ribs. The impact jolted through his nervous system as pain flared across his torso, simulated with brutal precision. He barely had time to process it before a second strike smashed into his jaw, sending him staggering backward. A flash of white-hot pain shot through his skull.

He barely heard the system call it: "Defeat."

The pain wasn't dulled, his neural implants ensured that every hit felt agonizingly real. His ribs throbbed as if they'd actually been cracked, his breath hitching from the phantom pain.

He knew it was an illusion, that his body was perfectly intact outside the simulation, but his nerves didn't care. Every instinct screamed at him. The simulation was designed to make him feel every mistake, to hammer the lesson into his body and mind until he learned.

"Too slow."

The second fight wasn't any better. This time, he faced a counter-striker—calm, composed, waiting for Orion to commit. Orion attempted to feint, to create a false opening, but his opponent didn't bite. Instead, he let Orion overplay his deception, then punished him with a precise knee to the gut. Orion crumpled, coughing, the VR suit constricting around his torso as if his real lungs had been emptied.

"I'm doing it wrong."

Again.

And again.

And again.

Each match ended with him sprawled on the ground, his body aching from the relentless punishment. Every opponent saw through him. Every movement was too telegraphed, too obvious. He gritted his teeth, hands trembling with frustration.

Why wasn't it working?

Orion didn't think of himself as a genius in combat. Quite the opposite—his understanding was still crude compared to true prodigies. He lacked the instinctual grace of fighters who seemed born for battle, the ones who made every movement look effortless. But what set him apart from others his age wasn't sheer talent—it was his ability to enter a flow state almost instantly. The moment a fight started, everything else faded. 

Doubt, hesitation, fear—they vanished, leaving only the rhythm of combat. His mind and body adapted at a terrifying pace, absorbing patterns, adjusting reflexes, and refining strategies in real time. It wasn't perfect, and he still made mistakes, but his ability to immerse himself fully, to lose himself in the fight, made every second a lesson.

Orion exhaled sharply and closed his eyes. He replayed Ren's movements in his mind—the way she dictated the pace of their fight, the way she guided Orion into disadvantageous positions without Orion even realizing it.

It wasn't just about baiting the opponent. It was about conditioning them.

Subtle movements. A shift in weight. The illusion of an opening.

Orion adjusted his approach. He abandoned the idea of forcing a reaction through feints alone. Instead, he experimented with rhythm, stepping forward and hesitating at the last second, giving his opponent the sense that he was about to attack—only to retreat just as they committed.

His next opponent was fast, favoring lunging strikes. Orion tested the waters, letting his footwork tell a false story. He moved just out of reach, forcing his opponent to chase. A fraction of a second later, he changed the rhythm, pivoting at the exact moment his opponent committed—just enough for their strike to miss.

For the first time that night, his opponent stumbled.

It wasn't much. Just a slight shift in balance. A single moment of vulnerability.

But it was enough.

Orion struck, a precise counter to the exposed ribcage, sending his opponent staggering backward.

It worked.

Excitement flickered through him, but he suppressed it. He wasn't there yet.

Night after night, he refined the technique. He adapted to different styles—fighters who relied on raw aggression, fighters who waited patiently, fighters who thrived in chaos. He tested their limits, pushed their instincts, learned how to manipulate their expectations.

Some fell for it immediately. Others resisted. But every time he failed, he adjusted.

By the final night, the shift was undeniable.

His opponents were reacting to him.

Their movements were dictated by his, their choices shaped by the invisible pressure he applied. When they lunged, it was because he made them believe the opportunity was real. When they hesitated, it was because he planted the seed of doubt in their minds.

He had stopped being predictive and started being manipulative.

The final fight of the night put him against an Ranker-duelist two years older than him. A fighter at the peak of the simulator's ranking system, someone leagues above him. Orion knew he wouldn't win. That wasn't the point.

The arena shifted into a storm-ravaged wasteland, rain slashing sideways against his visor. His opponent moved with clinical precision, not wasting a single step. Orion met them head-on, feeling the invisible battle unfold before the first strike was even thrown.

He initiated the exchange with two sharp leg kicks to his opponent's thigh. The first made them flinch. The second reinforced the expectation. By the third movement, the opponent instinctively shifted to defend their thigh—without realizing they had already been conditioned. Anticipating this, Orion redirected his strike mid-motion, snapping a kick toward the ribs instead. His opponent twisted too late, the impact landing cleanly.

He had begun setting patterns, making them react before they even knew they were reacting. The real battle was being fought in the subconscious, and Orion was beginning to understand how to wield it.

He adjusted. He adapted. He applied everything he had learned.

The match lasted longer than any of his others. He still lost, but not without making his opponent sweat.

When Orion finally logged out, his muscles ached, his body drenched in sweat despite the artificial nature of the training. He exhaled, staring at his trembling hands, exhaustion settling deep into his bones.

Then, a laugh bubbled up from his chest—low at first, then rising into something sharp, manic, unrestrained. The sheer exhilaration of it all—the breakthroughs, the control, the sheer _fun_ of making others dance to his rhythm—it was intoxicating.

He ran a hand through his sweat-dampened hair, a wild grin stretching across his face.

"I can't wait to test this in the gala."