Sharpening the Senses

Arthur's training continued relentlessly. Over the next few months, he pushed himself harder than ever before, inching closer to mastering the 'Rock Shattering Fist.' 

The weighted vests and guards the headmaster had given him became a constant part of his life. Initially, even moving while wearing them felt impossible, but Arthur's determination was unshakable. Slowly, his body adapted to the additional 100 kilos. 

By the end of the month, he could last up to an hour during movement training—an incredible feat in itself. The vests had become second nature, though the strain on his body, or the lack thereof, often left him questioning his own limits.

His movement skills improved dramatically. Every unnecessary step was ironed out, and his dodges became precise, calculated, and efficient. The weight forced him to optimize his energy use, teaching him to conserve strength for decisive movements. Yet, despite his progress, it wasn't enough.

As Arthur approached the one-hour mark of sustaining against his barrage of attacks, the headmaster introduced a new challenge: shrinking the circle in which Arthur could evade attacks. 

What started as a generous five-foot diameter was gradually reduced to just three feet. Within this restricted space, every second counted, and Arthur struggled to keep up. 

His breathing became labored as he tried to anticipate the stick's trajectory, his muscles burning with the effort of staying light on his feet. No matter how much he improved, the smaller circle revealed the limits of his reaction speed.

"You've improved significantly in dodging my attacks," the headmaster remarked, watching Arthur narrowly avoid a strike. "But your reaction speed can't keep up with the speed of my stick as the distance between us decreases. So, what's the solution?"

Arthur hesitated, catching his breath. "Increase the distance?" he guessed, though the answer felt wrong even as he spoke it.

The headmaster's expression darkened, as if insulted by the suggestion. "Yes, if you want to run away with your tail between your legs! But how will you evade your opponent while trying to land a blow?"

Arthur furrowed his brow, considering his options. "Maybe... if I increase my movement speed, I could outpace the attacks?"

"That's one way," the headmaster admitted, "but you won't always be the fastest one in a fight. What happens when you face an opponent who's much quicker than you? Does that mean you're doomed?"

Arthur stood in silence, frustration building as he failed to think of a solution. His fists clenched, and his mind raced for answers, but none came.

"The answer lies in your reaction time," the headmaster continued. "Can you act faster so that you have more time to move?"

"But I'm already moving as soon as I see the attack!" Arthur protested, his voice tinged with irritation.

The headmaster's lips curled into a mischievous smile. "Then, can you move before you even see the attack coming?"

Arthur's eyes widened. "How can I move before I see the attack? Should I just jump around randomly and hope for the best?"

The headmaster chuckled, shaking his head. "Do you think I'm joking? Attack me, and I'll show you."

Arthur hesitated as the headmaster closed his eyes, standing motionless. The challenge felt absurd, but months of being outmaneuvered fueled his desire for payback.

There's no way he can dodge with his eyes closed, Arthur thought, gripping the stick tightly. Unless he's blessed by the God of Luck.

Arthur lunged, starting with a thrust aimed at the lower abdomen, followed by a sweeping attack at the same height.

"It's clever to follow a thrust with a sweep, but it won't work against me," the headmaster said calmly. He sidestepped the thrust and squatted to avoid the sweep—all without opening his eyes. His movements were smooth, almost fluid, as though he had rehearsed the exchange a thousand times.

Arthur's frustration mounted. Seeing the headmaster crouched, he transitioned to a downward slash aimed at his shoulder.

"Downward slash," the headmaster announced before the strike even began, his voice calm but certain.

Arthur gritted his teeth and adjusted his stance for a knee-height sweep, aiming to catch the headmaster off guard.

"Knee sweep," the headmaster said, dodging effortlessly. Arthur's stick swung through the air harmlessly, missing its target yet again.

Each attack Arthur launched was met with a calm evasion and a precise prediction of his moves. The headmaster's voice rang out with every attempt:

"Oblique slash at the left rib."

"Downward slash on the right shoulder."

"Sweep attack at the abdomen from the left."

Arthur's breathing grew ragged as sweat poured down his face. Every strike failed, leaving him panting, his grip on the stick faltering. Finally, it slipped from his hands as he gasped, "How?"

"As I said, you have to know where your opponent will attack before they even make the move," the headmaster explained. "An attack doesn't start when you see it—it starts with every subtle signal: their breathing, the shift in their stance, the tension in their muscles. All of these clues tell a story. The real question is whether you can read it."

Arthur's mind raced as the headmaster's words sank in. It wasn't about speed; it was about perception. He thought back to their earlier training sessions, replaying moments in his mind where he might have missed such signals.

Then, he realized that he had missed an important clue and he asked it outright. "But! You didn't see those things. You had blindfolded yourself the entire time."

The headmaster chuckled, "Yes, I did that so that you could see the limit of what you could achieve once you took this mastered this technique to its limits. But we will start with something much simpler."

The headmaster's tone softened, sensing Arthur's determination beneath his exhaustion. "And today, we'll begin sharpening your senses to catch those clues. This will be the foundation of your success as a warrior," he said, a glimmer of challenge in his eyes. "The day you can predict my movements will be the day you surpass your limits."

Arthur straightened, his exhaustion momentarily forgotten. This wasn't just training anymore—it was a battle against his own limits. And he would win.