Chapter 23: The First Steps of Power

The morning air was crisp, carrying the scent of damp stone and burning incense from the nearby market streets. Jackim stood in the training courtyard, his muscles aching from days of relentless training under Han's brutal regimen.

But despite the pain, he was eager.

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Han stood a few feet away, his arms crossed. "Today, we're doing something different."

Jackim rolled his shoulders, trying to shake off the fatigue. "What's different?"

Han walked over to a worn-out training dummy and pointed at it. "Hit it."

Jackim frowned. "That's it?"

Han smirked. "Hit it until it breaks."

Jackim took a stance. He had done this before.

He exhaled and threw his first punch. The impact stung his knuckles.

Another punch. Another. Again and again.

Minutes passed. Then an hour. His hands bled. His arms felt like lead.

But still, he continued.

Han said nothing. He just watched.

Jackim gritted his teeth. He had to keep going.

Another punch—then suddenly, the dummy split apart.

He stumbled back, breathing hard. His knuckles were raw, blood dripping onto the cracked stone.

Han nodded in approval. "Good. Now you're starting to understand."

Jackim exhaled. This wasn't just about strength. It was about endurance. Willpower.

And he wasn't done yet.

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That afternoon, Han took Jackim out of the slums for the first time since their training began.

The city was bustling—horse-drawn carriages rolling down the cobbled roads, merchants shouting about their goods, wealthy young masters strolling through the streets with their servants.

Jackim felt the stares. The way people looked at his tattered clothes.

They saw him as insignificant.

Han led him to a high-end teahouse, where men in silk robes sat discussing business and politics. Jackim knew he didn't belong here.

But Han? He walked in like he owned the place.

A server, dressed in pristine robes, approached them hesitantly. "Apologies, sir, but we don't serve beggars."

Jackim clenched his fists.

Han merely chuckled. "We're here for a lesson, not tea."

The server frowned but didn't argue.

Han turned to Jackim. "Look around. What do you see?"

Jackim scanned the room. Wealth. Status. Power.

Men who had never struggled a day in their lives.

Han smirked. "You're looking at them as if they're better than you."

Jackim said nothing.

Han leaned in. "But the truth is, they're weak. Their power is borrowed—from family, from wealth, from reputation. Take all that away, and they're nothing."

Jackim swallowed. He wanted to believe that.

But standing here, dressed in rags while men twice his age made fortunes with a single conversation—it was hard to see them as weak.

Han clapped him on the shoulder. "We're leaving."

As they walked out, Jackim stole one last glance at the room full of elites.

One day, they would look at him differently.

He just had to become strong enough.

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Back at the training courtyard, Jackim sat alone, staring at the scars on his knuckles.

He wasn't just training to fight anymore.

He was training to prove them all wrong.

His former classmates. His ex-girlfriend. The rich young masters who looked down on him.

One day, they'd see him as more than just a poor nobody.

He clenched his fists.

He would make them regret ever doubting him.

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