New training (part 2)

The obstacle course runs under Grak remained brutally demanding, the strength labor monotonous and exhausting, but now, sessions with the lean instructor were happening daily. Footwork drills opened every session, hammered into them through repetition and the instructor's sharp, silent corrections. Then came the blocks, high, outside, low, practiced until Ren felt the movements connect, flowing from his stance.

Today marked another shift. After drilling blocks until their arms felt heavy, the instructor moved to the center of the paved courtyard.

"Defense is reaction," he stated, his voice soft yet cutting through the quiet concentration. "Offense is action. Today, you learn basic action."

He demonstrated. A straight punch, driving forward from the shoulder, fist tight, stopping precisely at center mass of an imaginary opponent, then retracting instantly back to a guard position. Then a palm heel strike, using the base of the palm, same extension, same retraction, same unwavering balance rooted in the stance they'd practiced endlessly. He didn't speak further, simply demonstrated again, then gestured for them to mirror him.

They practiced in formation. Punch, retract. Palm heel, retract. Ren focused on the mechanics, the shift of weight, the straight line of force, the immediate return to guard. The instructor moved among them, silent, his thin cane tapping a dropped elbow here, adjusting a shoulder there, correcting a fist with a touch. Ren found the movements came cleanly, his balance solid from the footwork drills.

After an hour of striking air, the instructor ordered, "Pairs. Face your partner." Ren lined up opposite Liam. "Sequence, Attacker, slow straight punch, chest high. Defender, outside block. Reset. Attacker, slow palm heel, chest high. Defender, parry block. Reset. Then switch roles. Control. Precision. No impact. Begin."

The courtyard filled with the soft scuff of boots as pairs began the careful drill. Ren delivered the slow punch first, stopping it inches from Liam's chest. Liam executed the outside forearm block, meeting empty air where the fist would have impacted, his form good but tense. Ren delivered the palm heel and Liam parried. They switched. Liam's punch was hesitant, Ren blocked easily. Liam's palm heel lacked extension, Ren parried. They repeated the sequence, finding a slow rhythm.

Nearby, however, a pair slipped. Ren heard a sharp grunt. He saw two cadets, 093 attacking, 027 defending, stumble apart. 027 was rubbing his shoulder, his face tight with pain. 093 looked startled. They had made contact, clearly harder than intended, likely due to 027 mistiming his block.

"Halt!" The instructor's command cracked like ice. All movement stopped instantly. His gaze fixed on the pair. "You two. Here." He pointed to the ground directly in front of him. "Down. Push-up position. Hold."

093 and 027 scrambled to obey, dropping into the position on the cold stone. The instructor surveyed the rest of the silent formation.

"Control," he said, his voice dangerously quiet. "That is the purpose. Lack of control means error. Error means injury, yours, or your partner's now, your own later. Injury means weakness. Weakness means failure. Failure means death." He let the words hang in the air. "In real application, there is no room for sloppy blocks or uncontrolled strikes. Perfection is the only acceptable standard. Hold," he repeated to the straining cadets on the ground, before turning back to the formation. "Continue the drill."

The practice resumed. Ren and Liam moved through the sequences, their focus absolute.

The days settled into a demanding rhythm. Grueling runs and strength labor under Grak pushed their physical ability, obstacle courses honed agility, and the sessions with the lean instructor drilled the fundamentals of movement. Ren felt his body adapting, hardening further.

Today, the lean instructor's session began as usual on the paved courtyard, footwork, stances, then flowing through the high, outside, and low blocks. Then came the individual striking practice, straight punch, palm heel strike, retracting instantly to guard. The instructor moved among them, his presence demanding absolute focus, his cane tapping infinitesimally small errors in form.

When they paired up, Ren facing Liam, the instructor addressed the formation. "The sequences remain the same," he stated, his voice calm. "The speed increases. Marginally. Telegraph less. React faster. Control is absolute. Lack of control will be corrected. Begin."

Ren and Liam faced each other, assuming the basic guard stance. Liam initiated, a straight punch, chest high. It was faster than before, the preparatory shoulder movement less pronounced. Ren focused, catching the subtle shift in Liam's weight, the slight tension before the extension, bringing his outside forearm block up to meet empty air just ahead of the incoming fist. Reset. Liam threw a palm heel, again slightly quicker, less telegraphed. Ren parried, his own footwork adjusting almost automatically to maintain balance. They switched roles. Ren delivered his own strikes with controlled speed, focusing on minimizing any preparatory tells. Liam blocked, his movements tight, concentration etched on his face.

Around them, the faster pace immediately exposed flaws. Ren heard a sharp impact nearby, followed by the instructor's cold voice. "Halt! 048, 112, sloppy contact. Down. Hold stance." The two cadets immediately dropped into the low, painful guard stance, muscles already trembling, while the drill continued around them.

Ren and Liam found their rhythm again. Attack, block. Attack, block. Reading the intent in the subtle initiation of movement became key. Ren found himself watching Liam's shoulders, his hips, the slight dip before a punch, the almost imperceptible tightening of muscle before a palm heel. His senses seemed to aid this, picking up cues that allowed him that fraction of a second needed to react correctly at the increased pace. They completed several cycles without error, moving with a focused, mechanical efficiency.

The instructor called another halt eventually. Several pairs were now holding stress positions around the courtyard. The rest stood breathing heavily, sweat cooling rapidly in the cold air.

"Adequate," the instructor stated, his gaze sweeping across them. It was perhaps the closest thing to praise Ren had heard him utter. "Control improves with repetition. Dismissed."

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Today, after the initial warm-up drills, the instructor signaled a change. He demonstrated a simple sequence, two quick, controlled straight punches delivered by an attacker, met by two quick, corresponding outside blocks from the defender. Then he showed another, a straight punch followed immediately by a feint and shift towards a low attack, met by an outside block flowing into a low parry. And a third, a palm heel strike followed by a straight punch, met by a parry and then an outside block.

He demonstrated each sequence twice, his movements perfect. "The first sequence," he commanded. "Pairs. Begin."

Ren faced Liam. They moved through the first sequence, Punch-Punch, Block-Block. Controlled, slow, focusing on maintaining stance and correct form throughout both strikes and both blocks. They switched roles. Repeat. The instructor paced silently, his cane tapping instantly on a poorly angled arm or an unbalanced foot somewhere in the formation.

"Sequence two," the instructor called out after several minutes. Ren and Liam shifted, Ren attacking first this time. Punch high, then shift as if attacking low. Liam blocked high, then dropped into the low parry. Good. They switched. Liam attacked; Ren defended. The transition between the high block and low parry required careful weight shifting. Ren managed it smoothly.

"Sequence three." Palm Heel-Punch. Parry-Block. Again, they worked through it, memorizing the flow, ensuring strikes stopped short, blocks were clean, stances remained solid.

Then the instructor changed the drill. "Sequence one!" he called out. Pairs executed it. "Sequence three!" Immediately shifting. "Sequence two!" Back again. He called the sequences rapidly, randomly, forcing them not just to execute but to recall and transition instantly.

This was where mistakes multiplied. Cadets fumbled, using the wrong block, losing their balance as they tried to shift mental gears. Ren saw the pair near him hesitate on the call for sequence two and the instructor's cane blurred, tapping sharply on both their leading legs. "Down! Hold stance!" Their faces tightened with pain and frustration as they dropped into the low position.

Ren focused, listening to the commands, letting his body flow through the practiced motions. Punch-Punch. Block-Block. Palm Heel-Punch. Parry-Block. Punch-Low Strike. Block-Low Parry. He found his mind keeping track almost automatically. Liam stayed with him, sometimes a bit slower on the transition, but executing the forms correctly.

The random sequence drill continued until sweat dripped freely, until muscles quivered with the strain of holding stances and executing precise movements under constant mental pressure. Finally, the lean instructor called a halt. Several pairs were still holding stress positions around the edges of the formation.

"Tomorrow, the speed increases again," the instructor stated flatly, his gaze sweeping over the exhausted cadets. "Dismissed."