The Body Before Power

The morning sun had only just begun to stretch across the sky, casting long shadows over the training yard behind the estate. The chirping of early birds filled the crisp air, and the soil still clung to the night's chill. Riven stood barefoot in the dirt, his breath visible in the cold. His small hands were already clenched into fists, his legs bent into a familiar stance.

He was just a boy in the eyes of this world—fragile and too young to grasp the weight of war. But in his mind, forged through the torment of his past life, he was far more.

"Again," he muttered to himself, striking forward.

The fist met bark. Pain shot through his knuckles. He winced, but didn't stop.

One hundred strikes with each arm. Fifty low kicks. Two hundred push-ups. Planks until he collapsed. Then again. Every morning. Every single day.

He remembered the sharp pain in his ribs when Ashren's final strike hit. The breathlessness. The helplessness. That moment of shame had buried itself deep in his bones, and now it was his fire.

There was no system yet. No cheat skills. Just a body that bled, a will that burned, and time.

Years passed like seasons folding into one another.

Riven grew tall and wiry. At ten, his muscles were lean steel under sun-kissed skin. By twelve, his strikes had weight, his footwork instinct. Villagers whispered about the boy who trained harder than the guards.

He had no toys. No friends. Only discipline.

And his father watched.

One dusky afternoon, as Riven was finishing his routine beneath the red-tinted clouds, his father stepped into the yard. His presence alone silenced the world around them.

"Riven," he said, his voice like a stone striking earth.

Riven straightened and turned. "Yes, Father."

His father looked him over, then dropped a wooden staff at his feet. "You're ready."

"Ready? For what?"

"To learn what it means to be a Thorn."

That night, under lantern-light and in the silence of their private dojo, his father shared the legacy of the Thorn bloodline.

"We are descendants of the Draconian School," he explained, eyes fierce. "A martial lineage born in the eastern fires. The Dragonic Flow Style isn't about brute force. It's about control. Power, yes—but harnessed, coiled, waiting to explode."

Riven's heart pounded. A style like that…

His father stepped into a stance: legs low, arms loose, movement like water under pressure. Then, in an instant, he surged forward with a flurry of precise strikes and circular footwork that made the wind ripple.

"This is what you'll learn. But understand this: the body must be prepared to carry the art. And the soul must be quiet enough to listen."

Training under his father was beyond brutal.

Each day began before the sun, ended after dark. Balance drills on narrow poles. Breathing techniques under waterfalls. Punches in rapid succession until his knuckles tore.

Riven endured it all in silence.

Sometimes he dreamed of Ashren. Not out of fear. But as a reminder. Every time his body screamed to stop, he saw Ashren's foot crashing into his solar plexus. He remembered the void. The humiliation.

He could not fail again.

One evening, after a particularly harsh spar, Riven lay flat on the floor of the dojo, chest heaving. His vision blurred, sweat dripping into his eyes. He had taken every blow and returned them all. But his limbs were done.

He closed his eyes.

Then—a flicker.

A faint sound, like static at the edge of his thoughts. A soft ding. Then words. Floating.

[SYSTEM INITIALIZED]

Welcome, Riven.

Level: 1

Status: Active

Skill Slots: Locked

Questline: Survival and Growth Initiated

He bolted upright, eyes wide. For a moment, he thought he was hallucinating.

But it remained. A small glowing symbol hovered near his vision, a barely noticeable glyph, pulsing.

His heart thundered in his chest, not from training, but from something deeper.

It had begun.

The power he'd waited for. The system he'd been told would awaken once his body proved worthy.

He clenched his fists. His skin still trembled with exhaustion, but something inside him had shifted.

His journey—truly, finally—had started.