Chapter 7: First year Freshman

Chapter 7: Bearfight High and the Valor of Silence

The first hint of dawn, a soft grey light, barely pierced the heavy curtains in Alexander Valor's room. He was already awake, as he had been for most of the night. The images from the hospital were seared into his mind: Bennick's broken body, his parents' silent anguish, and Detective Merik's grim revelations. The vow Alexander had made – to Bennick, to his parents, to himself – felt heavy and real, a brand forged in the fire of injustice. This morning, the air still tasted of grief, but also of a sharpening resolve.

He moved through his morning routine with practiced efficiency, the familiar motions of washing and dressing a quiet counterpoint to the storm brewing within him. He pulled on the Bearfight High uniform, the practical fabric feeling like a second skin. He ran a hand through his blonde hair, letting it fall naturally. His reflection in the mirror showed a face that, at fourteen, was already strikingly handsome, with sharp angles beginning to emerge. But it was his bright, piercing blue eyes that held the most arresting quality—calm on the surface, but with an unwavering intensity beneath, hinting at a hidden world of discipline and purpose. His lean, athletic physique, honed by years of Beyonider training, was evident beneath the uniform, powerful yet devoid of bulk.

He made his way to the kitchen where the comforting scent of his mother's simple breakfast mingled with the quiet hum of the house. His father, Aaron, a man of solid build, sat at the table, his expression still etched with worry from the night before. His mother, Grace, ever gentle, busied herself by the stove.

"Morning, my son," Aaron said, his voice gruff but warm. Grace turned, offering a soft, tired smile.

Alexander gave them a small, reassuring nod. "Morning, Mother. Father." He ate quickly, the food a necessary fuel for the day ahead, his mind already miles away. As he finished, Grace reached out, placing a gentle hand on his cheek. "Be safe, Alexander," she murmured, her eyes filled with a mother's quiet concern. Aaron simply met his gaze, a silent understanding passing between them.

"I will," Alexander promised, his voice low and firm. "Goodbye."

He stepped out into the morning air, which was warm and humid, carrying the distant hum of the awakening city. The familiar street, usually a mundane path, now felt like the first step on a momentous journey. He walked with his customary stillness, his gait fluid and economical, a quiet presence amidst the growing bustle of students heading to various schools.

As he neared Bearfight High, a prominent academy for aspiring combatants, he noticed the glances. Other students, already congregating near the entrance, turned their heads. Some whispered. They noticed his handsome face, the striking contrast of his blue eyes against his blonde hair, and the underlying power in his good physique. He wasn't overtly muscled like some of the older students, but there was an undeniable coiled strength in his frame, a natural grace that drew attention even in his stillness. He felt their curiosity, their assessments, but his Calm Mirror remained placid, letting the external observations wash over him. His mind was elsewhere, focused on the weight of Bennick's comatose state and the cold fury that still simmered within.

The atmosphere inside Bearfight High was charged. The corridors vibrated with youthful energy, the murmur of conversations, and the occasional sharp thwack from a distant training room. Alexander moved through it all, a silent current in the river of students, making his way to his first class: "Combat Fundamentals 101."

The classroom, more of a training space with padded walls and thick mats, was already filled with about twenty other freshmen. Coach Miller, a burly instructor with a no-nonsense gaze, barked for attention, his scar a prominent line above his eyebrow.

"Alright, listen up, recruits!" Coach Miller barked, his voice accustomed to cutting through noise. "My name's Coach Miller. This ain't your aunt's tea party. This is Bearfight High. You're here to learn how to fight, how to excel, and how to survive. We'll start simple. Each of you, state your name, your primary style if you have one, and one thing you aim to achieve this year."

The introductions began, a mix of nervous stutters and confident declarations. Alexander watched them all, his Instinct Engine subtly gauging their hidden intentions, their ingrained habits. His turn came.

He stepped forward, his posture naturally straight, his presence radiating an almost unnerving calm. All eyes in the room, suddenly quiet, turned to him. He didn't boast. He didn't posture. His voice, when he spoke, was low, clear, and steady, cutting through the residual tension like a honed blade.

"My name is Alexander Valor." He paused, his bright blue eyes sweeping across the faces before him, holding each gaze for a fraction of a second. "My style is the Beyonider Style." The unfamiliar name hung in the air, sparking immediate whispers of curiosity and confusion. He then completed his introduction, his voice holding a steel-edged quietness that left no room for doubt. "And what I aim to achieve this year... is to not waste a single second."

He moved back into his place as the murmurs grew louder. "Beyonider? What's that?" "Never heard of it." "He's weirdly calm." Alexander paid them no mind. His inner world was a storm of focused resolve. He wasn't here for schoolyard rivalries or academic accolades. He was here for Bennick. And every second counted towards the climb ahead.

The rest of the first class unfolded predictably. Coach Miller went over the school's safety protocols, the importance of discipline, and the basic warm-up routines that would kick off every session. Alexander moved through the stretches and light drills with effortless precision, his body recalling every movement Master Thorne had ingrained in him for 6 months. He kept his focus internal, letting the coach's words and the other students' clumsy movements fade into background noise. His mind was already dissecting potential weaknesses, not in his classmates, but in the memory of Mike's Brute Style.

The transition to his next class, "Applied Combat Theory," felt like a subtle shift from the physical to the cerebral. This class was held in a more traditional classroom, though posters of famous fighters and anatomical diagrams of the human body adorned the walls. The instructor, a lean woman with sharp, observant eyes named Ms. Evelyn, stood before a whiteboard covered in complex diagrams of force vectors and kinetic energy.

"Good morning, everyone," Ms. Evelyn began, her voice calm but authoritative. "In this class, we won't just train our bodies. We train our minds. Understanding why a punch works, how a kick generates power, and where a weakness lies is just as crucial as executing the moves themselves. Theory without practice is philosophy; practice without theory is brutality."

Alexander found himself intrigued. This was the kind of knowledge that could elevate his Beyonider Style, making his stillness not just instinctive, but scientifically precise. He listened intently, absorbing every concept, mentally applying it to the principles of Still Point and Unseen Current. He wasn't the only one engaged. A few other students were taking furious notes, their faces alight with interest. Alexander noticed one in particular: a girl with bright, inquisitive eyes and sharp, dark hair pulled back in a practical ponytail. She sat a few rows ahead of him, her hand often shooting up with a perceptive question that Ms. Evelyn would consider before answering.

The rest of the morning continued in a similar vein – a mix of light physical training sessions and theory classes. Alexander maintained his quiet observation, absorbing everything, evaluating his new environment. Lunchtime brought a cacophony of voices to the cafeteria, a stark contrast to the controlled energy of the classrooms. Students from all years mingled, the air thick with boasts, laughter, and the clatter of trays.

Alexander chose a quiet table near a window, eating his packed lunch. He watched the organized chaos, his Calm Mirror at work, taking in the various cliques and power dynamics already forming. He saw the show-offs, the quiet powerhouses, the social butterflies, and the serious few. He knew he'd have to navigate this environment, but his primary focus remained unyielding.

Just as he finished, a shadow fell over his table. He looked up to see a group of older students, juniors by the looks of their uniform insignia, surrounding his table. At the center was a broad-shouldered boy with a sneer, a self-satisfied glint in his eyes.

"Well, well, if it isn't the 'Beyonider Style' kid," the leader said, his voice loud enough to draw attention from nearby tables. "Never heard of it. Sounds like some made-up nonsense from a dojo nobody cares about. What'd you say your name was, freshman?"

Before Alexander could respond, a new shadow fell over the table, even larger than the first. A voice, deep and rumbling, cut through the cafeteria's din, carrying an unmistakable note of irritation.

"Hey, Rix! Shove it off, man. Leave the guy alone!"

The group turned. Standing there was a truly massive individual, easily the same age as Alexander, but built like a young bear. He was broad-shouldered and undeniably strong, with a round, friendly face that currently held a stern expression. His uniform stretched taut across his impressive frame.

Rix, momentarily taken aback by the newcomer's size, scoffed. "And who are you, big guy? This doesn't concern you."

The big guy simply stepped forward, placing a hand on Rix's chest and pushing with surprising ease, sending him stumbling back a step. "It concerns me when you're acting like a clown on the first day. Go find some other fresh meat to pick on."

Rix's face flushed with anger, but he clearly recognized the strength he was up against. With a final glare at Alexander, he muttered something to his friends, and they reluctantly moved away, their bravado deflating.

The big guy turned to Alexander, his stern expression softening into a wide, open smile. "Sorry about him. Rix is all bark and no bite, just likes to make a scene." He extended a large hand. "Name's Marcus Grimoire. Glad to meet you, Alexander. Heard you introduce yourself in Coach Miller's class. The Beyonider Style, huh? Sounds cool."

Alexander took the offered hand, his grip firm. "Alexander Valor," he confirmed, a flicker of something akin to curiosity in his blue eyes. He rarely encountered such open, unreserved friendliness, especially from someone so clearly powerful.

"Marcus Grimoire," Marcus repeated, puffing out his chest good-naturedly. "And my style? I guess you could say it's the Bear Style. Hits hard, takes a licking, keeps on trucking!" He chuckled, a deep, booming sound that made a few heads turn. "Looking forward to seeing what the Beyonider Style is all about. You seemed pretty intense in there. Want to grab a table together tomorrow, Valor?"

Alexander considered him for a moment. Marcus was loud, enthusiastic, and direct – a stark contrast to Alexander's own quiet nature, but undeniably genuine. And he had just stepped in without hesitation.

"Sure, Grimoire," Alexander replied, a faint, almost imperceptible nod. "Tomorrow."

The bell shrilled, cutting through the remaining cafeteria chatter like a physical thing, signaling the end of lunch. Marcus gave a cheerful wave, already lumbering towards the tray return. "See ya, Valor!"

Alexander watched him go, then gathered his own things, his earlier internal turmoil settled into a cold, steady hum. The first day of high school, a rite of passage for most, was simply another segment of his path. The afternoon classes involved more practical application, moving into a large, multi-purpose gymnasium for conditioning drills and basic sparring exercises. Coach Miller oversaw the session, his voice booming as he corrected stances and encouraged effort.

Alexander moved through the drills with the same quiet efficiency he exhibited in everything. His movements were precise, his breathing controlled, his form impeccable. He wasn't overtly trying to impress, but his effortless execution drew glances, even from Coach Miller, who often paused to observe him for a beat longer than the others. During the basic sparring, Alexander simply reacted, his Beyonider principles allowing him to easily evade and redirect, never landing a strike that would actually injure, but always demonstrating complete control. He felt the frustrated energy from some of his classmates who couldn't touch him, and the curious glances from others. He paid them no mind. His real training, the one that mattered, would begin after school.

The final bell of the day rang, a welcome sound that freed Alexander from the structured, yet somewhat mundane, environment of school. He walked home, the setting sun painting the sky in hues of orange and purple. His mind replayed the day's events: the faces of his classmates, the lessons in theory and practice, the confrontation in the cafeteria, and the unexpected friendliness of Marcus Grimoire. Marcus was an anomaly, a burst of warmth and open strength in a world Alexander increasingly understood was filled with hidden currents and sharp edges. He found the thought of sitting with him tomorrow morning not unpleasant. It would provide a distraction, a brief respite from the relentless focus he imposed upon himself.

As he neared his home, the familiar quiet of his street settled around him. He entered the house, the scent of dinner already simmering in the kitchen. His parents offered tired but comforting smiles, asking about his first day. He gave them brief, reassuring answers, keeping the deeper parts of his day – the vow, Merik's words, his true purpose – to himself. They had enough to worry about with Bennick.

He met Master Thorne at a small, unassuming noodle stand on the edge of the industrial district, a place the old man favored for its no-nonsense fare and relative anonymity. Thorne was already hunched over a steaming bowl, slurping loudly. He grunted in greeting, gesturing with his chopsticks to a vacant stool. Alexander ordered a simple, quick meal.

"School," Thorne began, not looking up from his noodles, "a necessary distraction. A place to observe the herd. Learn their tells."

Alexander ate, mindlessly chewing, his gaze distant. "It was mostly what I expected. Basic drills. And a lot of noise. Though I met someone. Marcus Grimoire. He uses the Bear Style."

Thorne paused, taking a long sip of his broth. "The Bear. Simple, direct. Effective, if the user has the stomach for it. A good counter to many styles, if lacking in nuance. Useful to observe." He finished his bowl with a final slurp. "Good. Now that your belly is full, the real work begins."

They walked the rest of the way to the abandoned dojo in silence, the cool night air refreshing after the humid day. The dojo, their training sanctuary, swallowed the city's distant hum, becoming a world unto itself. Inside, the dim light from a single, hanging bulb cast long shadows. Thorne's eyes, usually clouded, gleamed with an almost feral intensity.

"You are currently a Middle Tier Elite, Alexander," Thorne stated, his voice devoid of his usual gruffness, replaced by a cold, sharp edge. "Many spend their entire lives trying to reach that. But it's not enough. Not for what's coming. Not for the climb you swore to begin. To touch the Apex, you must break the very foundations you stand upon."

Alexander's instincts tightened. He knew this wasn't about learning new moves, but about dismantling old limitations.

"Your stillness," Thorne continued, circling Alexander slowly, "is good. But it is still your stillness. Tied to your breath, your focus. It is not yet the stillness of the void. Your Calm Mirror reflects, but it does not yet become the reflection. Tonight, we push past comfort. We push past what you think is your limit. We shatter the walls of your current understanding."

Thorne picked up a thick, worn staff, heavier than it looked. He didn't assume a stance, merely held it loosely. "Forget the forms. Forget the patterns. We will work until your muscles scream and your mind rebels. I will attack your Still Point, force your Instinct Engine to falter, flood your Calm Mirror with chaos. You will learn to find stillness when there is none to be found, to react when thought is impossible, to become a void when faced with overwhelming force."

And so, the brutal training began. Thorne became a whirlwind, his movements surprisingly fast for an old man, striking with precise, relentless pressure that targeted Alexander's balance, his rhythm, his every subtle preparation. There were no breaks, no gentle corrections. Only constant, overwhelming pressure. Alexander dodged, parried, and redirected, his body moving on pure instinct, sweat soon plastering his blonde hair to his forehead. He felt blows graze him, sometimes connect with numbing force. Thorne wasn't trying to knock him out, but to break his composure, to push him into a raw, desperate state where his ingrained techniques would either shatter or forge into something new.

Hours bled into each other. Alexander's breathing became ragged, his muscles screamed, but his blue eyes remained fixed, unflinching. He stumbled, recovered, found fleeting moments of unexpected clarity amidst the chaos. Thorne was a relentless storm, his staff a blur, his attacks probing, pushing, and shattering Alexander's practiced responses. He was forcing Alexander to fight without thought, without relying on the familiar comfort of his established techniques.

The dojo air grew thick with the metallic tang of sweat and the silent testament of raw effort. Alexander's body was a symphony of protest, every nerve screaming for him to stop. Yet, something else stirred within him. His Calm Mirror, pushed to its absolute breaking point, didn't shatter. Instead, it fractured, then reformed, not as a reflection, but as a deeper, more absolute void. He found a stillness that wasn't just physical, but existed at the very core of his being, a quiet eye within the hurricane Thorne was unleashing. His Instinct Engine, driven past the limits of conscious processing, began to hum with a raw, almost predictive awareness. He wasn't just reacting; he was perceiving the subtle shifts in Thorne's intent before the attacks fully formed, moving as if he already knew.

He swayed, narrowly avoiding a sweeping strike that would have buckled his knees. He felt a profound weariness, a bone-deep exhaustion, but beneath it, a nascent power stirred. This was the breakthrough. He felt a subtle shift, a deepening of his internal current, as if he had just drilled through a layer of rock to reach a richer vein. His physical frame, while still lean, felt more compact, more perfectly aligned, every movement carrying an unspoken economy of force. He was no longer just a Middle Tier Elite reacting; he was becoming something more.

Thorne suddenly stopped, his staff lowering with a soft thud against the dusty floor. His ragged breathing was the only sound in the vast space. The old man's face was grim, yet a flicker of fierce pride shone in his eyes.

"That's enough," Thorne rasped, his voice hoarse. "For tonight." He watched Alexander, who stood trembling, sweat pouring from him, but his eyes are clear, a new depth in their blue. "You pushed past the Middle Tier. You touched the foundations of the High Tier, Alexander. You broke your limits tonight. You found the stillness within the storm, and your Instinct Engine sings a new song."

Alexander simply nodded, too exhausted to speak, but a silent understanding passed between them. He felt it too – the subtle, yet profound, shift in his perception, the increased control over his own internal landscape. He was still a High Tier Elite by a hair's breadth, but the path forward, the climb, now felt tangible. The journey to Peak Tier Elite, and beyond, no longer seemed an insurmountable distance.

He collapsed onto a worn mat, his muscles screaming their protest, but his mind was alight with a cold satisfaction. The images of Bennick, of Mike, of the unseen Young Master, still lingered, but now they fueled a more potent fire. He had taken the first true step on his path of retribution, a path that stretched far beyond the walls of Bearfight High. Sleep claimed him quickly, a deep, restorative darkness free of hospital monitors or the din of classrooms, filled instead with the silent hum of his own evolving power.