Chapter 7: Capacity Development
Chapter 7: Capacity Development
In the late spring afternoon, sunlight lingered over the western district of Tower City. The alley puddles had finally evaporated, revealing the mottled gray texture of the old brick ground.
In the courtyard, five-year-old Ryan stood before the pomelo tree, his body low, the toes of one foot barely touching the ground. He took a single, deep breath.
His right foot pushed off sharply. The leg snapped forward, knee driving the thigh, his instep taut like a bowstring, striking the lower part of the tree trunk with precision.
Thump.
A slight tremor ran through the bark. He didn't flinch or cry out. He simply tilted his head, his mind processing the data: the angle of impact, the recovery of his center of gravity, the retraction of his knee. Then he stepped back and adjusted his stance.
It was his eighteenth kick of the day.
He was deconstructing basic leg techniques he'd seen on television. Without a formal instructor, he relied on the principles of sports science from his past life.
He wasn't focused on power, but on perfection: Was the angle correct? Was the movement fluid? Was it sustainable and free from risk of injury? He wasn't trying to get it right in one go; he was trying to get one step closer to the template of perfect form with every repetition.
His learning materials were sparse: an old "Self-Defense Manual" from his father's youth and late-night "Heavens Arena Review" programs on TV. He meticulously extracted what he could, sketching diagrams in his notebook, using crayons to map the key connections of a movement—which leg moved first, which shoulder dropped. He wasn't just imitating combat; he was learning it.
"There he goes again, kicking at the air," his mother would comment from the kitchen.
"Just letting off steam," his father would say. "Good for a boy to stay active."
But after weeks of this relentless, daily routine—with no complaints of strains or sprains, only a better appetite and sounder sleep—his mother's attitude began to shift to one of tacit approval.
Ryan's training had entered a sustainable phase. He never pushed himself to exhaustion and never attempted a movement he hadn't fully analyzed. Every action was subject to a three-stage mental review:
1. Is the path of force application logical?
2. Is the stress on my bones within acceptable limits?
3. Will this cause functional decline if repeated?
The first rule of his self-imposed code was to never compromise long-term development for short-term gains. This was the silent agreement he'd made with this new world: I will respect the rules of growth, and in return, you will open the doors to power for me.
At dusk, his father was repairing a chair in the courtyard. He watched Ryan finish a final, sweaty lap and come to a stop, wiping his forehead with his sleeve.
"Why don't you go inside and play?" his father asked.
Ryan considered the question for a moment. "I want to be stronger," he said, his voice simple and direct.
His father paused, a slow smile spreading across his face. "Good goal. I just worry you'll get bored of it."
"I won't," Ryan said, his tone unwavering. "If I practice every day, I won't forget how."
His father looked at the small, determined set of his son's shoulders and simply nodded.
As twilight settled, Ryan began his "imaginary" drills. After mastering the basic forms, he had started simulating combat rhythm. He always cast himself as the disadvantaged party, forced to rely on reaction, footwork, and timing to survive.
He drilled in stages: first, a simple offense-defense-retreat sequence; then, a defensive feint into a counterattack; and finally, the most complex, an evasion into a positional break and an interception.
He knew real combat followed no script— but by hard-wiring his body to find rhythm within chaos, he was preparing himself to remain calm when a real opponent stood before him.
However, even the best plans have flaws.
During the final stage of his drill, as he retracted his leg from a kick, his foot slipped on a damp patch of brick. He went down hard. Instinct took over. He rotated his torso, letting his shoulder absorb most of the impact, but his knee slammed against the sharp edge of a protruding brick.
A sharp, grinding pain shot through his knee. He didn't cry out. He lay flat for a moment, his breathing calm and even, then slowly pushed himself up— a thin layer of blood oozed from a scrape on his kneecap.
He calmly limped to a nearby water bucket, rinsed the wound, then tore a strip of cloth from the inside of his shirt and tied a neat, functional bandage around it. The entire process took less than two minutes.
At dinner, his mother saw the bandage. "How did you get that?"
"I slipped," he said.
"Does it hurt?"
"A little."
"Are you still going to practice tomorrow?"
"I will. I'll just move to a drier spot."
His father glanced over, a flicker of pride and respect in his eyes. "That kid," he murmured. "Never cries about pain. He's going to be a tough one."
Ryan said nothing. He wasn't training to be tough; he was training to be efficient. Pain, failure, and injury were not punishments; they were data points for the correction mechanism.
That night, his training log received a new entry:
Incident: Loss of balance during intercept drill.
Cause: Unstable footing (wet ground) combined with excessive shoulder rotation.
Result: Minor knee abrasion. Self-treated within 2 minutes.
Correction: Relocate practice area. Add drills for balance recovery from a slip.
Analysis: Action during fall was correct.
The next day, before practice, he carefully mopped the brick surface dry. He was like a stone being polished by friction, not eager to shine, but methodically grinding his edges to sharpness.
His mother, mending shoes under the eaves, watched him. She no longer called out warnings. She understood —on some level— that her son, who never competed or caused trouble, was on a path entirely of his own making. All she could do was not stand in his way.
Ryan knew he had passed a milestone. He was no longer just exercising. He was training for combat.
He walked his path slowly, but with unshakable stability. He would not rely on talent or luck. He would rely only on the promise he made to himself: to practice, every single day, and never stop moving forward.