Chapter 9: Solid Rock Foundation

Chapter 9: Solid Rock Foundation

The mornings in Tower City were quiet.

Before the sun rose, there were only the scattered footsteps of workers and the clanging of buckets from the well. Most children were still lost in their dream— but in a small courtyard atop a three-story building in the West District, five-year-old Ryan was already beginning his morning exercises.

His starting point today wasn't running or stretching. It was a sandbag.

He had made it himself from old bedsheets and thick thread, half-filled with fine sand so it hung at chest height. His mother had thought it was a toy until she saw him throw twenty consecutive punches into it, his expression as calm as still water when he finished. She realized then that this wasn't play.

His training regimen had changed after the bullying incident. He understood that while he had "contained the situation" that day, he had won with judgment, not strength.

Against a more violent, less rational opponent—one who gave him no time to think—he would need an absolute physical advantage.

So, his mornings were now dedicated to building that advantage. He woke at five.

By 5:15, he was at the sandbag, running through three sets of basic punches, thirty repetitions each. His technique was precise, focused on elbow stability, wrist integrity, and the coordinated transfer of power from his shoulder.

After each set, he would mentally note the deviation of each strike, analyzing his form for flaws and sketching corrections in his notebook. His style wasn't to practice more; it was to practice perfectly.

After the sandbag came the weighted training. He had fashioned a crude set of dumbbells from two old iron kettle lids and a metal rod, each weighing about 2.3 kilograms.

It was a significant weight for a five-year-old, but he wasn't trying to lift heavy. He was practicing controlled activation. Slow lifts, slow descents, a stable trajectory, and an unmoving core.

He knew that the truly powerful Hunters won not with brute force, but with the ability to achieve precise control with minimal movement.

He finished his morning exercises with a warm towel compress on his joints and ten minutes of silent meditation—not to cultivate qi, but to review his movements in a state of rest, recalibrating his mind's perception of his own body.

By the time his parents woke up, he would be sitting at the dining table, showered and changed, eating his breakfast as if nothing had happened.

"The energy this child has," his mother would sigh.

"I was never this disciplined," his father would add with a hint of pride.

They had long since moved from dissuasion to tacit approval. They saw their son, steady and methodical, never reckless or getting into trouble. He was like a quiet machine, progressing at his own pace.

What they didn't know was that the machine was constantly running thoughts and calculations.

In one year, my growth will complete their first phase of closure. At this rate, by age seven, I can meet the physical fitness standards of a baseline adult.

This wasn't an exaggeration. He could already perform thirty bent-over rows with a 2kg weight. He could sprint a hundred meters without losing his breath. And most importantly, he possessed a internal system that allowed him to manage his training like an engineering project, free from the whims of instinct or desire. It was the foundation upon which everything else would be built.

The school's monthly sports day was, for most children, a festival. It was a day for running, shouting, and freedom from desks. For Ryan, it was his first social experiment. The test: how to display his "gifted" physical ability without appearing "abnormal."

He could run a thirty-meter sprint in just over six seconds— but that was for the readers only. Here, he had to throttle his output, adjusting his form to make his speed seem "reasonable."

During the long jump, his classmates stumbled and fell, the best jump landing at 1.13 meters. When it was Ryan's turn, he walked to the line, took a two-and-a-half-step run-up, and launched himself. His landing was clean.

"...One meter, thirty-seven centimeters." The PE teacher paused, a flicker of surprise in his eyes. "Excellent, Ryan! Your form is perfect."

Ryan simply nodded and stepped aside. For the throwing event, he used a standard overhand technique. The plastic ball traced a clean parabola. "Very stable," the teacher noted.

The true test was the thirty-meter sprint. He was in the fifth group. He watched the others, noting their unstable balance and sloppy form.

When the whistle blew, he didn't explode off the line. He controlled his rhythm. The section was run at forty percent of his maximum output. Only in the final five meters did he accelerate, crossing the finish line without a hint of imbalance.

The time: 7.3 seconds.

The teacher stared at the stopwatch, then at Ryan. "Your coordination is excellent," he said finally. "We should talk sometime."

Ryan nodded politely— but he was watching the other children. They were forming their own circle, their whispers carrying on the breeze.

"He never seems to fall, does he?"

"Did someone teach him how to run?"

"He's so quiet... how did he get so good?"

The admiration was real, but so was the new sense of distance. No one would bully him, but no one would truly approach him either. He had become a person on "another level."

This was exactly the result he wanted. Stronger than his peers, but within an explainable range. Excellent, but not so much as to cause rejection.

That night, he opened his notebook.

Subject: Academy Sports Day Physical Events

Data: Sprint (7.3s, controlled) | Throw (1.5m, approx) | Long Jump (1.37m)

Feedback:

- Teacher: "Good+" rating. Marked for further observation.

- Peer Group: "Attention + Distance" tags acquired. No conflict triggered. Image stable.

Conclusion: Test successful. Strategy of "Above Standard, Below Astonishing" is effective.

His mother saw the notebook filled with his strange diagrams. "Are you writing down your moves?" she finally asked.

"Yes," he replied, his tone normal. "If I don't, I'll forget."

She didn't press him. As he lowered his head, a faint, almost imperceptible smile touched his lips. He wanted this world to slowly adapt to the fact that he was getting stronger, rather than suddenly discovering he was already beyond them.

This was his path. Steady, precise, and without a single wasted step.