The days at Clemence's dojo were unrelenting. Orin dragged his aching body back to his room after dinner, each step heavier than the last. Six months had passed since his arrival, though it felt like years. His muscles were harder, his strikes sharper, and his ability to read an opponent's movements had improved. Yet, a gnawing frustration lingered—he hadn't made any tangible progress with Nen.
Sitting cross-legged on the thin mat that passed for a bed, Orin focused inward. His meditation routine had become a ritual, one born out of desperation and determination. Memories from his past life told him that to learn Nen without external help, he had to open his aura nodes through meditation. But how? Where were these elusive nodes?
He closed his eyes, inhaling deeply and exhaling slowly, his mind grasping at fragments of knowledge. Meditation reminded him of yoga practices—focus on the breath, awareness of the body. Back then, yoga was just a health trend or a way to kill time. Now, it was his lifeline.
At first, all he could sense during his sessions was the steady rhythm of his own pulse, the blood coursing through his veins. But recently, there was something else—a faint, almost imperceptible sensation, like warmth seeping through his skin. It wasn't much, but it gave him hope.
A quiet knock on the door jolted him out of his focus.
"You awake, Orin?" came a familiar voice.
Orin opened the door to find Jake leaning casually on his training spear, a mischievous grin lighting up his face. "Ready for practice?"
Jake was special. Even Ezek, the sadistic trainer, treated him with a hint of respect—meaning he beat him less often than the others. Despite their age gap, Jake had become Orin's closest ally in the dojo. They sparred regularly, their sessions often stretching late into the night. Jake's skills with the spear were impressive, far beyond what Orin could match, but it was Jake's unyielding optimism that Orin admired most.
"Yeah, let's go," Orin said, grabbing his sweat-stained shirt and heading out.
The dojo was eerily quiet at night. The sounds of their footsteps echoed off the walls as they made their way to the sparring ring. Orin took his stance, feet slightly apart, hands raised in a muay thai guard. Jake spun his spear lazily, the cloth-wrapped point tracing patterns in the air before settling into a low stance.
"Let's see if you can disarm me tonight," Jake teased, his grin widening.
Orin didn't reply. He focused, waiting for Jake's first move.
The spear shot forward, the tip aimed straight for his face. Orin sidestepped, his fist darting out to deflect the shaft. Jake twisted the weapon with a flick of his wrist, turning it into a whip that lashed toward Orin's ribs. Orin swerved right, stepping closer and aiming a sharp elbow strike at the spear's body.
A dull thump echoed as the weapon struck his bicep, sending a jolt of pain up his arm. Orin grit his teeth and slid his hand beneath the spear, forcing it upward. Jake countered with a downward push, but Orin feigned resistance, then abruptly let go. The sudden lack of opposition threw Jake off balance, and Orin closed the gap.
A hard slap kick to the spear sent it spinning from Jake's grip. Orin pressed the attack, jabbing and kicking relentlessly. Jake fell back, his defenses tightening as Orin drove him toward the edge of the ring.
Orin saw his chance. Jake's back touched the ropes, his stance cramped. A sharp uppercut flew toward Jake's chin—but it never connected.
Jake smirked. Grabbing the ring post with one hand, he swung his body to the side, dodging the punch with ease. Before Orin could react, a powerful dropkick slammed into his raised forearm, the impact jarring his own elbow into his face. Stars danced in his vision as he staggered.
A sweeping kick took his legs out from under him, and Orin hit the mat hard. Jake's fist hovered just above his nose, a triumphant grin on his face.
"Tap out," Jake said, his voice light but firm.
Orin sighed and tapped the mat twice. Jake helped him up, handing him a water bottle as Orin wiped the blood off his face.
"I thought I had you," Orin muttered, his voice tinged with frustration.
Jake chuckled. "You did, for a moment. You're improving, Orin. I had to work to keep up with you tonight."
"Doesn't feel like it," Orin grumbled, kicking at the mat.
Jake's expression softened. "You're too focused on your plan. You get so caught up in your moves that you forget your opponent has their own."
Orin nodded slowly. It wasn't the first time Jake had pointed this out. He stared at the floor, frustration bubbling beneath the surface. Why wasn't he good enough? He was training harder than anyone else. Why couldn't he win?
Jake stood and began practicing his kata, the movements of his spear fluid and precise. Watching him, Orin felt a pang of envy but also a spark of determination.
He clenched his fists, his mind racing. I wasn't talented in my past life either, he thought bitterly. There was always someone better, someone faster, someone smarter. That realization had crushed him before, leading to a life of quiet despair. But not this time.
This time, he had a chance to rewrite his story. He would reach the top, even if it meant clawing his way there.
With renewed focus, Orin joined Jake, moving through his own kata. His strikes were sharper, his movements more deliberate.
From the corner of his eye, Jake watched him with a small smile