Tucker surged forward, his fists shimmering faintly as he channeled a trace of his Presence into his movements. His strike connected with the training dummy's chest, the impact reverberating through the room as the wooden figure was sent crashing to the ground. A satisfied grin spread across Tucker's face as he turned to check on Shirley.
Shirley, meanwhile, faced his own opponent. His brow furrowed in concentration, his fists raised defensively. He threw a quick jab, aiming for the dummy's head, but the figure twisted unnaturally, dodging the blow with ease. Before Shirley could react, the dummy countered with a vicious swing, its wooden fist crackling with an intense, blinding glow of channeled Presence.
The strike landed squarely against Shirley's chest. The sheer force of the blow hurled him across the room, his back slamming against the wall with a dull thud. The faint shimmer of energy surrounding him flickered and dissipated as he crumpled to the floor, gasping for breath.
"Shirley!" Tucker shouted, his grin fading into a look of concern as he rushed toward his friend. The room's atmosphere grew heavier, the energy from the dummies radiating an almost oppressive aura as the training escalated.
The wooden dummy lunged at Tucker with blinding speed, its movements a blur. Before he could react, its wooden fist struck the back of his head with a resounding crack, sending him sprawling onto the ground. Tucker groaned, clutching his head as the room seemed to spin around him.
Across the room, Michael snapped his fingers, and the dummies instantly froze mid-motion before collapsing to the floor like marionettes with their strings cut. He folded his arms, his expression a mix of disappointment and frustration.
"Pathetic," Michael growled, his voice slicing through the tense silence. "You think an actual enemy would wait for you to whine on the ground? Do you think they'd give you a moment to catch your breath?"
Tucker gritted his teeth and forced himself to his feet, his white hair disheveled and his fists trembling—not with fear, but with anger. His gaze locked on Michael, a flicker of defiance in his eyes.
Shirley, wincing as he pressed a hand to his side, dragged himself upright. His jaw tightened, and his teeth clenched as he steadied his breathing. The humiliation of Michael's words stung, but it also ignited a fire within him.
The two boys exchanged a quick glance, their exhaustion momentarily eclipsed by a growing determination. They weren't going to let Michael's harsh words be the final say. They'd rise, no matter how many times they were knocked down.
Michael snapped his fingers again, and the training resumed in an instant. The dummies sprang to life, their movements unnervingly fast and precise as they charged forward.
Shirley stepped into the fray, raising his arms defensively. He blocked the dummy's initial strike with a firm stance, then countered with a rapid barrage of punches. Each blow landed with increasing precision, his strength building until he channeled the Strength Presence into a powerful jab. The punch connected squarely, sending the wooden dummy flying across the room and crashing into the wall with a loud thud.
On the other side, Tucker darted toward his opponent, his white hair trailing as he moved. The dummy swung at him, but Tucker met the attack head-on, clashing his fist against the dummy's in a violent collision that shook the room. A faint shimmer of Strength Presence surrounded Tucker's hand as he pounded the dummy's head repeatedly, his strikes growing stronger with each blow.
Then, something shifted. Tucker's Presence surged uncontrollably, filling the room with a raw, overwhelming force. The air grew heavy, the floor trembling beneath the weight of his unleashed energy. The shimmer around Tucker's body flared into a blinding aura, chaotic and intense.
Michael's sharp eyes narrowed, and he snapped his fingers once more. The dummies collapsed instantly, lifeless and still, as the oppressive energy in the room dissipated.
Shirley turned to Tucker, his eyes wide with shock and confusion. "What the heck was that?"
Michael stepped forward, his voice calm but firm. "That," he said, gesturing toward Tucker, "was Strength Presence taken too far. You let your emotions take control. If you're not careful, you'll burn yourself out—or worse." He paused, his tone darkening. "But I'll admit, there's potential. I wouldn't be surprised if you had the makings of an Absolute Presence user."
Tucker's blue eyes lit up at the comment. A smug grin spread across his face as he stuck out his tongue at Shirley. "You're just mad I'm better than you."
Shirley's face twisted with annoyance, his fists clenching. "Better than me? Ha! Watch—I'll channel Absolute Presence too!"
Michael sighed, pinching the bridge of his nose as he muttered, "This is going to be a long one."
NARRATOR
For the next 18 days, Shirley and Tucker threw themselves into rigorous training. Day and night, their routines grew more demanding, pushing their bodies and minds to the limit. Each day brought progress as their potential began to bloom. They rose earlier, followed a stricter diet, and focused on mastering the ability to emit and control their Presence. Under Michael's relentless guidance, they discovered new types of Presence and refined techniques that amplified their power.
18 days later
Shirley stepped out of the bedroom, his damp hair evidence of an earlier shower. Dressed in a black shirt and matching jorts, he made his way to the dining hall. The room carried a sleek black-and-white color scheme, accented by random paintings that broke up the monotony of the decor.
Tucker and Michael sat at the table, their attention shifting to Shirley as he entered. "Morning," they said in unison.
Shirley slid into the seat beside Tucker and began eating his breakfast—a simple plate of bacon and eggs. Halfway through a bite, he glanced at Tucker, eyebrows raising slightly in surprise. Tucker's phone, usually glued to his hand, sat untouched on the table.
"What?" Tucker asked, his voice calm but defensive.
Shirley smirked. "Nothing. Just shocked you're not glued to your phone. That's got to be a first."
Tucker rolled his eyes, muttering under his breath. Before he could respond, Michael cleared his throat, silencing them both.
"I know this isn't the time for small talk," Michael began, leaning forward slightly, "but I need to acknowledge something. Over the past 18 days, you two have made incredible progress. You've gone from novices to mastering the basics of Presence Eyes in record time. Your potential is undeniable."
Both boys perked up at the compliment, but Michael's tone shifted, becoming more serious. "However," he continued, "raw power and technique are only half the equation. To truly excel, you need to develop your combat style."
"Combat style?" Shirley asked, his brow furrowing.
Michael nodded and sat upright, pulling a sleek black suitcase from beneath his chair and placing it on the table. "For the last 18 days, I've been observing you both closely—your strengths, weaknesses, tendencies. Based on that, I've selected something I believe will suit you perfectly."
With a practiced motion, Michael unlocked the suitcase and flipped it open, revealing two gleaming meat cleavers. Their sharp blades were slightly thick, with darkened tips that gave them a menacing edge.
Shirley stared at the weapons in awe, the light catching on their polished surfaces. "One for each of us?" Tucker asked, leaning forward.
Michael shook his head. "No. Both of these are for Shirley."
Tucker's expression twisted into confusion and annoyance. "Wait, what? Then where's my weapon?"
Michael smirked, leaning back in his chair. "You don't need one. I see you as a brawler—someone who fights with his fists. Your raw strength and resilience suit that role perfectly. Weapons would only hold you back."
Shirley hesitated for a moment before reaching into the suitcase, carefully lifting the cleavers. He studied them, feeling the weight and balance in his hands. A small smile tugged at the corner of his lips. "Yes," he said softly, the single word heavy with conviction.
Tucker slumped back in his chair, crossing his arms with a huff. "Of course he gets cool weapons, and I'm stuck punching things. Great."
Michael raised an eyebrow, his tone sharp. "You'll be more than 'punching things,' Tucker. A brawler channels power through their body, making them unstoppable in close combat. If you focus, your fists can be deadlier than any weapon."
Tucker grumbled under his breath but nodded, his competitive spirit still simmering. Meanwhile, Shirley continued to marvel at the cleavers, turning them in his hands as a faint shimmer of Presence flickered along their edges.