The morning haze lingered as Jack stood in the small courtyard outside the house, a broom in hand and a look of quiet determination etched across his face. The routine task should have been dull, but today it was anything but. Every movement was purposeful, a reflection of the inner resolve bubbling inside him. He wasn't just cleaning—he was preparing himself for what was to come.
The fragments of his father's memory ball had started settling in his mind, slow and steady. Techniques for self-defense, the foundation of martial arts, and survival strategies unfolded like forgotten chapters of a book. But knowledge alone wasn't enough. His body was weak, clumsy, and untrained. The bruises from the robbery were still fresh, serving as a painful reminder of how helpless he'd been.
Jack tightened his grip on the broom, imagining it as a staff. He jabbed it forward, mimicking a move he had glimpsed in his father's memories. His form was awkward, his footing unstable, and the motion lacked any real force. Yet, he didn't stop.
"Jack, what the hell are you doing?" Clara's voice cut through his concentration.
Jack turned, wiping sweat from his brow. "Training."
Clara frowned, her arms crossed. "With a broom?"
"Better than nothing," Jack muttered, returning to his makeshift drills.
Clara sighed, but there was a hint of amusement in her eyes. "You're going to break something. Or yourself."
"I'll take my chances."
She shook her head and walked back inside, muttering something about stubborn fools. Jack didn't care. He had made up his mind. If he was going to face the challenges ahead, he needed to be ready—not just in his mind, but in his body.
Later that day, Jack sat in the cramped living room with Aaron, surrounded by piles of electronics they had managed to salvage. Aaron looked as irritated as ever, a permanent scowl etched on his face.
"This isn't working," Aaron snapped, throwing down a rusted circuit board. "We're barely making enough to split. I've got other ways to make cash, you know."
Jack leaned back, his mind racing. Aaron wasn't wrong. Their current setup was inefficient, and the margins were razor-thin. But the pieces of his mother's memory ball whispered solutions to him—strategies to scale, ways to streamline.
"What if we focus on higher-value items?" Jack suggested.
Aaron raised an eyebrow. "Like what?"
"Old smartphones, tablets, laptops. Stuff people are always looking for, even if it's second-hand. We can refurbish them, make them look almost new. People will pay more for that."
Aaron looked skeptical. "And where are we supposed to get those? Stuff like that isn't cheap, even broken."
Jack tapped his temple, a small grin forming. "Connections. I've got an idea. Just give me a week."
Aaron hesitated, then shrugged. "Fine. One week. But if this doesn't work, I'm out."
That evening, Jack sat in his room, scribbling notes furiously in his notebook. The fragments of his mother's memory ball had given him insights into sourcing, negotiation, and marketing. He was beginning to see how the pieces fit together.
His plan was risky, but it was the only way forward. He needed to reach out to local repair shops, pawnshops, and even junkyards—anywhere he could find old electronics at a bargain. It wasn't just about buying low and selling high; it was about creating value.
But as Jack worked late into the night, the nagging sense of Neville's presence grew stronger. He knew Neville wasn't the type to let things slide. The rivalry between them wasn't just about personal pride—it was a legacy of hate passed down from Neville's father, aimed squarely at Jack.
The next day, Jack's training continued. This time, he swapped the broom for an old, worn-out mop handle. His movements were still clumsy, but they were improving. Each jab, block, and swing felt a little more natural, a little more controlled.
Victor watched from a distance, leaning against the doorway. "You know, you look like an idiot doing that," he called out.
Jack paused, panting. "You got a better idea?"
Victor chuckled and walked over. "As a matter of fact, I do. If you're serious about this, you need proper training. Clumsy moves like that will get you killed in a real fight."
Jack straightened up, wiping sweat from his face. "I don't have the money for lessons."
Victor smirked. "Who said anything about money? I've picked up a few things over the years. I can teach you the basics."
Jack's eyes lit up. "You'd do that?"
Victor shrugged. "Why not? Keeps me from getting bored. Plus, I've got a feeling you're going to need it sooner rather than later."
Over the next few days, Jack's schedule became a blur of business and training. Mornings were spent running around the city, chasing leads on electronics. Afternoons were filled with Victor's grueling training sessions in the courtyard.
Victor didn't go easy on him. Every session left Jack sore and exhausted, but the progress was undeniable. His movements became sharper, his reflexes quicker. The techniques from his father's memory ball began to meld with Victor's practical lessons, creating a foundation Jack could build on.
But the road was far from smooth. There were setbacks—days when he couldn't find any decent electronics, nights when his body ached so much he could barely move. And always, the looming shadow of Neville hung over him like a storm cloud.
One evening, as Jack was packing up after a particularly brutal training session, Clara approached him. She looked concerned, her brow furrowed.
"You're pushing yourself too hard," she said.
"I don't have a choice," Jack replied, his voice firm.
Clara hesitated, then placed a hand on his shoulder. "Just… don't lose yourself in all this. You're stronger than you think, Jack. But strength isn't just about fighting or making money. Don't forget who you are."
Her words lingered in Jack's mind long after she left. He didn't know who he was anymore. The boy he used to be felt like a distant memory, replaced by someone who was still figuring it out.
But one thing was clear: he wasn't going to stop.
As the week came to an end, Jack stood in the courtyard, his body battered but his spirit unbroken. The training, the business, the challenges—it was all beginning to come together. He wasn't there yet, but he was getting closer.
And as the sun set on another day, Jack knew one thing for certain: he was no longer the helpless boy who had been kicked out of the Lockwood estate.
He was becoming something else entirely.
End of Chapter 6