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Chapter 8 - Chapter 8: Sunday Sparring

The morning sun streamed through the window, casting long shadows across the room as Sterlin groggily sat up in bed. He already dreaded the day ahead—it was Sunday, the day dedicated to sparring with his father, Malcolm Sr. It was a tradition that had lasted five grueling years, with the record sitting firmly at 259-0 in Malcolm's favor.Sterlin sighed deeply, rubbing his face as he stood up. Every Sunday ended the same: him flat on his back, gasping for air, while his father barely broke a sweat. It wasn't just frustrating—it was embarrassing. Malcolm Sr.'s self-created martial art was a fusion of techniques from countless disciplines, refined and sharpened to a level of precision Sterlin could only dream of reaching. And every Sunday, he was painfully reminded of just how far he had to go.He trudged to his dresser, pulling on his sparring clothes. The familiar fabric felt heavier than usual today, as if it already knew the outcome of the fight. Peering out the window, he spotted Stella, bouncing around the garden with her usual boundless energy. Normally, her antics would amuse him, but today, it only added to his irritation.Sterlin sighed again, muttering to himself, "She doesn't have to lose to an old man every Sunday.""Old?" a voice said from behind him, startling him. "I thought I was just a little aged, but old? That's harsh."Sterlin turned to see Malcolm Sr., standing in the doorway with his arms crossed and an amused look on his face. His father, ever the picture of discipline, was already dressed in his sparring gear, the crisp black uniform barely creased.Sterlin sighed, knowing better than to argue. "Sorry, I meant seasoned." he said dryly, grabbing his shoes.Malcolm smirked. "Seasoned like fine wine?""No, like jerky." Sterlin muttered under his breath, earning a raised eyebrow from his father.The family gathered in the backyard, where the sparring ring had been set up. The garden buzzed with life, the sounds of chirping birds and the gentle rustling of leaves contrasting sharply with the tension Sterlin felt. Stella was already perched on the edge of the ring, her legs swinging as she hummed to herself, watching with glee.Sterlin rolled his shoulders, stepping into the ring. Malcolm Sr. followed, his movements as fluid as ever, exuding calm confidence. The two bowed to each other—a ritual that felt both respectful and foreboding."Remember." Malcolm said, his voice steady, "it's not about winning. It's about learning."Sterlin nodded, though he couldn't help but roll his eyes slightly. "Yeah, yeah. But winning wouldn't hurt either."Malcolm chuckled, taking his stance. "Then try your best, boy."The moment the match began, Malcolm moved like a shadow, darting forward with an almost inhuman speed. Sterlin barely had time to raise his arms before his father's palm struck his chest, sending him stumbling backward. The impact wasn't painful—Malcolm always controlled his strikes—but it was enough to remind him of the gap between them."Too slow." Malcolm said, circling him like a predator. "You're thinking too much."Sterlin gritted his teeth, lunging forward with a flurry of punches. He'd spent the past week practicing his speed, but Malcolm deflected each strike with ease, his hands a blur of movement. A sharp kick to Sterlin's side sent him sprawling to the ground."Again." Malcolm said, his tone firm but not unkind.Sterlin got back up, wiping the dirt from his face. He charged again, this time faking a high punch and aiming low for a sweep. For a split second, he thought he had him—but Malcolm jumped effortlessly, spinning mid-air and landing a light tap on Sterlin's shoulder that sent him off balance."Predictable." Malcolm said. "You're showing your moves before you make them."Sterlin growled in frustration, adjusting his stance. He tried to focus, shutting out the distractions, the embarrassment, the irritation. He could hear Stella cheering from the sidelines. "Come on, Sterlin! You can do it!"Malcolm's voice cut through his thoughts. "Focus. If you're thinking about the outcome, you're already losing."Sterlin took a deep breath, narrowing his gaze. This time, he moved with purpose, weaving and dodging as he closed the distance. He managed to graze Malcolm's shoulder with a punch, a small victory that made his heart race. But just as quickly, Malcolm swept his legs out from under him, sending him crashing to the ground.The spar ended as it always did, with Malcolm standing tall and Sterlin lying on his back, staring up at the sky. He panted heavily, his chest rising and falling as he tried to catch his breath. Malcolm extended a hand, pulling him up with a small smile."You're improving." he said simply.Sterlin scoffed. "Yeah, sure. Only 260 more losses until I catch up."Malcolm chuckled, patting his shoulder. "It's not about the numbers, boy. It's about the lessons."Stella ran over, bouncing excitedly. "You almost got him this time, Sterlin! That punch was awesome!""Almost doesn't count." Sterlin muttered, though her enthusiasm made him smile despite himself.As they headed back to the house, Malcolm Sr. spoke quietly to Sterlin. "You're too hard on yourself. Remember, strength isn't just physical. It's mental, emotional. You're strong where it matters most."Sterlin glanced at his father, the words settling in his chest like a small ember of hope. "Thanks, Dad."Malcolm nodded, a rare softness in his expression. "Now go shower. You smell like defeat."Sterlin laughed, shaking his head as he headed inside. Another Sunday, another loss—but somehow, it didn't feel so bad this time.