SSS Rank: Spellcraft Sovereign-Chapter 136: Martial arts (4)

Lucen’s wrist hit the mat first.

Not on purpose.

Not with grace.

It just happened, one second he was stepping in with a mid feint, next second he was staring at the ceiling with Varik pinning his shoulder to the floor like a lecture note under a paperweight.

"Where was your guard?"

Lucen wheezed. "It was right here until you turned my elbow into a lever."

Varik didn’t release the hold yet.

Instead, he shifted slightly, just enough for Lucen to feel the twist pressure in his joint, not painful, just...potential.

"This is a wrist trap. Elbow break comes next. Then shoulder dislocate."

Lucen blinked. "Are you doing a how-to tutorial while threatening to detach my arm?"

Varik let go. "Learn it faster and I won’t have to."

Lucen sat up slowly, rubbing the back of his neck.

’He teaches like he’s training assassins. Or accountants. No difference.’

Varik stepped back. "Up. Again."

Lucen rolled to his feet, sweat beading at the edge of his jaw. His hands were marked up, light red lines from all the failed blocks, and one small bruise blooming under his right thumb where he misread a grip reversal.

He squared up. "You know, I’ve watched like a hundred sparring clips. No one ever mentions how much of this is losing."

"That’s because none of them show their first six months."

Lucen grunted. "That’s comforting."

"No it’s not."

"Correct."

—

They reset.

This time, Varik slowed things down. Not out of mercy, just detail.

He showed the same grip Lucen had just failed to defend against. Broke it down piece by piece. Where the weight shifted. How the pinky joint controls the entire rotation. Why certain fingers mattered more than others in reversals.

Lucen watched closely.

Tried to mimic it.

And failed.

"You’re squeezing too hard," Varik said. "You’re trying to hold, not guide. Martial arts isn’t about force. It’s about physics. You’re not stopping them. You’re rerouting them."

Lucen exhaled. "So I’m not supposed to win the fight. I’m supposed to convince the fight to go somewhere else."

"Exactly."

"That’s not helpful."

Varik nodded. "Most of the good lessons aren’t."

—

By the next drill, Lucen was drenched. His shirt clung to him like cling wrap. His legs were shot, his wrists ached, and his knees were starting to tingle with every drop stance.

But he didn’t quit.

Varik adjusted his position again. "Feint high. Pull their guard. Pivot outside."

Lucen did it. Sharp motion, high jab, foot hook right, and Varik still blocked it with a tilt of the hip and caught Lucen’s collar with one hand.

"I telegraphed?"

"You moved like you were trying to win a prize for it."

Lucen groaned. "My prize is internal bleeding."

Varik let him go. "You’re improving."

"Liar."

"You’re annoyingly improving."

Lucen cracked a smile through the sweat.

—

They kept going.

Wrist locks. Rolling throws. Redirect grips. The kind of things you don’t use in flashy arena fights because they look too slow to matter, until someone’s on the ground wondering why their spine is upside-down.

Lucen started landing some.

Not pretty.

But enough to wipe the smug look off Varik’s face for a quarter second.

He clung to that.

’Tiny win. Treasure it.’

—

They stopped only when Lucen’s hands wouldn’t close right anymore. Not from pain. Just exhaustion. Muscle shake. Sweat drip. Whole body wobbly like someone unplugged his bones.

Varik crouched by the side rack, tossing him a towel. "Tomorrow we cover ground pins."

Lucen caught it on reflex, wiped his face, and asked, "Can we also cover how to make it look cool while being choked out?"

"No."

"Just checking."

—

They were in a different part of the training floor now, mat faded from years of scraping boots, the air warmer and still carrying that sharp smell of sweat baked into canvas.

Lucen stood barefoot, hands loose at his sides, breathing steady but shallow. His shirt was already sticking to him again. The fans were spinning slow on purpose.

Varik stood across from him, arms relaxed.

"Lesson three," Varik said. "You’re wasting energy."

Lucen blinked. "We’re not even fighting yet."

"You’re still wasting energy."

Varik moved forward, one step. Simple. Straight.

Lucen’s weight shifted without thinking.

That was the point.

"You flinched."

"I repositioned."

"You panicked."

Lucen rolled his jaw. "Okay, fair."

Varik kept circling. Not quick. Just consistent. Like a shark pretending to be bored.

"You’re used to fighting with explosions. Color. Sound. Big moves. That makes you readable."

Lucen frowned. "Readable how?"

"You shift before you act. You drop tension before you move. You over-signal."

"So what, I need to be quiet?"

"You need to be lazy."

Varik flicked his wrist. Fast. Lucen went to block.

The strike never came.

"Exactly that. You pre-committed."

Lucen scowled. "I hate you."

Varik grinned. "Good. That means you’re learning."

—

They drilled again.

This time, no big throws. No wristlocks. Just rhythm. One-step, two-step movement. Fakes. Baits. Half-feints. Lucen was told to move as little as possible—but always be ready.

It sucked.

Every instinct screamed to attack.

But the lesson wasn’t about domination. It was about control.

"Keep your frame small," Varik said. "Your feet are your anchors. Your shoulders are the lid. Keep your eyes locked."

Lucen did.

Or tried to.

Until Varik broke through the middle with a feint-left-pivot-right and nearly took his knee out.

Lucen hit the mat.

Again.

He didn’t even swear this time. Just groaned.

’This is like being taught to do surgery while someone’s stabbing me.’

—

Break. Water. Two minutes, no talking.

Lucen leaned back against the mat edge, arms draped across his knees. His whole body vibrated like it’d been through a washing machine set to "chop."

He muttered, "Do normal people even learn this?"

Varik, still sipping water, looked at him like he was stupid. "Normal people die."

Lucen nodded once. "Valid."

—

Next drill: breaking rhythm.

Varik had him walk in a predictable rhythm, same pace, same spacing.

Then told him to disrupt it.

Not speed up.

Not slow down.

Just change it.

"So like... jazz footwork."

"Exactly."

"Great. I barely passed music theory."

But he did it.

Awkwardly at first. Then more fluid. Shifting pace just slightly, enough to throw off tracking.

Varik tested it with slow jabs. Light body checks. Once even tossed a rolled towel toward his head without warning.

Lucen ducked just late enough to make it look like reflex.

Varik raised one eyebrow.

Lucen smiled. Just a little.

’Not bad.’

—

By the end of the hour, Lucen’s shirt had gone translucent with sweat. His breath came in short bursts. But his stance?

Tighter. Cleaner. Less noise.

Varik nodded once.

"You’re not flinching as much."

Lucen muttered, "I’m just too tired to care."

"Same thing." 𝒻𝑟𝘦𝘦𝘸ℯ𝒷𝑛𝘰𝓋ℯ𝘭.𝘤𝘰𝘮

Lucen leaned his head back, staring at the cracked ceiling.

’Not strong yet. Not even good yet. But I’m not wasting motion anymore.’

He stood up.

And took position again.