The air’s dry today.

  No rain. No growls. Just heat rising off stone.

  Jarrell wipes his brow and cracks his neck. He’s barefoot now — shoes long gone. The jungle floor is his mat. A flat clearing sits open near a ridge wall — good sightlines, better silence.

  [THOUGHTS]

  This place kills anything slow.

  If I’m staying alive… I better learn how to fight right.

  He breathes in. Kneels. Closes his eyes.

  [THOUGHTS]

  I used to binge this stuff.

  Fight nights. YouTube clips. Late night forums.

  Muay Thai.

  Wing Chun.

  Jiu-jitsu.

  Kyokushin.

  Memory ain’t technique… but memory’s a start.

  He rises.

  [SPEAKS]

  “…Elbow. Low guard. Twist leg. Block. Flow.”

  This tale has been unlawfully obtained from Royal Road. If you discover it on Amazon, kindly report it.

  Jarrell moves slow at first — one elbow strike, then a block, then a crouch with a knee sweep.

  His body jerks between stances — stiff at first, like a bad imitation.

  Then smoother.

  Faster.

  His hands move to centerline. Chin low. Steps light.

  [SPEAKS]

  “…Flow good. Power weak. More…”

  He switches footing, tries a spinning back elbow — whiffs, stumbles, resets.

  He breathes deep.

  Then attacks nothing — a shadow fight with ghosts from YouTube memories.

  Open-palm Wing Chun parry into Muay Thai clinch. Elbow, elbow, body twist. Low sweep, then hard right hook from Kyokushin stance.

  Each move slams harder.

  He starts yelling as he moves:

  [SPEAKS]

  “Huh—RAH! CHAA—TAAH!”

  His fist tightens mid-punch.

  Something inside cracks.

  BOOOOOOM.

  The entire clearing shakes as his punch fires forward — not into flesh, but into open space.

  The pressure wave SLAMS into the ridge wall across from him.

  A hole blasts through the rock face — thirty feet wide, smoking.

  Jarrell stands still, breathing like a beast, fist still raised.

  Ash drips from his knuckles.

  [THOUGHTS]

  That… wasn’t magic.

  That was me.

  Not a spell.

  Not a rune.

  Not a trick.

  Just power. Raw. Mixed.

  [SPEAKS]

  “…New move. New mix. New style.”

  He stares at the crater.

  Then grins.

  [THOUGHTS]

  I don’t know what to call that.

  But it’s mine now.

  The jungle rustles — birds scattering in the distance. Something felt that blast.

  Jarrell steps back, still winded, but alive.

  [SPEAKS]

  “…No more run. Now… fight.”