The next morning, Ryker didn't hand me gloves.
He didn't point at the bag, or the mat, or the weights.
He just said, "Sit."
So I did.
Cross-legged. Back straight. Palms facing the ceiling.
"Breathe in for four. Hold for four. Out for eight."
That was it.
No punches.
No screaming muscles.
Just breathing.
For the first five minutes, I was calm.
At ten minutes, my knees ached.
At twenty, sweat rolled down my spine and I couldn't tell if it was from stillness or stress.
At thirty, I snapped.
"This is a waste of time."
Ryker didn't flinch. He sat across from me, unmoving, carved from stone.
"You think punching hard makes you strong," he said. "It doesn't."
"You think patience makes me strong?"
He opened one eye.
"No. Presence does."
He stood, walked to the bag, and hit it once.
It didn't explode like last time.
But it moved—in a way that made my skin prickle. Like the space around his fist had collapsed and the air didn't know what to do with itself.
He looked back.
"Ki isn't magic. It's control. Breath becomes power. Power becomes purpose."
"And if I can't feel it?"
He shrugged. "Then you're not ready."
The next week broke me in a different way.
Gone were the brutal drills.
In their place: meditation. Breathwork. Stillness. Slow movements repeated until my bones burned and my mind screamed.
"Move like smoke," Ryker said. "Not fire. Fire's loud. Smoke gets inside you."
At first, I hated it.
I was a weapon, not a monk.
But something strange started happening.
One night, during walking meditation, I caught the sound of a fly buzzing near the far light.
And I could track it.
Not just hear it—but feel its vibration through the air.
My pulse slowed. My breathing synced with something invisible.
I felt…
Aligned.
The moment passed, but it stayed with me.
The next morning, Ryker smiled when I told him.
"A spark," he said. "Keep breathing. You're getting close."
But it wasn't just sensation.
It was emotional control.
My anger—the bottomless ocean I'd been drowning in for years—felt… quieter.
Not gone.
Just chained.
Like I'd finally grabbed the leash of the monster snarling inside me.
And the leash was made of breath.
"Internal ki," Ryker said, "isn't about becoming superhuman."
He tapped my chest.
"It's about becoming human, fully."
He made me walk blindfolded around the gym for two hours, arms out, feeling for energy shifts in the air.
He made me listen to a metronome and punch in rhythm—not with force, but with intention.
He made me stand beneath falling sandbags and dodge them by sensing air pressure changes.
Every day, I grew quieter.
Every day, I grew sharper.
One night, after training, Ryker lit a single candle in the middle of the gym.
"Twelve hours," he said. "You stare at it. You breathe. You don't move. When the flame flickers, you tell me why."
I sat.
Time passed like syrup in a snowstorm.
I watched the flame dance, sway, pulse with the air.
At hour five, I realized I was anticipating the shifts.
At hour seven, I knew when the flicker would happen before it did.
At hour ten, I wasn't watching a candle anymore.
I was watching myself.
My anger. My grief. My guilt. My purpose.
When Ryker returned at dawn, I was still seated.
The candle had burned low.
I looked at him and said, "The flame flickers when I do."
He smiled.
"Good."
Then he handed me a glove.
"One more test."
We walked outside—behind the gym to the empty shipping yard, where rusted containers sat like ancient tombstones. A punching dummy made of old tires and cloth stood in the center.
"Breathe," he said.
I did.
"Don't hit with your arm. Don't hit with rage."
I exhaled.
"Hit with everything."
I stepped forward.
One punch.
No scream. No grit. Just intention.
The dummy flew back five feet.
Dust spiraled.
The old tires cracked.
And I felt it—not just in my fist, but in my lungs, my spine, my soul.
A pulse.
A wave.
Ki.
Ryker clapped once.
"You're ready," he said.
I looked down at my trembling fingers.
My body hadn't changed.
But everything had.