I never thought I'd miss the sounds of the outside world—barking dogs, squeaky bed frames, neighbors loudly denying they were watching anything weird. But as I sat beneath the crescent moon, cross-legged on a flat stone altar that reeked of sandalwood and regret, I realized something.
Silence was worse.
Because silence made room for thoughts.
And my thoughts were a full-blown graphic novel of embarrassment.
"Infinite Edging," huh? That's what they're calling it? Sounds like a streetwear brand for celibate monks.
My hands trembled slightly as I guided my breath through the lower diaphragm. The air here—thick with moisture and spiritual shame—filled my lungs like warm fog. The garden was empty, save for the whispering trees and the slow drip of condensation from the mossy walls.
Every night at midnight, Palmo instructed me to "meditate beneath the Lust Moon."
You'd think it'd be round and crimson, shaped like a butt or something, but no. It's just a regular moon. Disappointing, really.
But apparently, this was the perfect time for cultivating Moisture Qi—the energy that fuels Gooner martial arts. The ritual required complete silence, complete focus, and worst of all… complete suppression.
Suppression of all... urges.
Which is exactly what I'm bad at. I mean, come on. I've been suppressing my needs since I was fourteen and got caught using the family iPad. There's only so much spiritual edging one man can endure.
I shifted into the proper meditative posture: The Withholding Lotus.
Back straight, palms open, thighs clenched tighter than government censorship laws.
From within, my Shame Core pulsed, sending tendrils of warm guilt spiraling up my spine. The Infinite Edging ability wasn't just a party trick—it was a volatile nuclear engine. The longer I held, the more power I felt... but the more unbearable it became.
It was like charging a cannon… with no release valve.
I'm going to implode. Or worse, explode. I'll become a cautionary tale in the Gooner manual.
Across the garden, I sensed a shift.
Footsteps.
Slow. Deliberate. Moist.
Out from the shadows emerged a student clad in tight silk pants and a smug expression. His name was Clint Jerkules, a second-year disciple and former record-holder of the Forty-Day Abstinence Gauntlet.
He was also a colossal tool.
Clint bowed low with practiced grace, though the gleam in his eye said he'd rather be drop-kicking me into a puddle.
"Ben Dover," he said, drawing out every syllable like a malicious kindergarten teacher. "I've heard of your… performance. The elders are whispering. Infinite Edging, was it?"
I nodded, resisting the urge to mutter something inappropriate about his ponytail.
"I've come to test your resolve," he said.
"And your restraint."
That's a threat if I've ever heard one. Great. This guy wants to duel me over who can not finish harder. My life is a joke, and I'm the punchline.
"Fine," I said, standing and brushing off imaginary dust. "Let's go. Mano a mano. Or… you know. Gooner to Gooner."
We stepped into the center of the moonlit platform. The stone glistened with condensation, as though the arena itself anticipated a steamy battle of wills.
Clint raised both hands, settling into the Form of Coiled Discipline.
I mirrored with my own stance—First Position of Infinite Delay.
The duel began.
The first move was subtle.
A twitch of the fingers. A deep, resonant hum from within the gut. Moisture Qi thickened in the air, making it harder to breathe. Clint surged forward, his palms channeling the Slap of Simmering Friction, a technique known to overload the sensory nodes of less experienced Gooners.
I dodged, barely.
My Shame Core flared, and I retaliated with a swift Grip of Eternal Holding—a counter-technique passed down from my grandpa's stash of really weird scrolls.
Our hands never touched.
But the tension between us was electric. Palpable. Charged like a forbidden video paused at the most inconvenient frame.
If someone walks in on this, we're going to jail. For life.
Beads of sweat rolled down my temples.
The Infinite Edging skill hummed within me, pushing my endurance to terrifying heights. I felt power surging in every nerve—raw and unstable. Clint gritted his teeth, clearly beginning to crack.
"You're strong," he muttered, staggered.
I smiled, even as my legs shook. "You should see me when I'm holding back… literally."
With a cry, Clint launched into the Thrustless Advance, a movement that involved charging at high speed while restraining every instinct to release power. I met him with a rotating Reverse Palm of Sacred Denial, and the impact sent shockwaves through the platform.
We separated.
Both panting.
But I could tell he was near his limit.
His pupils are dilated. His Shame Aura's flickering. That vein on his temple's doing Morse code. He's seconds from disaster.
I steadied my breath.
Then… activated it.
[Infinite Edging – Surge Mode: ON]
My Core ignited.
Time slowed.
Every sensation became heightened—each bead of sweat, each shift of fabric, each subtle twitch of breath. I stood completely still… and yet the pressure around me grew thick like honey.
Clint faltered.
He dropped to one knee.
"Impossible…" he gasped. "That amount of suppression… it's unnatural."
"You're right," I said, stepping forward slowly. "It's legendary."
With one final motion, I delivered the Shame Tap—a technique so gentle, so delicate, it disrupted the opponent's spiritual tempo by a mere second.
It was enough.
Clint collapsed, twitching.
He clutched his stomach.
And from his lips, a final whisper: "I… I came…"
The chamber guardians rushed forward, cloaking him in the Blankets of Cleansing. They carried him away in silence, heads bowed.
I remained standing.
Steam rose from the stone beneath me.
The moon overhead pulsed with light.
I did it. I outlasted him. I won a duel of denial. I've become… unbearable.
A soft chime echoed from my Shame Core.
[Level Up: Lubrication Rank 2 Achieved][New Technique Unlocked: Post-Nut Foresight]Passive: Upon defeating an opponent through edging combat, the user can see five seconds into the future for 30 seconds.
Oh. Oh my god. I'm a psychic now. A psychic powered by blue balls.
Later that night, I returned to the garden.
I sat beneath the same moon, though now it seemed somehow brighter—warmer.
In the distance, I could hear someone groaning through their training. The low hum of Moisture Qi echoed off the trees. But I was alone.
Alone with my thoughts.
Dad. I don't know if you're watching. Maybe you're somewhere in the afterlife, shaking your head at all this. But I'm getting stronger. For you. For Grandpa. For the future of unrestricted videos.
I reached into my robe and pulled out a small stopwatch.
Old. Scratched.
A relic from my father.
Its surface glowed faintly now.
Infinite Edging… Post-Nut Foresight… What the hell else is hidden in this world of shame-based martial arts?
I intended to find out.
Even if it took everything I had.
Even if I had to edge for a lifetime.