(Bruce POV)
Three months. That's how long it's been since high school started.
At first, everything felt new and overwhelming
The classrooms, the students, the pressure of being 'that middle schooler who beat Feng' but over time, it all settled into something familiar. A rhythm of routines.
Mornings were always the same. Uncle shouting for me to wake up before dawn yet it was still early morning, Jackie waiting downstairs with stretches prepared for training, and the faint aroma of tea filling the training ground.
My body, with its strong foundation was pushed every day and now felt honed and reached great heights, much greater than that my age could achieve.
The bruises from endless sparring with Jackie had given way to even sharper reactions, stronger endurance.
Wing Chun… I've mastered it to great lengths.
I could feel it every time I practiced—the way my stance rooted me like a mountain, the way my arms moved without wasted motion, the way redirecting force became second nature.
Jackie's patient corrections and Uncle's occasional sharp scolding had shaped me into someone who could no longer be mistaken like an amateur.
My stamina, too, was something else. I could train with Jackie in the morning, sit through school all day, spend time in calligraphy club, then study at night, and still have the energy to meditate before bed.
Most kids my age got tired after gym class. I felt like I could keep running long after they dropped.
Academics weren't a problem either. If anything, they became a quiet source of pride. I ranked consistently in the top three of my grade. Some teachers looked at me like I was a prodigy, others with suspicion, but the results spoke for themselves. I had the discipline, the memory, the drive.
And then, of course, there was calligraphy.
At the beginning, the brush felt foreign, but I improved very fast during my middle school, but in this three months, my strokes carried weight, balance and flow which took me to the next level.
Qin Yue often sat nearby during the club activity and sometimes the old master would pause behind me, silently watching before giving a faint nod. That nod meant more than a hundred words of praise.
My life had become a cycle of learning, training, and fighting. A cycle I was growing stronger in every day.
But not everything was perfect.
Whenever I sat to meditate, my focus always drifted inward, beyond the calm river of Chi flowing to my Lotus Seed. The seed, glossy white and steady, rotated gently at my core. That much was good. It gave my Chi flow structure, direction, a beginning and an end.
But near my heart… there it was.
The pearl.
It had grown weaker since the day I created my Lotus Seed. A faint crack marred its surface, and the black mist that swirled around it remained as ominous as ever. The sight never failed to unsettle me.
'The moment I formed the seed, the pearl cracked. That can't be a coincidence.' Were my thoughts always looming in the back of my mind
No book Uncle gave me mentioned anything about a pearl, let alone dark energy.
I scoured texts on talismans, chi theory but nothing.
I even risked hinting at it during questions to Uncle, but his answers never lined up.
It was mine alone. A mystery I couldn't share.
'If the pearl keeps weakening, my Chi control might break one day. Maybe the seed itself will destabilize.'
That thought chilled me but for now, I could only press forward, read more, train more and wait for my Lotus Seed to bloom.
Until then, the cracked pearl remained a secret shadow in my chest.
School life carried its own challenges. My reputation skyrocketed after my first few weeks of weekend ranking matches.
By now, everyone in the school knew my name.
Some whispered it in awe, others in irritation, but no one was able to ignore my presence.
When I walked down the hallway, people pointed.
When I sat in class, students stole glances.
When I entered the cafeteria, silence fell before the usual noise resumed.
At first, it was uncomfortable but my friends… they loved it.
"Front row seats to fame," Tao would grin.
"You should start charging for pictures," Mei Yanyan teased.
Zhang Weiren and Lin Qiun sometimes played bodyguards for laughs, clearing the path in the cafeteria while shouting, "Make way for the celebrity!"
I just shook my head at them. Deep down, I didn't care for the attention. The fights weren't about fame. They were about progress. Testing myself. Climbing toward that top five. Toward Han Zixuan.
My first weekend fight was against student named Liang Tao who was 5 ranks above me. He was huge, broad-shouldered, built like a tank.
The crowd buzzed with excitement when he stepped forward.
"Kid won't last a second," someone jeered.
Liang Tao cracked his knuckles, smirking down at me. "You're quick, huh? Let's see how quick after I break your ribs."
I didn't bother responding. I took my Wing Chun stance, feet planted, hands relaxed yet firm.
The fight began, and he charged like a bull, swinging wide hooks meant to crush me. But Wing Chun wasn't about meeting force with force.
Redirect. Deflect. Flow.
His fist met my palm and slipped past me, his balance wobbling. I tapped his ribs lightly with my other hand, nothing strong, just enough to make him grunt. He came again, and again, and every time, I redirected him, nudged him, forced his power into the air.
Within minutes, sweat poured down his forehead. His breathing turned ragged. My stance never broke.
Finally, when his swing slowed, I stepped in close and delivered three rapid palm strikes to his chest. He stumbled backward, off balance, and I swept his leg. He hit the ground hard, unable to get back up.
The fight ended there. I hadn't even broken a sweat.
The second fight was against a very different opponent. A wiry student named Zhao Min, ranked in the 20s, known for his speed. His eyes were sharp, his movements catlike.
The moment the announcer gave the signal, he darted forward, weaving side to side. His fists came fast—jab, jab, kick, elbow. A storm of strikes.
But Wing Chun thrived in close quarters.
I kept my guard compact, arms flowing like water, redirecting his jabs with minimal effort. His kicks I absorbed on my forearms, shifting just enough to blunt their impact.
His attacks were fast, yes, but I could see the rhythm. The tiny openings. The half-second gaps.
Finally, when he lunged with a flying knee, I pivoted slightly, caught his leg, and used his momentum to spin him midair. He landed awkwardly, off balance.
Before he could recover, my fist tapped his jaw—not strong enough to knock him out, but enough to end the exchange. He froze, realizing I could've finished him if I wanted to.
The crowd roared. Another clean victory.
Week after week, the pattern continued. Challenges from unranked students. Then from the lower ranks. I took them all and also issued challenges to rank above me.
My defense was a wall, my stamina endless.
Opponents tired themselves out while I stayed composed.
Some tried brute force, some tried speed, others tried trickery. None worked.
And now, after three months, I held the 15th position on the ranking list.
Not top five yet, but close enough that the stronger fighters were starting to take notice.
At night, lying on my bed after another long day, I often thought about it all.
The cheers. The whispers. The fights.
'Things are going well… maybe too well. School, training, popularity but that pearl… it's like a crack in the foundation. No matter how tall I build, if the foundation breaks, it all comes down.'
I exhaled slowly, staring at the ceiling.
'I'll keep training. Keep climbing. And one day, when my Lotus Seed blooms, maybe I'll finally find the answers I'm looking for.'
For now, though, the cycle continued. And I was ready for whatever came next.
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