As I lay down on the familiar hospital bed, the world faded, and in its place came flashes—vivid, unstoppable—of another life. I saw myself in a vast, echoing dojo, bare feet skimming polished wood. A whisper of a breath escaped my lips, a brief moment of stillness before motion. There was no wasted movement. Each gesture, each breath, unfolded with terrifying precision. My hands snapped out, faster than thought, striking at invisible opponents. As my heartbeat slowed, a void emerged between each strike, reminding me that mastery begins in calm. I felt the surge of energy, not from muscle alone but from somewhere deeper, as if my very bones hummed with potential. The technique was foreign and yet familiar, a martial art that had no name, one that whispered of breaking the body's natural limiter.
One memory bled into another. I saw a figure—myself, yet not myself—standing perfectly still as a flurry of attackers lunged in. Time seemed to slow. Every detail sharpened: the glint of sweat, the twitch before a punch, the shift of weight before a kick. My body moved before my mind could catch up, twisting and bending in ways that defied logic. A spinning heel kick snapped a man's guard open; a single finger jab sent another sprawling. I watched, awestruck, as my body's natural limits dissolved, each strike drawing on reserves of speed and power I'd never known existed.
Training scenes flashed next. Hours spent in impossible stances, muscles burning, breath controlled to the finest degree. The style demanded agony and rewarded it with strength. I remembered driving my fist through planks of wood, then stone, feeling not pain, but a rush of energy that crackled in my veins. The body's threshold was something to be shattered, rebuilt, and shattered again, until pain itself became a tool, not a hindrance. I saw myself meditating among snowdrifts, my skin bare to the wind, forcing my pulse to slow and my mind to empty, until I could feel every cell in my body responding to my will.
A memory of a duel: moonlit rooftops, two figures circling one another. My opponent lunged with a blade, but I moved as if gravity itself were optional. My body bent and snapped, joints extending just past their natural limits, flowing with a grace that bordered on the inhuman. I caught the blade between my palms, twisted, and struck—all in a breath. The world seemed to slow and contract around me. I became motion, unstoppable, every move fueled by something that transcended muscle and bone: intent, will, and a secret art that let me break through the boundaries of flesh.
There were also moments of terror. A fall from a cliff, certain death awaits below, but in the memory, my body twisted midair, spine arching, limbs contorting in a way no human should. I rebounded off jagged rock, landed in a crouch, and felt only exhilaration. This art, whatever it was, didn't just ignore pain and fear—it consumed them, transformed them into fuel. I remembered the sensation: heart pounding, air thick with ozone, the world vibrating as if I'd tuned myself to a higher frequency. For an instant, I felt truly untouchable.
In the last flash, I saw myself kneeling, sweat streaming down my brow, surrounded by shattered stone and splintered wood. My hands trembled, not from exhaustion, but from the strain of holding back. This body, this art, had limits only in the mind. I understood then: the secret was surrendering those limits, letting instinct and will override biology. The memory faded, leaving my heart racing and my mind buzzing with possibilities. I opened my eyes to the hospital ceiling, the echoes of that impossible martial art lingering in my veins, and I knew—I would never see the world the same way again.
I jump up and prepare to train with new vigor. Though when i think about it…
I don't know how I'm supposed to train.
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[to be continued in chapter 4]
What workouts should he do?
Comment your ideas. I'll choose the most popular ones.