Two months later:
The sun spilled golden light over the courtyard, warm but not heavy, as if the world itself had decided to show mercy for once. Serik stood barefoot on the packed dirt, body freshly rested, scarred but stronger. His wounds had become dull ghosts—aches that whispered rather than screamed.
He rolled his shoulders as he stepped into the training space, the wooden post already stained from days of repetition. His blood had dried here. So had his sweat. Today, he was ready to add more.
Jons waited nearby, hands clasped loosely behind his back. Always composed. Always watching.
"You're early," he said.
Serik stretched his arms above his head. "Couldn't sleep."
"Rest is part of training."
"I'll rest when I'm stronger."
Jons regarded him for a moment, then gave a single nod. "Very well. Then today, we move on."
Serik's eyes lit up immediately. "The third move?"
"Yes," Jons said. "This one is less aggressive. It is not about striking. It is about turning."
"Turning?"
"Force," Jons said, stepping forward, "is a river. Most people try to block it. The White Emperor… guides it."
He raised one hand, palm out, and took a slow step. His body twisted with a smooth, sweeping arc—hip first, then shoulder, then arm, completing the circle like flowing silk. He ended with his palm outstretched and open, his back foot just slightly pivoted, weight balanced and light.
Serik blinked. "That was… weirdly beautiful."
"It is called Moon Hollow," Jons said. "The third core principle. Where Kōdan teaches you to step around force, Moon Hollow teaches you to let it enter—and then leave on your terms."
Serik grinned. "Sounds cool. Let me try."
He mimicked the stance, raised his hand, and moved.
He wobbled halfway through the turn and caught himself with a grunt, arms flailing like a scarecrow in the wind.
Jons blinked once. "You were very… enthusiastic."
"I can feel the movement in my head," Serik muttered, resetting his stance. "My body just refuses to cooperate."
"That is because you are still using your muscles like a brawler. This is not brute strength. This is geometry."
"Okay, now you're just showing off."
"Always."
Serik snorted.
He tried again. And again. Each attempt was marginally better, but something still didn't click. He would catch the first part of the motion, only to over-rotate and lose balance. The curve became a loop, the stance became a stumble.
Jons corrected patiently. A nudge to the hip. A tap on the shoulder. A word, quiet and precise.
By the thirtieth attempt, Serik finally managed a full sweep that ended with his heel planted and his body centered.
He blinked.
"Wait. Did I just—?"
"Yes," Jons said. "Do not get excited. Do it again."
Serik did.
And again.
And again.
By the time the morning passed into afternoon, he could perform the movement ten times without falling. His hips ached. His calves burned. But the motion began to settle into him—not as memorization, but as instinct.
During a short break, he collapsed into the grass beside the tree and chugged water like a desert traveler.
Jons sat a meter away, cross-legged, his posture as upright as ever. His eyes flicked sideways.
"You're improving faster than I expected."
Serik wiped sweat from his brow. "That almost sounded like a compliment."
"I'm as surprised as you are."
Serik laughed. "You know, you could just say, 'Good job.' I might pass out from shock, but at least I'd die happy."
Jons pretended to consider. "No. Too dangerous."
Serik chuckled again and let his head fall back into the grass, exhaling deeply.
"…This feels different," he said after a moment. "Training, I mean. It's not just punching anymore."
Jons nodded. "That's because it isn't."
Serik turned his head. "Was this how you learned it too?"
"Yes."
"…From him? My grandfather?"
A pause.
"Yes."
Serik let that sit between them for a while.
"He taught you everything?"
"Enough to survive him," Jons said softly. "Which is more than most can claim."
Serik frowned. "He sounds like a lunatic."
"He was." Jons' tone was quiet. "And brilliant. And… dangerous in ways words cannot explain."
"…Do I remind you of him?"
Jons was still for a moment.
"You remind me of who he might have been, if someone had cared for him the way you were cared for."
Serik blinked.
Jons stood abruptly. "Come. You're ready for contact."
Serik scrambled up. "You mean sparring?"
"Controlled sparring," Jons said. "You will attempt to use Moon Hollow to redirect my strikes. I will go slowly. If you fail, you will be on the ground."
"Nothing new there."
They faced each other in the yard.
Jons stepped forward. "First strike."
His hand moved like a whisper—fast, but not impossible. Serik saw it, stepped into the curve, and swept his arm in the arc of Moon Hollow.
Jons twisted mid-air and tapped Serik's chest with two fingers.
Serik grunted. "Okay. Not that one."
"Again."
The second strike came. Serik moved faster. His angle was slightly better. He caught the edge of Jons' momentum and managed to pivot him just a little off course.
He didn't fall.
Jons nodded. "Good."
They repeated the sequence over and over. Each time, Jons increased the speed—barely, but enough to challenge him. Serik's mind worked overtime. His body burned. But somewhere deep inside, a part of him began to understand.
It wasn't just about reacting.
It was about reading.
Listening to the shape of a strike.
By the time the sun began to lower, Serik had managed to redirect six of Jons' ten attacks cleanly.
On the seventh, he even turned Jons' momentum just enough to open a gap, one he could've used to counter with Jade Pulse.
He didn't strike.
But Jons noticed.
And smiled.
Only a little.
Afterward, they sat under the tree again. Jons poured tea. Serik leaned back, arms behind his head, grinning through exhaustion.
"I like this style," he said.
Jons raised an eyebrow. "Even though it humbles you?"
"Especially because it humbles me," Serik replied. "That means it's real."
Jons nodded once, and said nothing.
Just before they went inside, Serik turned to him again.
"Is there a move that uses both? Kōdan and Moon Hollow?"
Jons looked at him with something unreadable in his eyes.
"Yes," he said.
Serik waited.
But Jons only added, "It's not for you yet."
Serik grinned. "Challenge accepted."
Jons shook his head. "Your impatience is impressive. And completely predictable."
As they stepped through the door, Serik caught a glimpse of himself in the hallway mirror—hair wild with sweat, clothes torn, bruises blooming across his ribs.
But he was smiling.