Liam sat on the cold bamboo floor of the training hall.
It had been hours since his encounter with Valen. But every time he looked at his notes or at where Valen stood training, an image of Valen moving appeared in his mind. From how Valen was striking, especially high up, Liam realized something.
"He's training with an image of me…" he thought.
He spent the moment thinking, analyzing every move Valen had made—every strike, every shift in stance. Liam shook his head. Valen knew how someone with his body would fight. He probably even knew the theory of how to beat Liam.
And he had overestimated Liam's speed.
Liam was still slow, the weight of his body dragging him down. But losing that weight, especially in a matter of days, would not only drain his energy but also strip him of his only advantage. After all, it was the reason he had won against Jorvik.
He laid down on the ground and tried pushing himself up, arms trembling as he attempted a push-up.
His chest barely lifted before his arms gave out. His palms slapped against the stone, his fat folding under its own weight. He gritted his teeth and tried again. Nothing. He couldn't even get himself off the ground.
That meant fist push-ups were out of the question.
Without wrist stability, throwing punches would only injure him. That eliminated direct strikes, leaving him with only palm attacks and kicks.
He sat back, wiping sweat from his forehead.
Valen was three times faster. Maybe more.
Blocking and reading his movements would be his only chance, but that required reaction speed—something he lacked. He knew how to beat anyone in theory, but theory didn't matter in a real fight.
Fights are fast. Too fast.
Even if he figured out how to beat Valen during the fight, it would be useless if he didn't have the speed to execute it or the reaction time to dodge incoming attacks.
He made a fist and tapped it against his forehead, forcing himself to think.
'Losing fat isn't an option. If I want to increase my speed without losing attack power, that would take three months minimum. I've only got days. My overall reaction time would take too long to train.'
He squeezed his chin as he thought, then his eyes widened.
A memory of Valen moving flashed in his mind.
'He punches way more than he kicks.'
For every thirty punches, Valen probably threw only two kicks.
'I don't have to worry about kicks, then.'
Kicks weren't that hard to block. In mixed martial arts, that was called "checking kicks"—raising a leg to block with the shin, knee, or forearm. Valen's kicks were also predictable. Every time he kicked, he raised his knee first before striking the chest or head.
'Thank you, otherworldly martial arts,' he thought.
Most of the martial arts from this world were like that. They felt more focused on punches, almost choreographed, rather than real combat.
He pushed himself up, bracing against his soft knees.
'That means I only need to worry about punches.'
He closed his eyes, imagining Valen in front of him. Before he could even react, the image of Valen rushed forward, launching a rapid assault of punches. Liam raised his hands to block, but every time he did, the image shifted, striking his stomach instead.
He stopped, the image fading.
'I can't improve my overall reaction time…'
But then, a realization struck him.
'I only have to improve one part of it!'
Improving overall reaction time would take too long, but focusing on a single aspect could be done in a short period. Like a gamer sharpening their reflexes in a first-person shooter, honing a specific skill was faster than training everything at once.
His gaze swept across the training hall, searching for something to simulate the speed and unpredictability of a fight without the risk of injury. A sparring partner was out of the question; he couldn't afford to get hurt before improving.
Then his eyes landed on a bundle of thick rubber sheets stacked in the corner.
An idea formed. He gathered them, wrapped them into a rough sphere, and bound them tightly with layers of thick tape. The uneven weight would make its movement unpredictable—exactly what he needed.
He replaced the traditional floor-to-ceiling ball with his makeshift training tool, securing it in place. Taking a stance, he struck it lightly with his palm.
The ball jerked in an erratic motion, swinging back faster than expected. It smacked him in the face.
Pain stung his cheek. He grunted and stepped back.
His hands—it wasn't just about striking. He needed to keep them up, guard himself at all times.
He tried again.
Strike. Guard.
The ball rebounded, missing him this time. He struck again, faster. The rhythm was unpredictable, but he forced himself to keep up. His arms ached, his shoulders burned just from keeping his hands raised.
Adjusting his stance, he lifted his guard higher. He struck harder, stepping in to grab the ball before it could rebound too wildly—but before his fingers could wrap around it, the ball swung back, slamming into his stomach.
It felt like a slap. Nothing serious, but his skin reddened.
If this had been a sparring partner, his ribs might have been in danger.
He took a deep breath, letting his hands rest for a moment before raising them again.
Again.
The ball swung, and he moved to strike once more.
***
The Knight Asterix rode on his white horse, far from House Maddach's estate.
He glanced back. The walls of Maddach were no longer visible.
Ahead, another wall.
Also under House Maddach jurisdiction.
It was large, almost as fortified as the estate itself. A massive mana lamp shone through the morning mist, illuminating Asterix. A soldier manning the lamp peered through binoculars, spotting Asterix holding up the House Maddach Knight Insignia.
The soldier raised his fist and spoke softly to the armored man beside him.
"Open the gates."