Martial Demons Ascension

Rhyka now knew his path, and he knew exactly what he'd have to do to grow

not just to improve, but to evolve past his limits.

The "glance" had been brief, but its effect was permanent. Just that one exposure had sharpened his martial skill to a level most men would only reach after decades of training. His hands now seemed to know where they should be without conscious thought. His stance adjusted itself automatically to maintain balance He could sense where his center of gravity was at all times, and more importantly, where an opponent's would be.

It wasn't just technique it was instinct.

Martial instinct.

The kind born from hundreds of fights, except he hadn't fought them he'd simply been shown the truth behind them.

But instinct alone wouldn't take him to the peak.

To grow further, he would have to live the life of a warrior The temple's routines and schoolyard scuffles wouldn't cut it He needed real danger, real opposition, real blood and consequence.

His mind turned toward the kind of life that could give him that.

Mercenary work.

Bounty hunting

Both dangerous Both bloody Both perfect.

He imagined himself tracking fugitives through hostile terrain, cutting down bandits for coin, fighting men and beasts alike He imagined the constant pressure of life-or-death encounters forging him sharper with every step.

And, he admitted to himself, it would be pretty cool.

Rhyka was tall for an eleven-year-old tall enough that with the right posture and gear, he could pass for someone older in the right light. He imagined the mask he'd wear, not some painted festival thing but something plain, dark, and hard Something that hid his face entirely and left only the eyes cold, steady, and unreadable(innocent).

A mask fit for a killer with a reputation(edgy child).

He stretched, rolling his shoulders and twisting his torso side to side.

It felt different His understanding and control of his own body had grown as much as his fighting sense When he rolled his neck, he could feel the tension along each muscle fiber When he shifted his weight from one foot to the other, the ground's resistance registered in exact measurements how much give it had, how much traction each step would hold

He bent his knees slightly and bounced once. His legs responded without lag, without wasted movement Everything was tighter, sharper.

When he stepped outside, the morning air met him cool and crisp It filled his lungs easily, as though his breathing itself had improved.

It didn't take long for him to leave the edge of the settlement behind the dirt path gave way to grass, then to the packed soil of the forest floor the light dimmed under the canopy, fractured into shifting beams by the leaves overhead.

The forest was quiet not silent, but filled with small, layered sounds. The faint rustle of branches, the slow creak of wood in the breeze, the distant chirp of some morning bird.

The air smelled of damp earth and greenery, rich and heavy.

He didn't wander aimlessly. His eyes were already scanning, not for threats, but for something to use.

It didn't take long before he spotted it

a fallen branch, half-buried in the moss, thick enough to have weight but thin enough to grip easily.

He crouched and picked it up, feeling the roughness of the bark bite against his palm. It wasn't straight, but that didn't matter. His hands shifted along it automatically until the balance felt right weight evenly distributed, tip light enough to maneuver, base heavy enough to strike with force.

He stood still for a moment, simply holding it.

Then he moved.

The first strike came without thought his shoulders and hips twisting in perfect sync, the branch cutting a smooth arc through the air The sound it made wasn't a whistle, but a snap as it displaced the air in front of it.

He reversed the motion instantly, letting the momentum roll through his wrists rather than stopping it dead Each strike flowed into the next, his feet adjusting automatically to keep him balanced.

A downward cut that ended in a step forward A horizontal sweep that shifted into a short thrust.

It wasn't just that his form was good it was that his form was true Every motion had a reason, a purpose No wasted energy. No blind swings.

By the time he stopped, his breathing was steady, not strained His hands knew exactly how hard they'd been gripping, exactly how much force had traveled from his heels into each strike.

This was only the beginning.

But for the first time, the beginning felt like something worth walking toward.

___

As Rhyka made his way back along the narrow dirt path, his mind kept looping through the same thoughts what exactly he'd do before leaving.

They weren't just vague ideas anymore He was breaking them down into steps.

He'd need a weapon better than a stick He'd need money enough for food on the road. He'd need to figure out where the nearest hiring post for mercenaries or bounty hunters was He'd have to keep his head down until he was ready to go and he'd need to avoid anyone who might try to talk him out of it.

By the time he noticed the sky had darkened, the forest was almost silent. Only a few faint insect sounds and the distant hoot of a night bird cut through the quiet the air was cooler now, the smell of damp earth stronger.

He realized he'd been training for hours without stopping the stick he had picked up earlier was still in his hand, the surface worn smooth where his palms had gripped it the hardest his fingers felt raw in a few spots, and when he flexed them, he could feel the tightness in the muscles along his forearms.

The fatigue came late, like his body had been holding it back until now his legs were heavy with that deep, steady ache that only comes from moving for a long time his shoulders were stiff, and there was a dull burn between his shoulder blades from swinging and turning.

Even so, he found himself grinning slightly. He liked this feeling the soreness wasn't a punishment it was proof that the day hadn't been wasted.

When he reached home, the first thing he did was set the stick down by the door, leaning it against the wall He crossed the small room and lit the stove in the corner The kindling caught slowly, the faint crackle of burning wood breaking the stillness.

He filled a small pot with water from the jug, set it on the stove, and waited for it to heat. When steam began to rise, he dropped tea leaves into his cup, then poured the hot water over them The scent was sharp and earthy, filling the room.

He sat at the desk while the tea cooled enough to drink The first sip was almost too hot, but the heat felt good moving down his throat, spreading slowly through his chest and stomach It took the edge off the stiffness in his body.

He finished the cup, rinsed it, and set it upside down to dry.

The room was quiet except for the faint sound of the stove fire dying out He pulled off his boots, set them neatly by the wall, and stripped down to his undershirt His body felt heavier now like the moment he stopped moving, the day's effort caught up to him all at once.

He sat on the cot for a moment, looking at the ceiling, then lay back The thin blanket came up to his chest.

He didn't bother to think through his plans again He'd gone over them enough for one day Morning would come soon enough, and he'd start again.

Within minutes, his eyes closed His breathing slowed And without even realizing it, he was asleep