After the bracelet finished outlining how it would guide the next stages of his training, Jason decided the wisest course was simply to rest. His spiritual energy was nearly spent, his body still carried the deep bruises from Andrew's fists, and the night's earlier exertions had left a fine tremor in his limbs. He stretched out beneath the familiar scarred tree, closed his eyes, and let the slow recovery begin.
Hours passed. The moon climbed and sank. By the time his energy had fully restored itself, the sky beyond the canopy had already begun to pale toward true nightfall rather than the deep dark of midnight. Jason sat up, brushed the leaf litter from his robe, and rose.
"I should head back before they start to worry," he murmured.
The walk home was quiet. When the outer camp came into view, the first thing he saw was the small, upright figure seated on the low stool outside their tent. Clara sat with her walking stick across her knees, a thin blanket around her shoulders, gaze fixed on the path that led into the woods. She had clearly been there a long time.
Jason's chest tightened. He quickened his steps.
Clara lifted her head as he approached. The oil lamp still burning inside the tent cast enough light for him to see the fatigue etched deeper than usual around her eyes.
"How are you feeling now?" she asked.
"Much better." Jason stopped in front of her. "How long have you been waiting out here, Mother?"
"Since shortly after you left the tent."
He stared. "The whole night? Mother—your health—"
Clara's smile was small and tired, but steady. "I am more concerned about my children's well-being. If something happens to me, who will look after your sister?"
"No one is leaving," Jason said firmly. He stepped forward, slipped an arm under her elbow, and helped her rise. Together they moved inside. Hannah was still deeply asleep on her pallet, one arm flung out, face peaceful. Jason settled Clara onto her own bedding, made certain the blanket was secure, then quietly began a short session of energy circulation while she watched from across the dim space. He kept the movements small and controlled, never pushing hard enough to risk another headache. Only when Clara's breathing finally evened into sleep did he allow himself to stop.
Later, when the tent was completely still, Jason sat cross-legged on his own mat, closed his eyes, and once more sent his consciousness into the bracelet.
The transition was almost familiar now. Darkness, the brief sensation of falling, then the training hall unfolding around him in clean pale light. The sphere of the bracelet's spirit drifted forward at once.
"All right," Jason said. "Where do we start tonight?"
*This way.*
The spirit led him to the open floor. A scroll formed of pure energy materialized in the air, unrolled itself, and settled onto the waiting stone tablet. Soft light flared. A new luminous figure took shape—broader in the shoulders than the Phantom Kick demonstrator, its stance lower and more grounded.
*This is a low-grade fighting technique,* the bracelet explained. *Basic combinations of fists and kicks from multiple angles. It will not make you a master overnight, but it will give you tools to defend yourself against peers of similar strength. Watch every detail.*
The figure began to move.
Punches snapped out from high, mid, and low lines. Each strike flowed immediately into a kick—front, side, or sweeping—so that the entire sequence felt continuous rather than separate techniques. The figure advanced, retreated, pivoted, and reset, repeating the combinations with slight variations until the patterns began to settle into Jason's mind like water finding its course.
When the demonstration ended and the figure dissolved, Jason turned toward the row of training dummies standing against the far wall. He selected one, hauled it into the center of the floor, and settled into a fighting stance opposite it. The dummy remained completely inert.
"Is this thing broken?" he asked, glancing at the floating sphere.
*It works. It simply requires a small amount of your spiritual energy to activate.*
Jason stepped forward and rested his palm on the dummy's wooden head. He pushed a thin thread of energy into it. The moment the energy entered, the carved eyes lit with a dull, independent glow. The head turned slightly and fixed on him. Jason jerked his hand back and retreated a full step, heart jumping.
The bracelet's light pulsed with quiet amusement. *Relax. It will not attack unless ordered.*
"How do I use it, then?"
*Give it a command. Like this—Attack.*
The dummy exploded into motion. It closed the distance in two strides and drove a solid wooden fist into Jason's midsection. The air left his lungs in a painful rush. He dropped to one knee, arms wrapped around his stomach, teeth clenched against the sharp ache.
The dummy raised its arm for a second blow. The bracelet's voice cut across the space, sharp and immediate. *Stop.*
The dummy froze mid-motion.
Jason forced himself upright, still breathing carefully. "Was that a joke? You ordered it to attack me!"
*It attacked because you are not a spirit,* the bracelet replied evenly. *To it, any non-spirit presence that has not issued a clear command is a potential target once activated. A useful lesson in itself—never assume a tool is completely safe until you understand its rules.*
Jason rubbed his stomach, decided further argument was pointless, and straightened. "Fine. Dummy—defend only."
The wooden figure shifted into a guarded stance and waited. Jason began to move, attempting to recreate the combinations he had just watched. His first punches were too wide; the dummy's forearms intercepted them cleanly. His early kicks lacked the seamless transition from fist to foot; the dummy simply stepped offline or blocked. Yet with every exchange Jason adjusted. He shortened a punch, changed the angle of a follow-up kick, feinted high and struck low. The dummy continued to read and deflect almost everything, but the gaps between successful blocks grew narrower. Jason was learning the rhythm of pressure and adaptation.
Time in the space was always shorter than it felt. The familiar pressure built behind his eyes. This time, when the bracelet pulled his consciousness out, Jason did not complain. He opened his eyes in the quiet tent, flexed his fingers, and felt a clean spark of satisfaction.
He rose and began a series of slow stretches to loosen the residual tension in his body. A small smile remained on his face.
"Thank you," he said softly to the bracelet. "I didn't expect to learn this much in a single session."
*Don't thank me. The space and everything in it belong to you.*
"Even so. Without your guidance I would still be staring at empty darkness. I wouldn't know how to use any of it."
The bracelet was silent for a moment, then answered in a more thoughtful tone. *You asked earlier why the dummy seemed almost alive. The other constructs in the space—weapons, training partners, certain tools—have developed simple spirits of their own. They are not like me. Think of them as children: reactive, limited in understanding, but capable of responding to clear intent and energy. That is why the dummy could read and block your attacks so effectively. It was learning you as you were learning the technique.*
Jason nodded slowly. "That explains the perfect defense. I was only trying to land a single clean hit."
*Which is exactly the right mindset for live combat,* the bracelet said. *Always search for the opening your opponent has not yet protected. The moment you stop adapting, you lose.*
Jason's thoughts turned immediately to the next step. "When do we begin the Phantom Kick training in earnest?"
*Not tonight.* The bracelet's voice was firm. *You have already put your mind through intense focused work. The body may feel fine, but mental fatigue accumulates. Rest properly. Tomorrow we continue.*
Jason exhaled, accepting the counsel even as eagerness still hummed under his skin. He settled back onto his pallet, the image of the luminous figure's seamless fist-to-kick combinations still vivid behind his eyes, and let the quiet of the tent finally pull him toward real sleep. Ten days remained until the tournament. For the first time, the number felt like an opportunity rather than a threat.