Jason sat cross-legged on his thin sleeping mat, eyes closed in the posture of meditation, though true calm had long since slipped away. The bracelet had insisted he rest and settle his mind before any further training. At first the quiet had been welcome. Now it simply stretched. The soft breathing of his mother and sister filled the tent; outside, the camp slept under a thinning moon. Boredom and residual anger from the earlier beating churned together beneath his ribs.
"Hey," he murmured under his breath, "don't you think this is taking too long? I want to start training."
*Is the inside of a family tent the proper place to practice martial techniques?* the bracelet replied dryly.
Jason's eyes opened. "If that's the problem, I can leave right now and go to the woods."
*There is no need to go that far.*
The meaning settled quickly. Jason rose with careful, silent movements, eased the tent flap aside just enough to slip through, and stepped out into the cool night air. He walked only a short distance—far enough that any soft sounds of exertion would not carry back to the tent—then stopped beneath a low-hanging branch.
"I'm outside," he said quietly. "Can we begin?"
*Good. Remember how you moved spiritual energy through your upper body. Now guide that same energy downward into the legs. Do not force a large quantity at once. Too much pressure too soon can damage the meridians or the bones themselves.*
Jason nodded once, closed his eyes, and turned his attention inward. Circulating energy through the torso and arms had become almost familiar. Sending it lower proved far less obedient. Each time he tried to push the thin threads past his waist, control slipped; the energy scattered or snapped back to his dantian like a startled fish. After half a dozen failures he exhaled sharply through his nose.
"Why isn't it working?"
*Because you are forcing it. Take a slow breath. Settle yourself completely. Then try again without urgency.*
Jason obeyed. He let the night air fill his lungs, held it, released it, and only then reached for the energy again. This time the stream moved farther—past the hips, into the upper thighs—before it frayed. Progress. He reset and repeated. On the next attempt the energy reached his knees. On the attempt after that it finally pooled fully in both legs, warm and dense.
A quiet spark of triumph lit in his chest. "I did it. It's in the legs."
*Do not celebrate yet. That is only the first step. Now keep the energy there—stable and unmoving—for a full ten minutes.*
Jason drew another breath and locked the energy in place. For nearly a minute it held. Then his concentration wavered; the warm weight drained upward and vanished. He tried again. Five minutes this time before the same collapse. A third attempt lasted only a little longer. Frustration began to burn behind his sternum.
"What am I doing wrong?"
*Nothing,* the bracelet answered. *I am actually surprised. Most cultivators at your stage require weeks or months simply to move energy into the limbs with any consistency. You have managed the circulation in a handful of days. That is genuine talent. It is unfortunate you have no formal teacher to refine it further.*
Jason's jaw set. The memory of Andrew's fist holding him immobile while the other hammered his ribs rose unbidden. "Then I'll keep going until I can hold it for ten minutes. However many tries it takes."
*That attitude,* the bracelet said, a note of approval entering its tone, *is how ordinary talent becomes something more. Continue.*
He did.
The night deepened around him. Dew formed on the grass. His robe grew damp with sweat despite the cool air. Each failure taught him a fraction more about the feel of the energy—the way it wanted to rise, the way tension in the shoulders or a change in breath rhythm disrupted the fragile balance. He stopped counting attempts. There was only the cycle: draw the energy down, settle it, hold, lose it, begin again.
Somewhere past the twentieth or thirtieth try a quiet realization surfaced. The energy remained calm longest when his breathing stayed completely even—no held breath, no sharp inhale of effort, no tightening of the chest. The moment his lungs changed rhythm under strain, control frayed. Focus alone was not enough; the body had to remain soft and unhurried even while the mind stayed precise.
He tested the insight at once. Energy into the legs. Breath slow and natural, as though he were merely standing at ease. Focus steady but without white-knuckled intensity. The warm weight settled and… stayed.
One minute. Three. Five. Seven.
At the ten-minute mark Jason carefully released the energy and let it flow back to his dantian. A long, quiet breath left him. Sweat cooled on his skin. The deep fatigue of prolonged concentration was there, yet it felt clean rather than defeated.
He opened his eyes to the pale pre-dawn sky and felt, for the first time since the beating, a solid piece of ground beneath his feet.
The first real step toward the Phantom Kick—and toward the strength that might one day make Andrew Fox hesitate—had been taken in the dark, measured not by broken trees or dramatic breakthroughs, but by ten uninterrupted minutes of quiet control.