Jason rolled his shoulders and flexed both arms, expecting the familiar deep ache that always followed long hours of standing practice. Nothing came. No numbness, no heavy burn in the muscles, only a clean, settled fatigue.
"What's happening?" he asked under his breath. "Why don't I feel numb?"
*How could you feel numb?* the bracelet answered. *All you did was circulate energy while standing still. That is controlled refinement, not ordinary physical strain.*
Jason frowned. "I wasn't meditating."
*Call it whatever you like. The point remains—you are wasting time. The tournament draws closer every day.*
"I know. That's why I'm pushing the technique."
*Then stop talking and continue.*
Jason drew a slow breath and guided spiritual energy downward once more. The pathways answered more readily now. He settled the warm weight into both legs and held it steady for a full ten minutes before releasing it. He repeated the cycle a second time, then a third. By the fourth the motion had become almost mechanical. Boredom crept in beneath the concentration.
"I can control it now," he said. "What comes next?"
*You watched the luminous figure perform the Phantom Kick. You can store and hold energy in the legs. Do you truly need me to spell out the next step?*
Irritation flickered, but Jason recognized the push for what it was. He set his stance, drew energy into both legs until they felt dense and alive, then lifted the right leg exactly as the figure had done and snapped a kick into empty air. The motion carried power, yet the transition felt slightly delayed. He planted the foot and immediately launched the left-leg follow-up. Again the kick was strong, but the seamless, almost illusory speed of the demonstration remained out of reach.
He lowered his leg and looked toward the empty air where the bracelet's presence always seemed to rest. "Well?"
*First,* the bracelet said, *I still cannot believe you risked your life for beast blood just to master this single low-grade movement. Second, the technique has essentially one core sequence and you have not yet performed it cleanly.*
Jason's jaw tightened. "It's the only martial technique I could get my hands on. I'm not a Fox family disciple. No one is handing me advanced manuals."
*An unfortunate limitation of your circumstances,* the bracelet conceded. *But you are no longer limited to what the Fox family is willing to share. You are my master. Do you have any real understanding of what that means?*
"You told me my realm was too low to access the deeper seals."
*Correct. The higher arts remain locked. That restriction does not apply to certain low-grade techniques that are still far superior to the Phantom Kick you have been struggling with.*
Two scrolls formed of pure, soft light materialized in the air before him. They hung motionless, waiting.
Jason's pulse quickened. "Nothing under heaven is truly useless if it is applied well."
*True enough. So—do you accept them or not?*
He reached out. The scrolls shot forward like arrows of light and struck his forehead. Pain bloomed white and sharp behind his eyes. Information poured in—diagrams, energy pathways, theoretical principles—flooding his mind faster than he could consciously sort it. He staggered, pressed both hands to his temples, and endured until the torrent finally slowed and settled into coherent knowledge.
*The first is called Invisible Iron Fist,* the bracelet explained once Jason's breathing steadied. *It is a progressive fist technique. As your cultivation rises, the power and density of the energy coating increase automatically. The second is Heaven's Law—a cultivation method. Do not be deceived by the 'low-grade' label. If it were ranked by true potential it would stand above ordinary saint-grade methods. The difficulty is that the practitioner must first comprehend the principles of earth before the higher principles of heaven open. That steep entry requirement is why it is classified so modestly.*
Jason absorbed the explanation, still feeling the residual ache of the knowledge imprint. "I thought a person could only cultivate one primary method."
*Most can. Heaven's Law is different. Its foundation is broad enough to coexist and eventually elevate whatever else you practice. And since you have already begun the Phantom Kick, pairing it with Invisible Iron Fist will create a complementary system—legs and fists working together. You barely meet the minimum requirements, yet even that should be enough to place you among the strongest of the outer-camp applicants. The tournament will not be the obstacle you fear.*
Jason's earlier frown returned. "You said I was performing the Phantom Kick incorrectly."
*I was needling you,* the bracelet admitted, a thread of amusement in its tone. *A prodigy who can refine dragon-line blood and grasp energy control in days is unlikely to fail at a basic leg technique for long.*
Jason huffed a short laugh. "I still don't understand how a spirit can be this mischievous."
*I learned from my master,* the bracelet replied smoothly.
He spent the next span of time questioning every practical detail of Invisible Iron Fist. The core principle was straightforward in description and demanding in execution: the practitioner coated both fists in a continuous layer of spiritual energy that had to be maintained at all times, like a second skin of invisible iron. The denser and more stable the coating, the greater the destructive force of every punch.
Jason set his feet, drew energy into both hands, and carefully spread it across skin and bone until his fists felt heavier, denser, faintly humming. The coating shimmered once at the edge of vision and then became fully transparent. He stepped up to a thick tree, exhaled, and drove his right fist forward.
The impact was nothing like his earlier ordinary punches. A deep, resonant *crack* sounded. When he pulled his hand back, a fist-sized cavity had been punched cleanly into the heartwood, edges blackened as though scorched by pure force. Splinters littered the grass.
Jason stared at the damage, then at his unbroken knuckles. A fierce, quiet satisfaction settled in his chest.
"I wonder," he murmured, almost to himself, "whether Andrew will still be smiling when he feels this."
The night air was cool against the light sweat on his skin. Ten days remained. For the first time the number felt less like a deadline and more like a countdown he might actually win.