"Two thousand nine hundred and ninety-eight..."
My voice was no longer the high-pitched chirp of a toddler. It was steadier, grounded, though currently strained by the weight of the massive obsidian boulder strapped to my back. My skin was slick with sweat, the vibrant red of my hair darkened by the dampness as it clung to my forehead.
"Two thousand nine hundred and ninety-nine..."
Every muscle in my seven-year-old body was screaming. But it wasn't the scream of injury; it was the roar of an engine being pushed to its absolute limit. I could feel the individual fibers of my quads twitching, the pressure in my core holding steady.
"Three thousand!"
I exhaled a sharp, focused breath and shrugged. The boulder slid off my back, hitting the forest floor with a thud that shook the nearby ferns. I stood upright, my spine popping in a satisfying sequence. Two years. Two years of living in this world , breathing air that tasted like static and eating fruit that felt like swallowing liquid starlight.
"Old man, I'm finished," I called out, wiping my brow.
I turned to see a man leaning against a weathered pine tree. He wasn't a dragon—at least, not in shape. Argon had revealed his human form a year ago: a tall, imposing figure with long, raven-black hair streaked with silver and eyes that still held that molten gold ferocity. He wore simple dark robes that seemed to swallow the light around them.
"Your form was slipping on the last ten reps, Arthur," Argon said, his voice smooth but carrying the weight of a mountain. "Speed is nothing if the foundation is brittle."
I smirked, cracking my knuckles. "If the foundation was brittle, that rock would have folded me like an accordion. Enough with the warm-ups. Let's do it. Martial arts. Real combat."
Argon pushed off the tree, his eyes shimmering. "You've grown arrogant, little spark. Do you truly think two years of hitting trees has prepared you for a Dragon's strike?"
"Only one way to find out," I replied, dropping into a low, predatory stance.
The air between us ionized instantly. In this world, martial arts wasn't just about punching and kicking; it was about the flow of energy. I had spent these two years mastering the "Crumbling Mountain" style Argon had taught me—a close-combat system designed to shatter an opponent's internal flow.
Argon moved first. He didn't run; he simply was there. It was a blur of black silk and gold eyes. He launched a palm strike aimed at my chest. In my old life, I would have flinched. Here, I saw the trajectory before it even fully formed.
I spun on my heel, the black lightning at the base of my spine sparking into my calves. I didn't just dodge; I parried his wrist with a knife-hand strike, using his own momentum to slip behind him. I followed up with a lightning-fast kick aimed at his kidney.
Argon's hand was already there, blocking the kick with a casual flick of his fingers. But I didn't stop. I used the contact point to launch myself upward, twisting in mid-air to deliver a double-palm strike saturated with a thin veil of black aura.
BOOM.
The collision sent a shockwave through the clearing, stripping the leaves from the nearby bushes. Argon stayed rooted, but I saw his eyes widen by a fraction of a millimeter. He had to actually raise his second arm to steady the block.
We blurred into motion. It was a dance of violence. For ten minutes, the forest echoed with the sound of cracking timber and thunderclaps. Every time Argon increased his speed, I matched it. I wasn't just reacting; I was predicting.
I saw an opening—a deliberate one, likely a trap—but I took it anyway. I dove low, swept his leg, and as he "tripped," I channeled every ounce of my two years of training into a single finger-jab toward his solar plexus.
Argon vanished. He reappeared five meters away, his human facade slightly ruffled, a single strand of black hair out of place.
I have never seen a human this talented, Argon thought, his gold eyes scanning my small frame. He didn't just counter me; he anticipated the flow of my internal energy. At seven years old, his combat intuition exceeds that of the 'World Rankers' I've observed.
"Enough," Argon said, raising a hand. "Take a break. Your heart rate is climbing too high."
I collapsed onto a mossy log, gasping for air. I reached into a nearby basket and pulled out one of the glowing blue fruits unique to this grove. As I bit into it, a surge of cool, refreshing energy washed through my nervous system, repairing the micro-tears in my muscles instantly.
"Well," I said between bites, "each time I eat this fruit, I feel different. Like my skin is getting denser or something."
Argon walked over and sat on a rock opposite me. The usual sternness in his face had been replaced by something heavy, something serious. "Arthur, sit down. Properly."
I swallowed the last of the fruit and sat cross-legged, sensing the shift in the atmosphere. "Okay. What's up, Dad?"
Argon looked at the canopy above, silent for a long moment. "Listen... I know I do not say it often. But you have a deadly talent. A talent that goes beyond mere physical prowess."
He leaned forward, his golden eyes boring into mine. "The humans of this era... they talk about 'Force Control.' They treat it like a battery—charge it up, discharge it in a blast. It is crude. It is a tool to them. You have already surpassed that. You feel the lightning because it is part of you. But lately, I have felt something else stirring in your aura."
I tilted my head. "Something else?"
"Space," Argon whispered. "I feel the law of Space around you. It is the most difficult and dangerous law to comprehend. It is the fabric upon which all of reality is draped."
"Just practicing the law isn't enough," Argon continued. "In the future, if a human wishes to transcend—to become something more than a meat-sack with powers—they must be loved by the Law. If you think of Space or Lightning as a tool, you will eventually hit a wall. You must treat the energy like a part of your own soul. You don't 'use' the lightning, Arthur. You are the storm."
He gestured to the surrounding forest. "Breathe. Forget the martial arts. Forget the push-ups. Focus on the lightning first. Don't pull it from yourself. Pull it from the world."
I closed my eyes. I let my breathing slow until it matched the rustle of the leaves. I stopped looking with my eyes and started looking with my core.
Usually, I felt a spark at the base of my spine. But now, following Argon's words, I reached outward. I felt the friction of the wind against the bark. I felt the massive, swirling cosmic energy of the planet beneath me. I reached out as if I were reaching for a hand to hold.
I am not using you, I thought toward the energy. I am with you.
Slowly, a hush fell over the grove.
The birds stopped chirping. The wind died down. From my skin, tendrils of black lightning began to uncoil, but they weren't violent. They were soft, like silk. They reached out and touched the trees, and instead of burning them, they seemed to make the bark glow. The very air around me began to shimmer and distort—the Law of Space responding to my call.
Argon stood up, his human form flickering, his eyes wide with genuine shock.
Is this human truly loved by the Law? he wondered, watching the nature itself brim with a dark, holy light. What kind of talent is this? I thought I was raising a warrior... but this... he might be humanity's Ace. No, he might be something that eclipses humanity entirely.
I felt my internal core—the small sphere of energy in my chest—begin to spin. It wasn't just holding energy; it was inhaling it. The vast, ancient aura of the deep forest was being sucked into me, filtered through the black lightning, and compressed into my marrow.
How can his core contain this? Argon's thoughts raced. A human child's vessel should have shattered minutes ago. But his core... it's expanding. It's evolving as it fills.
I opened my eyes.
The world was different. I didn't just see the trees; I saw the life force flowing through them like glowing rivers. I didn't just see the air; I saw the cracks and folds in space that I could step through if I just... pushed.
"I can feel everything," I whispered, my voice echoing with a slight metallic hum. "The environment... it's like it's talking to me."
Argon stared at me for a long beat, and then, he threw his head back and laughed. It was a roar of pure, unbridled joy and terrifying anticipation. The sound was so loud it sent a flock of birds screaming into the sky.
"So loud, old man!" I complained, covering my ears.
Argon stopped laughing, a wicked, draconic grin on his human face. "Arthur... change of plans. We are done with the basics. We are going to up your training. Significantly."
I felt a cold shiver go down my spine. That look in his eyes was the same one he had before he made me run twenty kilometers as a five-year-old.
"Up?" I squeaked. "You're already making me do three thousand reps with a mountain on my back! What's 'up' from here? Fighting a undead ?"
"Worse," Argon said, his hand beginning to crackle with real, divine Black Lightning. "Now, you learn to fight while the world itself tries to crush you. We begin the Void-Pressure training tomorrow."
I slumped back onto the log, staring at the sky. "Man... I always end up in the crazy twists. You could just kill me, you know? It would be faster."
"Nonsense," Argon said, walking over and ruffling my red hair with a heavy hand. "You're a dragon's son. And a dragon's son doesn't just survive. He reigns."
I looked at my hand, where a tiny spark of black lightning danced between my fingers, seemingly waving at me.
"Yeah," I whispered. "I guess we do."