CHAPTER 86 The Weight of Iron

The middle of autumn brought a piercing, freezing chill to the basalt valley. A cold, gusty wind howled wildly through the crowns of the massive oaks at the edge of the clearing, tearing away the last of the dry leaves and carrying them over the stone arena. The mist, which had covered the entire area in a thick shroud at dawn, was now slowly receding, exposing the devastated training ground. Dave stood in the very center of the arena in his trousers alone, completely ignoring the freezing gusts that tensed his bare chest. His dark blond hair, matted with sweat and gray dust from the shattered rocks, fell wildly over his forehead. The boy breathed deeply, steadily, small plumes of vapor escaping his lips with each exhale.

The sparring had been going on for several hours, and the rigor of the training was becoming more ruthless with each passing day. Every single step on the slippery, wet basalt plates demanded absolute concentration, and a single false move threatened a painful fall onto the hard ground. Dave felt the cold biting his skin, but deep within his body burned a stable, hot flame that refused to let him freeze. His active channels, though suppressed for the sake of the exercise, tensed with potential, keeping his body heat stable and preventing his muscles from stiffening in the biting cold.

Sensei charged forward without a word of warning. In a split second, his old, hunched figure turned into a blurred streak, and the bamboo staff cut through the air with an inhuman whistle, aiming directly at the boy's temple. This was no ordinary strike—hidden within this blow was a pure, murderous intent that the old man could generate with absolute ease. The heavy staff sped along an arc, ready to shatter bones should it meet any resistance.

Dave did not flinch. His energy conduits in his chest remained ice-cold and silent. He did not need magic to see this attack. Deep within his soul burned his sharpened Yomi I—a primal, pure observation that allowed him to sense the slightest vibrations of the surroundings and the tension of his opponent's will. Before the bamboo staff could even close in on his shortened defense zone, Dave had already registered the minimal shift in the old man's weight and the direction his hand was traveling.

He applied the asymmetrical Lynx Footwork.

The boy made a short, jagged dodge, tilting his head by mere millimeters. The bamboo staff brushed his dark blond strands of hair without touching his skin. Dave immediately seized this fraction of a second, in which the old man's momentum carried him minimally forward. He took a dynamic, low step to the side, closing the distance to a minimum, and his right hand—formed into a hard, narrow wedge—shot forward silently.

The strike was surgical. Dave aimed with millimeter precision directly at the old man's brachial plexus, hidden just beneath the collarbone.

Tap.

It was not a powerful blow. There was no sound of shattering bones or the whistle of compressed air. Dave simply touched the correct point, delivering a clean, physical pressure precisely into the old man's nerve node, shutting down his motor function in a fraction of a second.

The effect was immediate.

In a fraction of a second, Sensei's left arm lost all tension. The muscles went limp, and the bamboo staff slipped helplessly from his powerless fingers, striking the smooth basalt with a hollow thud. The old man retreated two steps, breathing heavily, his limp arm hanging along his body like a dead piece of meat.

Dave did not continue the attack. He took a light, springy step back, relaxing his entire body. He raised his left hand and, with an absolute, brazen chill, pushed his dark blond bangs back from his forehead, a predatory, self-confident smile playing on his face.

"The 'Quick' style mastered to an optimal level, Sensei," Dave said, his voice remarkably calm. "Against unarmed enemies and soft targets, this Inertia Lock works flawlessly. One touch, and the opponent simply drifts away before they can even think about fighting."

The old man looked at his paralyzed arm, then slowly raised his gaze to the boy. In his misty, old eyes flashed a predatory, deep respect, but that familiar, mocking smile immediately returned to his lips. The bones in his shoulder popped quietly as, by sheer force of will and his own energy, he forced the paralyzed nerves to function again. He raised his arm, swung it a few times to restore full circulation, then bent down and picked up his staff.

"Op... timal, you say?" the old man rasped, spitting on a dry leaf lying at his feet. "You chose the word well, kid. Because optimal is still not enough to survive in the real world. You've shown that you can turn off the fuses in beasts and men without armor. Now let's see how that mature method of yours handles a real challenge.

The old man turned on his heel and walked slowly toward his hut standing beneath the great rock. Dave watched him go, maintaining his brazen chill, though deep within his soul, his alertness remained tensed to its absolute limits.

A moment later, Sensei emerged from the darkness of the hut, carrying something heavy in his hands. With a loud, metallic crash, he threw it directly onto the top of one of the basalt pillars Dave had erected on the arena months ago.

It was an old, massive breastplate of solid, hardened steel. The metal was deeply scratched, covered in numerous marks of past battles and chipped at the edges, but still incredibly thick, hard, and heavy. The steel seemed to mock the boy's slender build, gleaming with a dull, raw light in the pale sun. This plate had been forged to withstand the heavy impact of massive two-handed broadswords and heavy war axes.

"Come on, kid," the old man tensed on his bamboo staff and pointed with his chin at the steel plate. "Show me that 'Quick' style of yours. Strike so that the paralysis passes through this piece of iron and reaches the vital point you've imagined underneath."

Dave did not move from his spot immediately. Instead, he slowly approached the basalt pillar. He stood before the steel breastplate, a deep concentration reflecting on his face. The boy entered his classic thinking pose. He grabbed his chin with his left hand, slowly stroking the skin, while supporting his left elbow with his right hand, stabilizing his entire posture. His sapphire eye narrowed to a thin slit, analyzing the obstacle with purely pragmatic precision.

The analysis was short and ruthless.

Striking with the "Quick" style in this case made no sense at all. Dave instantly understood the physics of this collision. The steel plate was too thick, too dense, and perfectly shaped to absorb point strikes. If he tried to strike with his fingers formed into a wedge directly into this metal, all the kinetic energy would disperse across the surface of the armor. What was worse, the force of action and reaction would strike back into his own hand, leading only to broken bones and torn tendons. This was not a matter of precision—it was a wall that could not be bypassed by any subtle impulse.

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Dave lowered his hands, and a predatory, mocking smile returned to his lips. He looked at the old man, who was watching him from the side with a derisive expression.

"Against such thick, armored obstacles, all this precision is worthless, Sensei," Dave stated with absolute honesty. "There's no point picking at a wall with a needle. When the opponent encases himself in solid metal, the 'Quick' style simply surrenders. I don't need a surgeon here. I need a method that will physically crush this armor along with its contents."

"And how do you intend to name this new method of yours?" the old man asked, narrowing his eyes dapedly.

"Napierdalanka," Dave replied shortly, a sudden gust of wind dancing through his dark blond hair. "Pure, ruthless, and brutal młócka. A style created to break the thickest armor and turn everything that stands in my way to dust."

Sensei burst into a loud, raspy laugh that echoed through the entire valley. He struck his bamboo staff against the ground with such force that the solid stone beneath his feet cracked into several small pieces.

"Napierdalanka!" the old man cackled. "A simple name for a simple job. I like it, kid! You're right. When the enemy puts up a wall of steel, you don't look for a keyhole. You crush that wall along with the gate and the rest of the castle. But how do you intend to do that without breaking your own bones? Your body is still just blood and flesh, and steel does not forgive mistakes."

The old man stepped closer, his voice suddenly becoming serious, low, and murderously professional.

"To shatter steel, your strike must become one with the energy of your soul. Your will must create an armor that shields your hands but does not strip them of movement. You must align the physical blow with a sudden, massive discharge of energy in the exact microsecond of impact.

Dave listened intently, new, raw patterns of combat immediately beginning to align in his mind. He understood what the master was talking about. Against ordinary enemies, ruffians from Crossgard, or weak beasts, the sapphire Gōtai was not needed at all. His bare hands, hardened by months of katorga, and his raw, pure physical mass combined with proper biomechanics were more than enough to break bones and jaws without any effort.

However, against armored enemies, titans of steel, and monsters from the deep zones, he had to unleash full power. He had to combine brutal physical strength with Gōtai armoring.

The mechanics of this technique, however, were different from anything Dave knew from tales of warriors on Earth. Many powerful warriors could harden their bodies, but the price was a loss of mobility. They became like statues—hard, inviolable, but slow, stiff, and lacking agility, making them easy to bypass.

The Gōtai that Sensei was teaching him worked completely differently. When the sapphire KAI on the highest frequency, with the pressure of his will, coated his hands in a black, shining layer of blackness, the tissue gained the hardness of tank armor but retained one hundred percent of its biological flexibility. Dave's muscles, joints, and tendons could still work like tense springs. His arm could execute fluid, whip-like strikes, and his hands could clench and open with inhuman, springy speed. It was the perfect fusion—the hardness of solid steel combined with the flexibility of silk. This structural duality allowed for an instant transition from absolute defense to absolute offense without wasting precious time adjusting his stance.

"Try it, kid," the old man pointed to the steel breastplate. "Release the will from the depths of your soul, press the KAI to the edges of your body, and strike."

Dave stood firmly on his feet. He spread his bare feet on the rough basalt, lowering his stance. He looked at the steel plate before him, his sapphire eye flashing with predatory light.

He began to slowly push the KAI energy from his soul. He concentrated it in his right arm, letting the black, shining black coating of Gōtai slowly begin to cover his forearm, hand, and fingers. A metallic, almost mirror-like sheen coated his skin, but Dave made sure his joints remained completely relaxed. He felt the springiness in his wrist, the flexibility in his elbow.

He delivered his first, powerful strike.

CLANG!

The sound of Gōtai-clad bones colliding with steel echoed through the valley. Dave did not shatter the breastplate. The force of the strike was immense, but the kinetic wave recoiled back into his forearm. A searing, sharp pain exploded in his elbow, and his joints popped ominously. The boy felt blood rush to his mouth.

The suffering was agonizing, but Dave did not even blink. Under the iron rule of controlled hardening against pain, the boy instantly discarded the emotional layer of weakness. He treated the tearing pain in his arm as a clean, raw diagnostic readout of a technical error.

Scurvy metal... Dave thought, spitting blood onto the stone, but a brazen chill instantly returned to his bloody lips. But my error. I relaxed my conduits too early at the point of contact, causing the shockwave to recoil directly into my elbow and throw my joints to the mercy of gravity. Alright, let's go again, bitch.

The boy did not retreat a single step. He lowered his stance again, his dark blond hair falling over his forehead. He focused on the flow of his soul's energy, analyzing every microsecond of the movement. He had to align the physical strike with a violent, destructive burst of KAI exactly in the split second his skin touched the metal. Not a millisecond earlier, not a millisecond later.

The black Gōtai armoring coated his hand again, gleaming dapedly in the light of the setting sun. Dave relaxed his arm, imagining his hand was a whip tipped with a steel ram.

He delivered a straight blow.

BUM!

This time, the sound was completely different. It was not a metallic clang or a dry crack. It was a massive, hollow implosion that tensed the air throughout the entire valley. The ground beneath their feet shook, and the shockwave tensed the cages at the edge of the woods, kicking up a storm of dry leaves and gray stone dust.

The steel breastplate yielded to the destructive force in a fraction of a second. The center of the armor was brutally caved inward by the powerful kinetic wave, which passed without resistance through the metal plate. A perfect, deep, and cracked indentation in the shape of Dave's clenched fist formed on the surface of the hardened steel. The metal around the impact point turned white under the massive stress, and the edges of the plate curled upward like paper.

Moreover, the solid basalt pillar on which the breastplate rested could not withstand the overload. With a loud crack, it split into two equal halves, and the heavy blocks of stone slid to the ground, kicking up a cloud of gray dust.

The strike did not stop at the armor—it passed through it like a destructive current, transferring all the destructive force directly into the structure beneath. This was the essence of Napierdalanka. A method that converted physical force into a devastating pulse capable of bypassing solid physical barriers.

Dave withdrew his hand. The black black coating of Gōtai slowly vanished from his skin, yielding to its natural color. A delicate, blue vapor of sapphire soul energy rose from his fingers. The boy looked at the shattered steel, and that familiar, annoying brazen chill slowly bloomed on his face. The key to shattering the thickest armor had been found.

Sensei stood in silence, staring at the split basalt pillar and the deep indentation in the hardened steel. He slowly pulled his old, clay pipe from his pocket, packed it with wild tobacco, and lit it, releasing thick, gray smoke into the cold air. The scent of aromatic tobacco smoke immediately mixed with the sharp smell of ozone and crushed stone, creating a distinct atmosphere of triumph. His old, wrinkled face was completely calm, but a murderous, predatory flame burned deep in his eyes, betraying an authentic admiration for the boy's progress.

"Dead iron on a pillar doesn't strike back, kid," the old man spoke quietly, exhaling a plume of smoke. "You've mastered the raw ram, it's true. But starting tomorrow, I'm putting on a full suit of steel plate armor, taking a bamboo staff in hand, and I won't be standing still like this pillar. Let's see if you can break my armor before I break all your ribs and beat that brazen face of yours."

Dave narrowed his sapphire eye. A wide, predatory smile full of brazen chill slowly returned to his bloody lips, and another freezing gust of autumn wind tensed his dark blond hair. He slowly clenched his right hand into a fist, feeling the KAI deep within his soul raring for a fight, ready for any challenge the old master would set before him.

"Well, fuck... this is going to be interesting, hehe" he murmured quietly under his breath.

The real, ruthless Napierdalanka was about to enter its most brutal phase. Each subsequent lesson was bound to be even harder, but Dave knew that this was the only way to become a true monster.