Part 1 - War-Driven Body
Thomas woke up before the sun.
His skin clung to the thin blanket, damp with night sweat that came not from dreams — only from exhaustion.
He didn't need an alarm anymore. His internal clock had already adapted to the brutal routine.
And even before opening his eyes, he could feel it: lower back burning, shoulders tense, toes on his left foot throbbing.
But none of that mattered. His body moved on its own.
He got up, peed in the bushes, washed his face in the barrel water Hector kept full of crushed leaves, and then walked to the center of the clearing.
There was no "good morning."
Hector was already there. Sitting on a stone, legs crossed, like a monk meditating with his eyes open.
— Two minutes late. — The voice was calm. No anger, no sarcasm. Just stating a fact.
Thomas didn't answer.
He gave a quick nod. Then:
— Do we start with a run?
— No. Today starts differently.
Hector stood up. And for the first time in days, he smiled.
But it wasn't a kind smile.
It was the kind of smile a blade would make if it could curl its lips.
— Today, you're fighting me.
Thomas didn't hesitate.
He lowered his center of gravity, feet apart, hands raised.
His body moved before the thought did.
But Hector raised a hand — halting the intent.
— Easy. First… explain something to me. — He nodded toward Thomas's wrist. — What the hell is that thing? You keep tapping it, checking the screen. Looks like you're gaming while training.
Thomas took a breath. His mouth was dry.
— It's a system. I think i will call it the Leveling Progression System.
— Progression what?
Thomas turned his wrist, activating the smartwatch display.
A gray interface lit up, with green highlights, like something out of a sci-fi movie — bars, numbers, blinking icons.
— I built it in the hospital. Been improving it since then. Every workout, every heartbeat log, intensity, speed, control... everything is quantified. This gives me a clear picture of where I'm failing… and where I'm growing.
Hector stepped closer, staring at the screen.
He read slowly, like decoding a forgotten language.
— Fatigue. Ayvu level. Explosive strength. Neural precision. Isometric stability… — He frowned. — This looks like lab work. Actually... It looks like a damn game.
— That's the point. — Thomas shrugged with a proud smirk.
Hector scratched his chin.
— You're a weird kind of soldier.
— I'm not a soldier. — Thomas shifted his tone.
— Alright, you're a warrior.
Thomas looked away. A heavy silence lingered.
Then Hector went on:
— So you think this "system" is gonna save your ass when a Yandu drives its claws through your chest like a damn shovel?
— No. It doesn't help me in combat. It helps me in training.
— Actually... During combat, i can log data. I can understand certain reactions better... — He hesitated. — It's complicated.
Hector smiled again.
This time, more genuinely.
— Fair enough.
He returned to the center of the circle.
— Then let's see if your system can handle a beating.
The training began.
And it wasn't "training" in the regular sense.
It wasn't repetition.
It was assault.
Hector came in with his right foot forward, rotated his hips, and threw a side kick straight into Thomas's ribs — like he meant to split him in half.
Thomas blocked, stepped back, fired a jab-cross combo, boxing reflexes kicking in.
Hector ducked under, clinched, and tossed him to the ground in a rolling throw.
It turned into Taekwondo. Then Judo. Then stiff capoeira with sweeping low kicks targeting his knees.
And finally, Hector began weaving motions with his hands, like a dance… but each gesture struck like a blow.
— What the hell is that? — Thomas spat blood.
— Death capoeira. Mixed with Maraká dance and Turê fighting. Tribal moves to kill without making a sound. — Hector wiped sweat from his forehead. — That's the art I came to teach.
Thomas stepped back into the circle.
Exhausted. But eyes on fire.
— Then teach it right. — He bragged.
Hector advanced again. And the training resumed.
...
At night, they barely spoke.
But when they did — it was like opening a new world.
One evening, by the fire, Thomas asked:
— Why are you helping me?
Hector was chewing on dried fish. He didn't answer right away.
— Because you're different. — he said after a long pause. — Because you killed someone… and felt no pride in it.
Thomas stayed silent.
By the eighth day, he no longer looked like the man who had first entered the clearing.
His hands were calloused, chest solid like stone, eyes sunken but burning with purpose.
Hector's training followed no traditional logic.
No warm-ups. No schedule. No rest.
It was all brutal, improvised, primitive. But it worked.
— Climb that tree. — Hector pointed to a trunk about eight meters tall.
— And then?
— Then jump… down.
Thomas obeyed.
He climbed, fingers digging into bark like claws.
At the top, he looked down. The ground felt farther than it really was.
— You going or what?
Thomas jumped.
Twisted mid-air. Rolled on impact. His left shoulder cracked.
He laughed. And got up.
Hector nodded.
— Again.
...
On the tenth day, they sparred unarmed beneath a sunset.
Their silhouettes clashed like shadows catching fire — legs slicing through air, arms blocking, grabbing, pushing.
Every blow triggered three counters. Every fall became fuel for retaliation.
Thomas spun, planted a hand to the ground, and fired a reverse heel kick toward Hector's head.
Hector ducked, twisted his hips, caught Thomas's leg, and flipped him using a classic Judo sweep.
Both hit the dirt. Rolled. Reset their stances.
— Now we're talking. — Hector wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. — It's starting to look good.
...
On the eleventh day, they trained atop the plateau.
Up there, the wind didn't forgive.
Hector paced along a narrow log laid between two boulders.
— Go. One arm only.
Thomas exhaled.
Climbed the log. Balanced. Planted his hands into a one-arm planche.
He fell.
Tried again.
Fell again.
On the tenth try, he held it for two seconds.
Just enough time for the wind to strike his face and the orange light of dusk to stretch his shadow into the jungle below.
He laughed.
— This is harder than teaching Gabi not to keep mashing every damn button she finds. — Thomas lost focus for a moment. — She's got this thing... Once she finds a button, she just keeps pressing it. Turns the fan on and off like a hundred times.
Hector crossed his arms and murmured:
— That's… oddly specific.
— ... It's called missing someone.
…
A few days later…
At night, in silence, Thomas lay in the hammock strung beneath the branches.
The ocean breeze drifted in from afar.
And even with every inch of his body aching, he felt something he'd never felt before.
Peace in pain.
Peace in discipline.
Peace in knowing he was no longer the same.
Now, he could feel his own body like a weapon being sharpened.
Every muscle had a purpose.
Every ache, a reason.
Every breath, a code.
It was like the training wasn't just making him stronger — it was rewriting him.
On the fourteenth day, Hector looked him over from head to toe as Thomas stretched upside down, hanging from a rope between two trees.
— When you got here, you could barely run five minutes. Now you look like a damn circus acrobat.
Thomas laughed.
— And you still look like a bitter old man.
— Old? — Hector raised a brow, mock offended.
He stepped closer, lowered his voice.
— You ready for the next phase?
Thomas dropped from the rope with a spin, landed on his feet, and answered with steady resolve:
— Yeah.
Hector nodded slowly.
— Then pack your things.
— What?
— We're going hunting.
The wind blew colder right then — as if the forest had heard it too.