Chapter 74

Chapter 74: The Flow.

BANG!

Gil's right fist slammed violently into the instructor's masked face, snapping his head backward with brutal force and sending the grey mask clattering across the floor.

Unveiling his features once more.

There he was again—his dark blonde hair streaked with black, his tired blue eyes wide with sheer shock at having taken the hit.

Right after the impact, the strange, binding force that had frozen the instructor in place vanished as suddenly as it had appeared. Without taking time to process what had just happened, he reacted pure on instinct.

Seeing that Gil was already following up with a heavy sweeping kick, the instructor rolled smoothly to the side, scrambled back to his feet, and put immediate distance between them, eyeing the youth with heightened caution.

"Tsk."

Gil clicked his tongue in frustration at having missed the follow-up strike.

Quickly, though, a faint, satisfaction-filled smirk spread across his lips.

Hm. It finally worked, he thought.

The instructor dropped back into a low guard, bracing for the next assault; knowing how these grueling, relentless sessions went, the young man was hardly one to stop after landing a single hit.

But then, Gil blinked.

When he opened his eyes again, the radiant golden light in his pupils had completely faded, returning to their natural amber hue. He took two steps back, turned around, and began walking toward the far side of the hall.

"That's enough for today. I'm tired," Gil called out over his shoulder, his tone completely indifferent.

"Huh?" The instructor couldn't help letting out a baffled exclamation.

Watching Gil's lone silhouette retreat deeper into the back of the facility, the instructor kept a heavy, lingering gaze on him.

Finally, letting out a long breath, he walked over, picked up his mask, and fitted it back over his face.

"That kid..." he muttered under his breath. Then, with a quiet sigh, he added, "Though whether it's him or someone else, no matter what they try to do or how gifted they are..."

Shaking those gloomy thoughts off, the instructor turned back to his duties, refocusing on the youths gathered before him. Scanning the room, his voice rang out sharp and cold: "Next!"

The trainees who had been chuckling and taking pleasure in Gil's beatdown flinched in unison. With no other choice, they gritted their teeth and stepped forward one by one to face the instructor's wrath.

Meanwhile, further down the room, Gil approached a heavy balance-testing machine—a complex hybrid between an adaptive treadmill and a core stability trainer.

Activating the device, he stepped onto the platform and began his routine, his sharp mind constantly replaying the mechanics of the brief exchange that had just transpired.

Hm. It was brief—less than a full second, maybe—but it works.

A quiet smile crept onto his face. It actually worked.

The machine shifted dynamically under his feet, ramping up its speed and altering its incline, but Gil adjusted instantly without stumbling or losing his rhythm.

He had come a long way since losing his arm, back when he could barely balance himself enough to walk straight. Now, he wasn't just walking; he could hold his own in a high-intensity fight without losing his center of gravity.

Granted, losing a limb remained a severe handicap in everyday life—and even more so in combat—but his rate of physical adaptation had been extraordinarily fast.

Although he had no precise way to track the passage of time down in this subterranean prison—relying solely on the comings and goings of their instructor to mark the passing days—Gil estimated that a little over two months had passed.

Two months since he and the others had been thrown down into this cell, and two months since his left arm had been amputated.

Two months during which he had fought, bled, and struggled relentlessly, desperate to gain complete mastery over his altered body and ensure his missing limb would never hold him back.

Achieving this level of recovery had been anything but easy.

Outside this place, without state-of-the-art medical technology or high-end prosthetics, completing such an intense rehabilitation so quickly would have been a pipe dream. But the circumstances down here were anything but normal.

First among the factors that contributed to his rapid recovery were the treatments he received—they were damn effective.

Apparently, that bastard Hector had forced him to drink some kind of unknown potion on the day of his surgery. Gil hadn't had the time or state of mind to fully gauge the effects of the mixture back then, but it was undeniable that it was no ordinary concoction. Not only had the shoulder wound sealed completely with zero infection or complications, but there was also the healer himself.

Yet another person Gil couldn't stand, but he had to admit the man had played a vital role in his physical rehabilitation.

Truth be told, despite his formidable prowess as a combatant, what impressed Gil most about the instructor was precisely his healing ability. While the miraculous white light he used to treat injuries couldn't regrow a severed arm, Gil had come to realize that, for someone so young, the man possessed an extraordinarily deep understanding of human anatomy and physical recovery.

Gil had to acknowledge that, facing the sudden, traumatic loss of a limb, he hadn't known how to properly recondition his body. It was the specific physical advice provided by the healer that had enabled him to adapt so quickly.

Though the man undoubtedly had his own reasons for helping him, and Gil still couldn't stomach his compliant attitude toward their captors...

This is this, and that is that, Gil thought firmly. He had always clearly distinguished between gratitude and grudges.

And precisely because of this, the healer's true stance weighed heavily on his mind. The more Gil analyzed the man's behavior, the more suspicious it felt.

A faint flicker of gloom flashed through his amber eyes.

There's no point in stressing over it right now. I'm already falling behind the others.

Indeed, unlike those who had been healed immediately after the brutal arena trial and could begin their training right away, Gil was playing catch-up.

Even though he hadn't spent his recovery sitting idly with folded arms, a gap remained. In combat, he was forced to rely heavily on his perception and his raw abilities just to hold his ground against the instructor.

Sure, the other captives didn't possess Gil's unique traits, but the past months hadn't passed in vain for them either. The youths who had run like headless chickens when first thrown into the arena—while still likely unable to defeat the chimeras outright—could now at least hold a defensive formation and minimize casualties if dropped back into the pit today. It was a far cry from the helpless slaughter of that first day.

While he, on the other hand, seemed to have barely progressed on the surface compared to before. But as the saying went, appearances were often deceiving.

Stopping the machine, Gil walked over to a quiet, shadowed corner of the facility, leaned his back against the wall, and closed his eyes.

Slipping into the dark, quiet space of his mind, he reached out toward the mental links connected to his spirit. Concentrating on the oldest and strongest bond among them, he allowed his energy to flow through with practiced familiarity, only to be instantly bombarded by a barrage of anxious thoughts:

<< Gil! Are you okay? He didn't hurt you too bad, did he? Man, I know he heals you right after, but still... >> Greg's energetic voice echoed inside his mind.

Gil mentally projected a wave of calm, reassuring his friend: << I'm fine, don't worry. You probably didn't catch it, but I managed to knock his mask clean off in a direct hit. Shows I didn't take all those beatings for nothing, right? >>

<< WOAH, seriously?! That's awesome! >> Greg exclaimed through the link. << Ah, man, I wish I'd seen it! Hugo and Kuro caught me looking your way and almost chewed me alive, so I missed it... I only saw you getting slammed right before that. >>

Gil's face twitched slightly as he retorted: << Sounds to me like you're the one who needs a beating. >>

<< Hehehe! >> Knowing he was pushing his luck, Greg let out a goofy laugh through the connection before quickly changing the subject. << So, how's it going with the Flow? Made any progress? I managed to sense it again today! I still struggle to maintain control over it for long, but Hugo said I'm making insane progress. What do you think, huh? Pretty impressive, right? >>

Hearing those enthusiastic words, Gil had to force himself to suppress the smile threatening to break across his face.

Indeed, during these past two months, he wasn't the only one who had undergone a profound transformation.

After that night when they decided to follow Hugo's guidance to let him initiate them into the secrets of the Physical Way, the results had surprised everyone. Strange as it was, the one who demonstrated the most astonishing natural talent wasn't the methodically trained Kuro, the carefree Orphée, or even Gil himself—it was the goofy, scatterbrained Greg.

The guy who seemed clueless most of the time had displayed an extraordinary, innate talent for physical cultivation.

According to Hugo, Greg could be considered a once-in-a-generation genius in the arts of the Physical Way. Hugo had even lamented meeting him in a hellhole like this, wishing he could have formally taken him as a disciple under proper circumstances.

Because Hugo was severely limited in what he could demonstrate without drawing the vigilant eyes of their jailers, he had chosen to start with the absolute fundamentals.

After a rigorous period of physical conditioning, he had begun teaching them to sense and direct the core energy of his martial path: the Flow.