Hunter laid on the mat, afraid to get back up. A predator stalked him, every twitch of his body tracked, assessed, and ready to be leveraged against him. His body had never fully recovered from the day at the museum. He’d been carrying a minor exhaustion since the competition, and he wished he could take a few days to rest in bed. The stewards could bring him everything he neededAlas, the sessions with Aera had started, and to Hunter, she was a storm. She was fury incarnate. The psychic weight of her dreadful cognizance was akin staring down the barrel of a 10-ton war machine.
Hunter didn’t feel the need to prove himself. He’d come with his mind set on just getting through the session, and maybe learning a thing or two about himself and the world he was about to dive into. And he had learned something, even if it was just how much of a beating he could safely endure.
The session started how he always imagined a class in martial arts would start. Stretching, a small warm-up which left him feeling like he’d already had a full workout, and that’s when Aera started to complain to him about his inadequacies.
“You need more endurance, we’ll focus on that.”
Then they practiced punches, kicks, and blocking for a few minutes each, stopping when Hunter was clearly getting too fatigued to continue.
“You definitely need more endurance.”
“You’re not strong enough.”
“When was the last time you exercised?”
“I can’t remember,” he’d said between a couple of heaving breaths.
“Never learned how to fight?” She asked.
“Never,” Hunter said.
“So you don’t know how to take a hit?”
“I’ve always been something of a pacifist,” he’d said, “I’ve broken more of my own bones than I care to count. I’m a bit more fragile than most, so I try to avoid fights.”
Aera sighed.
“Then let’s begin.”
Hunter then learned how to fall. Again, and again.
She’d positioned a crash-mat for him to practice with, and he experienced all the unique ways that a body could be thrown through the air. She was careful not to tear his arms out their sockets, but he’d felt like they’d come close a few times. He’d raised an objection, of course. His logic was simple, if he’s too injured to train, they would have to delay more of these wonderful sessions until he recovered.
Aera shook her head, saying that they would proceed on the assumption that his fragility was on account of never having taken measures to become stronger. Hunter had been incredibly skeptical, and as the ‘training’ went on, he’d realized with ever more regretful clarity that Aera wasn’t interested in making him stronger. She only appeared interested in punishing him. He’d ask her what her deal was, but he was afraid he already knew. She was being forced to spend her precious time with the son of a killer, with a dreadfully low AR and an equally fragile body to match it. She was used to hanging out with celebrities, politician’s children, and probably following her father around to high-level corporate board meetings, learning how the movers of the world made the world move.
Impressive people were her baseline. Hunter fell far short of that ideal, and he knew it. But he wasn’t here to try and appease her, or impress her. He was here because her father had made him a deal that he’d be stupid to refuse. As he laid on the mat, feeling like every inch of his body from the skin to the depths of his bones had been disassembled and put together in a more painful combination, he considered just how committed he was to holding up his end of that deal.
If this was how the next couple of weeks were going to progress, he wondered if he’d be able to retain his motivation.
The academic stuff was easy. Boring, but compared to this, it was like heaven. He had no problem (beyond the obvious) with looking at textbooks for hours on end, memorizing useless information to the best of his ability. Unlike Aera, his other teacher actually seemed like he wanted to be there. Although, he had been unimpressed with Hunters attention span. And in his defense, his mind was distracted at the best of times. But after reading his fathers journals, he found it even harder to focus. He did his best to forget about them, but he’d find himself thinking about them soon after. That was different while he was here, though.
The pain and exhaustion was enough of a distraction. It would almost be pleasant if it weren’t for the fact that he was being subjected a psycho’s temper tantrum. The stoic distance he’d seen in her before seemed to morph while he got to know her a bit better. Where he once saw disinterest, he now saw hostility. In fact, it was almost worse than hostility. It was more like an malevolent curiosity.
It was almost like she was trying to gauge the extreme limits of what he could endure, questing for the exact amount of torment she could inflict in the hour and a half they were scheduled to meet for.
Every day.
And now, all he could think about was how just a single day with Aera was already far too much.
“We’re done,” Aera said, out of the blue. Hunter strained to glance at the clock at the entrance of small studio building which was detached from the main Oberon compound. Still technically part of the estate, but about a 10 minute walk from the mansion.
There was still 40 minutes left in their session.
“See you tomorrow. Don’t be late.”
Hunter groaned.
Aera grabbed a duffel bag she’d brought with her, and left. Hunter tried to sit up, but he couldn’t. His abdomen complained, completely unable to support his bid to move.
So, with great effort, he slowly rolled off of the crash mat, barely catching himself as he finally got off the mat and onto his hands and knees. He pushed himself back until he was sitting upright on his legs.
He swore he could close his eyes and fall asleep, right there. But the crashmat was a poor substitute for his incredible bed and he refused to spend a minute more than was necessary in this torture dungeon. Hunter slowly stood, his muscles protesting the strain. He stumbled his way to the door, but remembered that he’d brought his own bag as well, stumbling over to it and fetching his water bottle. He attacked it with the desperation of a man who had just survived a trek through a desert. The relief was almost enough to make him collapse, but he held strong.
Hunter was proud of himself for making it through the crucible. He hadn’t let the demoness break his spirit. In fact, after reading his fathers journals, he’d felt consistently frustrated throughout the day, and his time with Aera had seemed to drain the stress out of him.
Who knew that being a combat dummy could be so therapeutic? However, just because the edge of anger he’d been feeling was gone, doesn’t mean the sense of disappointment, shame, and grief had left with it.
The tale has been stolen; if detected on Amazon, report the violation.
In fact, the more he thought about it, the worse he felt. But he was tired enough that he felt it all at a distance, enough of a distance to keep him moving and focused on placing one foot in front of the other, out of the studio, and down the dirt road leading back to the mansion.
It was still light out, and although it hurt to move, and the autumn wind felt frigid against his sweat-soaked clothes, he had to admit that the mountain was beautiful.
“There’s probably worse places to have your life turned upside down,” he said. A flock of birds flew overhead, crows from the sound of it. He imagined that their squawking was like a chorus of laughter.
“At least the birds enjoy having me around.”
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He’d had no trouble falling asleep that night. Nor the nights following. Waking up sore became routine, and going to bed feeling like he had developed a new layer of bruising over his old one had proven to be a challenge, but he also found it to be encouraging.
It was the oddest thing.
The more he was abused, the more he realized that he could keep going.
His strength wasn’t improving, nor was his endurance. Every fall hurt more than the last, and his limbs were constantly on the edge of being torn or broken. Maybe he was being dramatic, but he was genuinely surprised that he was able to show up day after day. After a week went by, he felt that he was starting to feel something change. He could throw a few more punches, a few more kicks, and take a little bit more punishment. Aera’s blows would get a bit more forceful, and the sessions would last a little bit longer.
Not enough to appease her wrath, but enough for Hunter to realize that maybe she’d been right. Maybe a lot of his physical weakness had come from not trying to become stronger. He’d heard a word for something like that— was it conditional apathy? Learned apathy? He’d never felt the motivation to improve his physique, to try and grow stronger, to learn how to properly punch, kick, fall, and be hit. Why would he?
He was fragile.
Or at least, he was supposed to be.
But what if he didn’t have to be?
What if he didn’t have to be limited, held back, disadvantaged, handicapped?
After the longest tutoring session yet, Hunter found himself back in his room, sitting on his bed, but he wasn’t falling asleep. He couldn’t, as his mind finally had enough energy to remember everything it was worrying about over the last little while.
He was thinking about his fathers journals.
Having a higher AR could solve everything for him. His physique would probably improve. He would be able to learn more, and do more. He would be faster, stronger, and have more energy. And if his AR would just keep rising the more he practiced, would there be a limit to how strong he could get?
What would he be capable of his his AR was in the 200’s? What if he could go higher?
300 AR? What would he be capable of doing if his AR was almost three times higher than the highest recorded?
At Aera’s rate of development, she might one day hold the new world record. She would officially have the highest known AR in history.
But unofficially, would she ever come close to what his father had claimed to have accomplished?
The possibility was staggering, and the implications were only now starting to take root. This could change everything. This could change the world.
If the measurement of one’s AR dictated their level of health, strength, and longevity, what had his father been capable of before he died?
The more he thought about it, the more questions he had. What if those questions were answered, and the answers were written in the journals sitting right under his bed?
He shook his head.
It wasn’t worth it. The cost of those journals contents were too high.
But, what if he didn’t practice the method? What if, instead, he just read them with the intention to understand?
He closed his eyes, and took a breath. He wanted to go to sleep. He wanted anything other than to think about his father right now.
Or, at least he should, right?
He got out of bed, pulled out the briefcase, and then sat back on the bed.
It’s not too late, he told himself. I can just push it right over the edge, back onto the floor, and go to sleep.
But he already knew that he wouldn’t. He pulled the briefcase closer, and unclipped the latches on its side, and opened it.
There was a knock on the door. Hunter froze, and then sighed. He closed the briefcase, and put it back on the ground beside his bed.
“Yes?” he asked, raising his voice so he could be heard from the other side of the door.
The door opened slightly.
“Mr. Koar, I apologize for disturbing you at this hour, but the parts you’ve requested have all arrived.”
Hunter blinked. He completely forgot he’d ordered parts. He glanced at the workbench in the corner of the room.
“Yeah, you can bring them in,” he said. Stewart opened the door all the way and a couple of his staff helped him carry the parts in. He directed them to leave them by the workstation. They were done in less than a minute. Stewart wished him a good night, and then left.
Hunter snickered.
He considered the briefcase again, but he was starting to feel that sweet pull to the dream world. Maybe it really was best if he just left it, and never opened it again.
That night, Hunter dreamt that he was running through a dark forest. Beautiful, bioluminescent flowers would captivate him, drawing him close. And always, just before he could reach out and touch them, the ground beneath him would give out, and he would fall.
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“It’ll have to do, I guess,” Aera sighed as their final session concluded. Hunter heaved in deep breaths, unconcerned with the wheezing whine he made when he breathed it all out. Sweat pulled beneath him as he leaned over, clutching the ends of his shorts just above bony knees.
He’d learned that Aera rarely seemed to listen to him when he spoke. She was always dead-set on her own agenda— namely, making Hunters life a living hell for the short time they saw each other.
The final few days he’d learned that it was best to stay quiet, and do what he was told to the best of the ability. When she was inevitably disappointed with his progress and decided to express that with violence in the form of ‘coaching’, he would do his best to remain conscious, and keep his body as intact as possible.
He had bruises all over, and he’d felt pain like never before, but it was finally over.
“You think this is bad?” She asked, somehow knowing exactly what he was thinking, “Barnum will be worse. I’ve done what I can to prepare you, but you’re on your own from now on.”
She grabbed her duffel, and walked towards the entrance. This time, instead of just leaving, she looked back.
“I don’t know what dad was thinking when he brought you in Hunter, but do your best not to make our family look like a joke.”
If he expected the words not to sting, he was wrong.
“Will you get over it?” he asked. He regretted it as soon as he said it. Last thing he needed was to turn the disapproving psycho into an angry psycho.
In for a penny, he thought, ready for her to tell him just how little she thinks of him.
But instead, she just glanced at him with the same stoic indifference, and left. Hunter couldn’t tell if that was better or worse than a direct response. Maybe the lack of a response was a direct response.
His sigh was loud and tinged with annoyance. He grabbed his bag, grateful that the small bit of strength he’d gained over the last three weeks had allowed him to only feel a slight wobble in his legs as he hefted the bag over his shoulder. What was once a slow shuffle home was now a mere labored walk.
He’d done it. Trey had been right, he really just needed to force himself to get stronger. He could take Aera’s punishment longer than he could a few weeks ago, and he was still in one piece. She had pushed him, day after day and it was almost like she knew the condition of his body well enough to know the perfect time to crank up the pain and suffering she could inflict by another notch.
It’s like she had found the perfect balance of punishing him for intruding on her life, and actually helping him. Although, if she was at all pleased with his progress, she had declined to tell him. But Hunter felt that although they never really spoke to each other, save for her instructions during the session, he was really starting to get to know his new ‘sister.’
She had pride in spades. She’d been given a job to complete, and she did it. Hunter was under no illusions about his ability to fight. He was still incredibly weak compared to most his age, but now he knew that in a controlled setting, he could take a hit.
And Barnum would probably be nothing but controlled settings. He figured that if the rich and powerful were sending their kids away from home, they’d want them to be as safe as possible. So, the academy would probably go the extra mile to ensure that sparring was done fairly. Hunter knew he would never win a fight in his life, but he would do his best to lose with dignity.
Besides, his focus wasn’t on earning Excellence in the martial arts. His gameplan was simple, and predictable. He would earn his Excellence with constructs. He would do his best to pass the academic courses, which shouldn’t be too hard. He felt that he was slowly but surely catching up to others his age. The coursework had been cherrypicked— only the most important information from each year would be covered over the course of a day or two. Hunter had found some of the subjects fun, especially math. There was a beauty and reliability to the subject-- a predictability and completeness that he wasn't able to find in artisanship. The latter craft was far too young compared to math, which had been around for thousands of years.
He considered the progress he made in the last few weeks, and decided that all told, he was allowed to feel some pride at how far he'd come and what he'd allowed himself to have.