John ran a hand through his hair, glancing around the cultivation room. A few days until the next song drop. He needed to be on the 20th floor by then. Which meant pushing his martial arts training harder. His mind drifted to the clock face analogy he’d been working on. He took a deep breath and began to move. "Okay, so imagine you're standing in the middle of a giant clock drawn on the floor," he muttered to himself, shifting his weight slightly, feeling the balance. "That clock…it's not just about directions, it's about flow." He took a step forward, visualizing the 12 o'clock position. "Facing straight ahead, 12 o'clock. Weight even, ready for anything. My home base."

He shifted his weight to his right foot, extending his right arm as if anticipating an attack. "Three o'clock. Weight shifts, I'm ready to move right, turn right, deal with anything coming from that side.” He pictured an opponent’s strike aimed at his right flank. "If they come in at 3…" He stepped to 4, then 5, smoothly redirecting an imaginary blow. “I’m not just blocking, I’m moving with the force, turning it against them.” His mind raced through potential counterattacks, a quick elbow strike, a sweep of the leg. Rocking back onto his heels, he felt the shift to 6 o'clock. "Six o'clock. Backwards movement, dodging, setting up a counter. Loading up like a spring." He visualized a downward strike. "If they come from above…a quick shift to 6, absorb the force, then…" He snapped forward in a swift upward block, then transitioned into a forward thrust. He moved his weight to his left foot. "Nine o'clock. Same principle as 3, but to the left." He mimicked a block to his left, then a quick step and pivot to his right, demonstrating a smooth transition. “The key isn't just hitting the numbers,” he said, his voice gaining intensity. “It’s flowing between them, using their force, turning their attack into an opening.” He began a series of flowing movements, shifting his weight, stepping, pivoting, all while visualizing the clock face.

“Someone pushes you at 12. Don’t meet it head-on. Step to 1 or 11, get off the line. It’s a dodge. Or step to 3 or 9 and spin, redirecting the force completely.” He demonstrated each movement, emphasizing the redirection. “Push at 3? Step with it, turn their momentum against them. Push at 6? Absorb, redirect, counter. Push at 9? Pivot, turn the tables.” He moved fluidly, practicing different combinations, the clock face a constant guide in his mind. “It’s about body mechanics, timing, staying relaxed so I can be flexible and powerful. It takes practice, building muscle memory, making it instinct.” He paused, breathing deeply. “If I can truly master this flow, this redirection…the 20th floor won’t stand a chance.” He resumed his practice, his movements now sharper, more focused, the clock face a silent partner in his training.

John took out another beast core. The faint scent of ozone and raw energy filled the air, a metallic tang lingering beneath it. He popped it into his mouth, the familiar surge of power exploding across his tongue, then sinking deep into his core. He knew he couldn't afford to wait. Another ten floors… that was the goal, etched into his mind like a brand. He couldn't just sit back and let his body passively absorb the influx of power from the cores. It wouldn't be enough. He needed to actively integrate it, to weave it into the fabric of his being. He swallowed, the core dissolving quickly, leaving a trail of warmth and a subtle tingling in his stomach, like embers glowing deep within. He rose, the wooden legs of the small table scraping against the floor as he pushed it back. "No," he muttered to himself, shaking his head slightly. "Waiting won't cut it. Not this time."

The narrative has been illicitly obtained; should you discover it on Amazon, report the violation.

He moved to the center of the cultivation room, settling into a tai-chi stance. This wasn't simply about physical strength; it was about control, about feeling the subtle currents of force within his body. The beast cores provided the raw power, a surging tide within him, but tai-chi was the art of channeling that tide, of wielding it with precision. He began a slow, deliberate series of movements, each one a conscious effort to harmonize his internal energy with his physical form. He closed his eyes, visualizing the flow of chi, tracing its intricate pathways through his meridians like rivers across a map. With each shift of weight, each turn of his wrist, he focused on the subtle shifts in energy, the way it pulsed and flowed, how it could be directed and amplified with the slightest intention.

"The cores give me the raw power," he murmured, his voice barely a whisper, "but this…this is how I use it." He extended an arm, not with a jerky, forceful motion, but with a smooth, flowing movement that seemed to draw power from the very core of him. He imagined an incoming blow, and with a subtle shift of his weight and a rotation of his torso, he redirected the imaginary force, feeling the echo of the movement resonate through his bones. He continued his practice, moving through the tai-chi forms, each movement a meditation on force and its redirection. He was no longer just a vessel for the beast cores' power; he was becoming the conductor, shaping the energy to his will. He felt the subtle changes within him—the tightening of his muscles, the quickening pulse of energy beneath his skin—and he actively guided those changes, weaving them into the fabric of his movements.

"If I just wait," he thought, "the power will be there, but it won't be mine. It'll be like wearing someone else's clothes—ill-fitting and awkward. But if I work with it, understand its flow…then I can truly control it." He transitioned into a new form, a slow, deliberate turn that gathered momentum like a coiled spring before exploding into a quick, focused strike. The air around him seemed to shimmer with the released energy, a visible ripple in the stillness. He knew he had a long way to go, but with each breath, each movement, he felt closer. The next ten floors wouldn't be easy, but he was determined. He wouldn't just passively receive the power; he would forge it—a weapon, a tool, an extension of himself. Tai-chi was the forge.