"I found it in the metro," I said, sticking to my usual lie. I’d have to tell Novak that I’d decided to stick with this cover story.
Diego gave the ring an extra second of attention before waving it off.
"If it were anything important, no one would’ve lost it. Put it in your pocket—unless you'd rather I hold onto it for you?"
A flurry of paranoid scenarios instantly flooded my mind. Diego didn’t seem like a demon agent… which was exactly why he’d be the perfect choice. Besides, his "not a slave" status gave the demons extra leverage.
"No need."
I made a show of taking off my shoes and tossing the ring into one of them. Diego shifted his focus back to his tablet, and I took the chance to discreetly remove my amulet. That, I slipped into my pocket. Then, I bundled up my jumpsuit in a way that’d make it a hassle to unwrap just to check inside the pocket.
I had no idea how subtle I'd been, but I stowed my clothes in the designated drawer and climbed into the capsule. Just as I got comfortable, something else popped into my head.
"By the way, how long is this going to take? My shift starts at 14:30." It wouldn’t look great if I showed up late on my very first day—especially after charging the guys for my help.
"Don’t worry, I’ll have you out in time," Diego said, tapping something into his tablet. "Two hours, tops."
It felt like I had only just closed my eyes when the procedure was over. A signal chimed, and the capsule started moving, shifting into a vertical position and making me slightly dizzy. I’d blacked out before it even lay me down properly, which was disorienting.
Climbing out, I stretched before glancing at the clock in my interface: 13:41.
At the same moment, my inbox alerted me to unread messages.
"How are you feeling?" Diego asked. At some point while I was recovering, he’d stashed his tablet away.
"Alive… but not exactly refreshed."
"Good. Then I’ll leave you to it—I’m in a hurry."
Diego left the room at a brisk pace.
I got dressed. The medallion was still in my pocket, and nothing seemed different. The qi still crackled faintly beneath my fingers when I touched it. The ring was still in my shoe, too, and I slipped it onto my finger.
Leaving the room, I pulled up my interface to message Vaclav, but first, I dealt with unread messages from Marlon and Denis. They were heading to the cafeteria and had invited me to join them—except that was nearly an hour ago. I replied, telling them I’d been in the capsule, then sent my message to Vaclav.
I even had to double back to check what room it had been.
Outgoing message to: V. Novak
Subject: Cover Story
Content: I’m telling everyone I found the ring in the metro. Went into the capsule in Room 28 two hours ago. Diego 015 saw me leave the ring in my shoe when I undressed. If he was curious, he had the chance to check it. Do you have a way to find out if he did?
Vaclav didn’t waste time texting—he called me straight away. For once, his voice didn’t have its usual calmness. On the contrary, there was an overwhelming pressure in it, as if he were holding up a mountain. In the background, I could hear frequent crackling—sounded almost electrical.
"You were supposed to keep quiet and mysterious about the ring," he said, his tone strained.
"Well, the first one to ask was Kate. Then Diego, and I’ve got a pretty decent relationship with him."
"Yet you still suspect him."
"I’m not ruling it out," I copied Vaclav’s usual phrasing. "Maybe he’s just a really good actor."
I glanced around, making sure no one was too close, then lowered my voice. "Besides, he’s a slave. And slaves rebel."
Vaclav didn’t respond for about half a minute. The only thing in my ears was the faint crackle of electricity, letting me know he hadn’t hung up.
"He’s not a slave. But this isn’t the time for that discussion, and his social status is far from ideal. I have no way of checking whether he touched the ring or not. There are no cameras in the rooms. You’ll have to handle it as you see fit. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I’m in the middle of training."
Vaclav ended the call without waiting for a reply. That suited me just fine.
The cafeteria was about three-quarters empty. Most of the first-years had already eaten, and the upper-year students clearly had somewhere else to dine. I went up to the food dispenser and hit the lottery button. Judging by the result, I lost this round.A case of content theft: this narrative is not rightfully on Amazon; if you spot it, report the violation.
White rice with meat that tasted like rubber and cardboard. A vegetable salad reeking of olives, which I couldn’t stand. And a soup that looked like they’d just thrown in whatever was left in the kitchen. The soup, at least, was the easiest to swallow.
Despite my dissatisfaction, I shoved everything down quickly and decisively. I doubted they’d try poisoning us here. My body needed calories, vitamins, and whatever else helped with cultivation in this world. I even drank the tea, though it was painfully bitter. After what Pure Thoughts had done to my body, skipping tea didn’t seem like an option.
To be fair, Pure Thoughts had tasted amazing.
I got back to my block at 14:26. The corridor was completely empty, which suited me just fine as well. Grabbing my tablet, I started searching for that fist technique that had caught my interest.
The first one that stood out was called Piercing Fist. That struck me as odd—anything "piercing" should be based on point. I’d already gotten a feel for Fist Qi, so I wasn’t sure how this was supposed to work.
Still, Piercing Fist was a popular technique among first-stage fighters. It relied on short, explosive strikes that combined power and rigidity. The main feature? The fist projection didn’t just shoot forward and explode—it had a "delayed impact" effect, which was based on the hardness of Fist Qi itself. Instead of bursting on contact, the projection hit, dug in, and then exploded. Sometimes—only sometimes—it even managed to punch through obstacles, like an opponent’s armour.
So really, Piercing Fist wasn’t all that piercing.
I discarded it as an option. As effective as "piercing" sounded, it didn’t happen often enough. On top of that, the technique demanded perfect composure and rigid muscle control. Every strike had to be precisely calculated—otherwise, the energy would dissipate, weakening the delay effect, which was the whole point of the technique.
I doubted there’d be time for that in a real fight. Especially after a few hits to the head or gut.
I was leaning towards something simpler, something less demanding. Though, to be fair, this technique could work as a secondary special attack—either for an opening strike or a finisher. Then again, if that were the case, I’d be better off with that giant fist—the one that gave me an enlightenment.
For a moment, I let myself drift into sweet daydreams of my fists smashing asteroids into dust. But I snapped out of it and kept scrolling.
Shadow Fist.
Despite the name, Shadow Fist had nothing to do with shadows. It was all about deception and unpredictability. The core principle? Generating multiple fist projections at once. The enemy would see three or four strikes coming, but only one of them would be real. The rest were empty Qi projections.
The technique definitely had potential, but it lacked both power and speed. Plus, every projection consumed Qi. Even the fake ones drained energy—less than the real strike, sure, but still enough to sap a fighter’s reserves pretty quickly. And on top of that, it required an insane level of Qi control—something I had zero experience with.
I kept scrolling through the list, skimming the names. Not that names were a reliable way to judge anything. Some technique creators were way too dramatic (Divine Fist of the Heavenly Current), others didn’t bother at all (Two Strikes), and some had been passed down for so many generations that their names no longer meant anything. Gentle Strike, for example, could easily shatter stone.
Mindless browsing was only getting me frustrated—until my eyes caught something.
Chain Punch.
The name instantly reminded me of Wing Chun. Another déjà vu. And I’d learned to trust those. Though, funnily enough, this déjà vu didn’t trust Chain Punch all that much. But hey, this was a world of cultivators—things had to work a little differently.
I opened the technique’s page.
It focused on dynamic, continuous strikes, creating weak but incredibly fast fist projections. Its main advantage? The near-instant materialisation of projections, allowing for rapid attacks with almost no delay.
I hit play on the demonstration video.
A cultivator appeared against a dark background, dressed in standard training gear, no armour. He stood in a classic boxing stance—upper body loose, legs coiled like compressed springs. He bounced on his toes a few times, then snapped his fist forward—almost instantly, before the movement even finished, a translucent fist projection burst from his hand. It was slightly blurred, as if dispersing into the air.
Bam!
The projection struck a plastic training dummy, making it vibrate. The hit wasn’t powerful, but before it could even fade, the cultivator was already launching another strike.
Bam-bam-bam-bam-bam!
He fired punches like a machine gun, smoothly shifting left and right. There was no pause. His hands barely stopped moving—his body flowed like water. And yet, somehow, beneath it all, I could still see the structure of classic boxing.
This was it.
This technique was fast. It wasn’t about the strength of a single strike, but the sheer number of them—an unrelenting barrage that could overwhelm and disorient an opponent. The range left something to be desired, but that could be worked around. Force them back. Keep them on the defensive with no room to breathe.
I started reading through the specifics. Surprisingly, each strike generated a fairly weak projection, and they didn’t drain much Qi. But because of the rapid succession of attacks, this technique could still burn through a cultivator’s reserves in longer fights. That was something to watch out for.
A major downside—no matter how much control you had, you couldn’t adjust the trajectory of the projections. They flew too fast.
They also weren’t strong enough to break through solid armour. Which meant I’d definitely need a more penetrative technique at some point. But one thing at a time. First, I needed something simple—something to handle unarmoured thugs. And this would do just fine.
I played another demonstration video.
Two cultivators in armour were fighting on a training platform. One of them—the one using Chain Punch—attacked in rapid, short bursts. His opponent used a slower but more powerful technique, relying on individual heavy palm projections.
A heavy projection shot toward the Chain user, but he dodged it with ease, landing three or four strikes in return. His attacks didn’t stop the opponent outright, but they did force him to slow down.
At first glance, it looked like Chain Punch was losing. A full minute into the fight, he had done nothing but retreat. His opponent had nearly backed him to the edge of the platform when—suddenly—Fist changed pace.
His attacks came in a flood while he circled around his opponent in an arc. His hands became a blur, fists firing off like a machine gun, projection after projection hammering forward.
His opponent hesitated. Then stepped back. Unable to block or counter in time.
The Chain Punch cultivator pressed harder, forcing him to retreat again… and again… until he lost his footing and tumbled off the platform.
A victory—but a technical one. In a real fight, this strategy probably wouldn’t have worked unless they were battling on a mountainside. But paired with a proper finishing move…
I checked the available versions. Four—ranging from blue to orange. And it could be upgraded up to stage III.
I opened my inbox and fired off a message to Kate.
Outgoing Message: K. L. Wong
Subject: Technique
Content: What do you think of Chain Punch?