I worked off the lost points by evening. A few hundred baskets, eight broken drones. Unlike Nur, I didn’t waste time on walks, though I did get a bit of rest during my block shift. In the end, I packed the last chamomile baskets right before dinner. I didn’t make it to the hall for Rene’s session, even though I really wanted to run through it again. I had to postpone training until morning.
The next day, I was in the hall right after breakfast. Besides Rene, I was the first one there.
The instructor made me run through a full physical cycle, and I came up just short of my usual records — I was too eager to start the qi training.
Rene didn’t like that, so he made me go through another full cycle.
Then another.
Finally, we moved on to channel formation mode.
The green holographic arms displayed the now-familiar channels. Rene stepped closer and traced a line on me with his finger — from the chest, over the shoulder, down the triceps, through the upper forearm channel, to the knuckle of the index finger.
“This is your path. Ignore the other branches. Your task isn’t to flood the body with qi, or to fill the channels. You need to thread a single, continuous strand of qi along this route all the way to the end. And hold it there. No branching, no leakage. Because of the nature of the technique, you’ll have to do it with both hands at once.”
I nodded. It sounded hard. In practice, it was worse.
I focused on the reactor in my solar plexus. For some reason, that analogy worked best for me. I imagined two threads coming out of it — thin, silver, obedient — and pulled.
Instead, two fat protuberances shot out, inching sideways before launching upwards toward the shoulder joints. For now, they stayed inside the holographic channels, but there was way too much energy packed inside them. And it had a will of its own.
I tried to resist. Not to suppress it entirely, just rein it in.
Yeah, right! The qi was too alive, too determined — just like Fist Qi was meant to be.
The internal struggle immediately locked up my shoulders, made the triceps tremble, and the qi protuberances — instead of flowing neatly through the channels — started whipping around like pressurised hoses, dodging the places I was trying to restrict. The hologram lit up, showing how the thick qi spilled and splattered into the muscles outside the channels.
“Shake it out,” Rene advised. “You’re not in control of it anymore. Forget the form. Just swing your arms and flush it out of your system.”
I threw my arms out — closer to a classic boxing one-two than a proper Chain Punch. From the left, which came first, the projection burst out at an angle. I’d been so focused on purging the qi from my system that I let it spill however it wanted — and the half-formed projection didn’t wrap around the fist but instead clung to the elbow and forearm.
What shot out — flew straight at Rene’s face.
He batted the projection away like it was a fly. It struck his hand, which flared silver for a moment, and then the thing popped and fell apart.
“A bit more carefully, please,” Rene said.
I froze for a second, stunned by what had just happened. It had happened way too easily, too naturally — which opened up a whole range of possibilities. Iron Head, for example…
“Again,” Rene said.
I focused again. But every time I tried to pull out a thin thread — I ended up yanking out a clump of qi, or a whole tentacle. I could imagine the stream as delicate as I liked — but my body didn’t listen. Habit, or reflex, or… fear of failure. I didn’t feel fear, not consciously, but I couldn’t rule out the idea that something was weighing on me subconsciously.
Rene watched me struggle, grunted, and dropped one of those trainer pearls of wisdom.
“You look like you’re afraid of it. Jerking, tugging. It’s not ice or lava. That energy is yours. Take it the way you’d take a piece of real thread.”
I tried.
This time, I didn’t yank. I reached my imaginary hand into the reactor…
Yeah, right! Nobody reaches into a reactor. No one touches the sun. I needed a new metaphor…
Or gloves.
I was wearing gloves. Imaginary gauntlets that didn’t give a damn about the reactor’s heat!
Calmly, I took a pinch of that fire and slowly pulled it left.
It still wasn’t a thread — more like a living protuberance — but it was four times thinner than before, and I figured I could work with that.
“Good!” Rene shouted.
He really should’ve kept quiet. His “good” usually meant I was doing it wrong.The tale has been stolen; if detected on Amazon, report the violation.
“Quiet, please!” I said, and started drawing the other protuberance to the right.
Then both at once — moving them together, with the form I’d been drilling the past few days: shoulders, elbows… through the upper channel, no branching!
The left protuberance trembled — like it wanted to come apart…
And it did. And the right one snapped right after.
“That’s starting to look more like proper channel work,” Rene said. “No force. No pressure. Balance between control and freedom. The qi wants to flow into your hands — you just show it the way.”
“Yeah, but now it’s spread all over my arms… Should I purge it?” I asked. The protuberances were thin, the qi weak, and once it had spread, it barely coloured the hologram with a faint mist.
“Push more qi through and throw proper punches,” Rene advised. “You won’t clear that smoke otherwise.”
I did. The holographic arms lit up.
Then I tried again. And again — rupture. Sometimes in the shoulder, sometimes just before the elbow. The thread snapped as soon as I lost focus, or — just as often — when I pressed it too hard. It wasn’t a thread, really — it was a snake, and I was some kind of snake charmer trying to coax it where I wanted it to go.
I tried to keep my breathing steady, but my arms grew heavy fast, sweat trickled down my back, and my fists began to ache.
The memory of yesterday’s pain still lived in my knuckles. I remembered how my arm had jerked all on its own. I wasn’t planning to rush this time — just in case, I’d taken off the ring. And yet, my fists were going numb. I even shook them out a few times to relieve the tension, and Rene noticed.
“Didn’t heal up properly?” he asked.
“No, they fixed me up yesterday,” I grinned. “It’s just that the lesson really stuck with me.” Then I shot him a suspicious look. “Did you let me get hurt on purpose, so I’d be more patient today?”
Rene laughed, watching the latest pair of protuberances crawl along the holographic channels.
“Don’t blame me for your failures. I knew the risk of injury was high — but I needed to see how you handled your qi.”
“How else was I supposed to ‘handle’ it on the first try?”
“There are all kinds, honestly. Some people wield their qi like gymnasts do their limbs, no training required. You and I clearly aren’t those people,” Rene laughed again. “I gave you a one or two percent chance to grasp channeling right off the bat. I had one student like that. In that case, I’d just tweak their direction a bit. About a third of cadets make a different mistake — they push qi faster than the arm. That needs a different approach. But you? You did what most do. Hit with the body before the energy had time to leave. It’s the most common mistake. And the most painful. But after that, cadets tend to develop a ton of understanding. And even more patience.”
“So you set me up just to make your job easier?”
“No,” Rene said with a grin. “It was all done to help you master the technique faster!”
“So you’re the one who passed on all those sadistic training ideas to Kate?”
“No, come on… Novak’s her master. I’m nowhere near his level.”
The training ended without fireworks. I still didn’t manage to pull the qi thread all the way to the knuckle. Not that I couldn’t — I just didn’t make it in time. Every attempt required full focus, patience, and something close to meditative calm. And by the end of the session, all I had left was sweat, a pounding heartbeat, and a dull ache in my shoulders. Rene said I’d done enough for the day. He also said he wouldn’t be giving me that much attention next time — he figured I had a week or two of meticulous solo work ahead, and enough brain cells not to injure myself again.
While I was riding the metro back home, Dubois suddenly popped into my head.
The memory came back vividly: him, calm, almost indifferent, standing in the middle of the corridor with a bandolier of plastic spikes slung over his shoulder. One of them already in mid-flight — and a second later, whack! — right into the forehead of some troublemaking cadet. But not the pointy end. The blunt end. The spike hit dead between the eyebrows, dropped the guy instantly, and, like it was nothing, bounced back through the corridor straight into Dubois’ palm.
I’d been mesmerised by that scene back then — and now it hadn’t lost an ounce of magic. But this time, as I replayed it in my head, I started noticing the details. How precise did he have to be for that shot to land like it did? That’s a piercing technique! The spike should’ve gone through the guy’s skull!
I know levitation is a side effect of Piercing techniques, like shielding is for Fist ones. But pulling a spike back through an entire corridor? That was impressive.
And then there was the fact that my colleague didn’t just wear a spike bandolier — he also carried a small sword. No way the same technique works for two different weapons. Most likely, he was studying multiple techniques at once. How the hell is that even possible?
Okay… a bit self-centred of me.
Just because I can’t do it doesn’t mean it’s not doable. And if it is doable, then…
He probably already had the movement drilled before he enrolled. His body worked like a tool — all he had to do was pour qi into it. Not easy either, but he’s from a serious family, according to Bao. And it looked like the Dubois clan trained their kids a lot more thoroughly than Bao.
I wish I could say that thought was motivating, but honestly — it just weighed on me. I wasn’t jealous. I had no idea what it cost him. I remembered Bao’s face after his failure — how he didn’t believe his family would support him now. There wasn’t a whiff of warmth there. Still, I did want to feel that free with my body and technique. Not dragging protuberance-threads through channels — but launching deadly projections with precision and grace, and as little energy waste as possible.
I stepped off the train at the dorm platform, thinking about how best to unwind — maybe music, maybe a video clip, maybe just crash…
Shower — with a heavy sigh of relief. Then uniform on, a tired flop onto the bench, and I was just about to grab my tablet — when a call came through. The screen lit up with a familiar name.
Incoming call: K. L. Wong
Accept / Decline
“So I’m a sadist now, am I?”
Her voice was full of unjust indignation — but underneath it, you could hear the satisfaction ringing clear. Sounded like someone had had a little chat with Rene…
“You’re the best, the wisest, the bravest…” I began, but she cut me off.
“I’ve told you before — you’re crap at kissing arse.”
“And I’ve told you — you haven’t tried it yet.”
“And I’ve told you I’ll break something if you keep going with that line.”
“Well, then how aren’t you a sadist?” I blurted. That was it — no way back. At that point, there was no use trying to explain myself. And nothing really came to mind anyway.
“To prove to you that I’m a gentle and kind mentor,” her voice turned dangerously sweet, “I’m inviting you to a joint training session.”
“I refuse,” I shot back instantly.
“Not up for debate! That’s an order.”
“I’m not your subordinate! And my hands are still recovering!”
“You’ll show up — if you want to hear even one more useful piece of advice. I’ll bring ointment, bandages, and moral support. See you in an hour.”
“How about… no?” I pleaded.
“Oh, stop it. It’ll be a necessary and unforgettable experience!” she trilled — and ended the call.
I was left with the feeling that my tongue had just doomed me to something not unlike what Kate went through with the Metal Ants.
Though surely she wouldn’t stoop to pulling off limbs… would she?