Chapter 243: More Work to Do (3).

Sergeant Vane took a few steps back but he did not assume a stance.

That was the first thing Nero noticed.

The old man simply stood there like an immovable pillar of stone, his feet and toes planted deeply in the sand with both arms relaxed at his sides and his posture loose enough that it looked almost careless. If Nero had not already been knocked flat a dozen times already that morning, he might have mistaken lackadaisical stance for complacency.

“This,” Vane said, tapping the center of his own chest with two fingers, “is where your problem starts, Nero.”

Nero wiped sweat from his brow and squinted at him. “My chest?”

“Your weight,” Vane corrected. “The center of your balance. It’s all off and flimsy.”

His expression turned serious,

“A man is an immovable pillar. A warrior is an immovable pillar with fangs and a three meter long sword.”

He stepped forward without warning and shoved Nero lightly in the shoulder. Not enough to hurt, not even enough to bruise, yet Nero stumbled back half a step before catching himself.

Vane snorted. “There. You felt that?”

Nero frowned. The touch had been uncharacteristically gentle for the old brute,

“You barely touched me.”

“And yet you moved,” Vane replied. “That means your body was already leaning away from commitment.”

He motioned Nero forward. “Hands up. Show me your jab again.”

Nero raised his fists and snapped out a punch, sharp and fast like lightning. It would have crushed a normal man’s jaw to pulp.

Vane caught it with one hand and twisted.

Nero yelped as his balance vanished and he found himself face-first in the sand again.

“That,” Vane said calmly, “is what happens when your punch ends at your knuckles.”

Nero groaned and pushed himself up onto his elbows. “Then where is it supposed to end?”

Vane crouched and pressed two fingers into Nero’s lower back, right above the hips. “Here. And here.” He tapped Nero’s heels with the toe of his boot. “Your punch doesn’t start in your arm. It starts where you touch the ground.”

He stood and took a step back. “Get up.”

Nero rose, dusting sand off his clothes. For some reason, he felt like the lesson to come was going to be different from the regular beatings he had been receiving all day.

“Again,” Vane said. “Slowly this time.”

Nero threw the jab again, much slower this time.

“Stop,” Vane snapped.

He reached out and physically adjusted Nero’s stance, kicking one foot half an inch back, twisting his hips, and shoving his shoulder forward.

“your blows come with the force of retreat, Nero. An overwhelming force is not overwhelming if it has a path of retreat. It surges forth with the might of an ocean’s waves.” Vane said.

He positioned Nero’s fist inches from his own chest. “Punch me. Hut as hard as you can and don’t hold back.”

Nero hesitated. “I’ll—”

The Sergeant sneered, “You think you can hurt me with those twigs? You don’t have enough hairs on your balls yet, kid.”

Facing the rather obvious provocation, Nero clenched his jaw and snapped out a punch with as much force as he could muster.

The impact landed solidly. The Sergeant’s brows twitched lightly, but he did not move.

Instead, he nodded. “It’s better now, but it is not enough.”

He exhaled through his nose and stepped away,

“Listen carefully because I am only going to explain this once.”

Nero straightened,

“What I am about to teach you is not a stance, nor is it a sequence of blows. It is a doctrine. A way of striking. A finishing blow. We of the Blood Lotus call it Crimson Break.”

Nero mumbled, “Crimson Break?”

“It exists for one purpose only; to end an exchange with crippling force. To mount a siege and to destroy at once.”

He walked a slow circle around Nero as he spoke, boots crunching softly in the sand.

“You have been taught, whether you realize it or not, to always leave yourself a way out. To keep your balance loose. To buffer the impact and to think.” Vane snorted.

“But in a battle of life and death, he who strikes first and strikes hardest wins. There is no more to it than that.”

He stopped directly in front of Nero and planted his feet again. This time, Nero paid closer attention. Vane’s boots were not merely resting on the sand. His toes dug in. His heels pressed down as if he were trying to root himself into the earth.

“When you use Crimson Break,” Vane said, tapping his own chest again, “you do not think about defense, you do not think about recovery, and you do not think about failure. If executed correctly, it is fast and powerful enough to claim the life of your opponent before they realize it. The best part of course, is that it can be executed in succession. That is called a Red Tide. Of course, you are not ready for that yet…”

“That sounds reckless,” Nero said, although he could not hide the amazement in his voice.

Vane grinned, “Of course it is.”

He leaned forward slightly.

“You need to reckless to face off against the damning dangers of this world.”

The Sergeant stepped back then raised a single finger,

“Rule one… There is no retreat in the body. The moment your weight shifts backward, even by instinct, the doctrine is broken.”

He raised a second finger, “Rule two… All force commits forward. Feet, hips, spine, breath. Everything moves in the same direction, at the same time.”

A third finger. “Rule three. You do not brace for impact. If you brace, you are already preparing to be struck. Crimson Break assumes the enemy will not survive the blow.”

Nero swallowed. The simplicity of it was almost unsettling.

“And if they do?” he asked.

“Then you hit them again,” Vane said flatly. “Or you die. That part is not the doctrine’s concern.”

He gestured. “Again. Hit me.”

Nero raised his fists, but this time he hesitated for a different reason. He tried to feel his weight, the way Vane had pointed out. His instincts screamed at him to stay light on his feet.

Vane saw through him immediately.

“Do not treat the ground like something you stand on,” Vane said. “It is the origin of your momentum. And your momentum is your force.”

Nero inhaled slowly. He let his weight settle into his legs. The sand shifted under his boots as his heels pressed down.

“Good,” Vane said. “Now punch.”

Nero threw the jab.

The difference was immediate. The strike felt slower, heavier, as though his entire body had moved behind his fist rather than just his arm. The impact landed squarely against Vane’s chest.

This time, the Sergeant slid back half an inch.

Nero’s eyes widened.

Vane’s expression sharpened. “There. You felt that?”

“Yes,” Nero said, surprised. His knuckles tingled all the way up his arm.

“Good. But you are still holding back.”

He stepped forward and struck Nero lightly in the sternum with two fingers. The touch carried more force than it should have, knocking the breath from Nero’s lungs and sending him stumbling backward.

“That,” Vane said, “is what happens when someone commits and you do not.”

Nero coughed, forcing air back into his chest.

“So what,” Nero said hoarsely, “I just… lean into it? Completely?”

“Yes.”

He rolled his shoulders once, then raised his chin. “Again.”

Nero planted his feet.

He exhaled sharply and punched.

The force traveled cleanly from his heels, through his legs, snapping his hips forward. His spine aligned instinctively, breath and motion syncing into a single surge. His fist slammed into Vane’s chest like a battering ram.

The impact echoed.

Vane slid back a full step.

Silence followed.

Nero stood frozen, fist still extended, heart hammering violently in his chest. His arm burned. His legs trembled. For a split moment, he thought he saw a crimson flash.

Vane looked down at the imprint left in his chest, then back up at Nero.

Slowly, he grinned.

“There it is,”

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