On the training grounds, the air was cooler, fresher, and filled with the faint scent of worn wood and churned earth.

Domitius was already limbering up, twisting at the waist, stretching his arms overhead until his joints cracked audibly, then leaning side to side in exaggerated motions. His sheer bulk made the stretches look both ridiculous and oddly graceful.

Liam, meanwhile, had wandered a few paces off, eyes sweeping over the grounds with open fascination. Rows of straw dummies scarred by countless strikes, racks of spears and training blades, and a central pit where the earth was dark from years of sweat and footwork. "Amazing…" he muttered. "Enohay's got nothing like this…"

Shaking his head, Liam turned back toward Domitius, opening his mouth. "So, what's the first step in this 'Second Method' you—AHHHH!" His question cut off in a high-pitched yelp as Domitius thundered across the snow, fist cocked back like a hammer.

Liam's instincts activated before his mind could catch up—eyes squeezed shut, arms shot up to cover his face, his body stiffened in braced anticipation.

But no impact came.

Slowly, hesitantly, Liam cracked his eyes open to see Domitius frozen mid-strike, his massive fist hovering inches from Liam's forearms. The older man's mouth curled into a wolfish smirk.

"That." Domitius said simply, lowering his fist with a rumbling chuckle.

"...Huh?" Liam managed, still locked in disbelief.

Domitius pulled back fully, rolling his shoulders. "Like we explained earlier. The Second Method uses your body's reflexes. Natural defense. Yours are sharp—almost top notch. Youth'll do that." He flexed his knuckles one by one, the cracks sharp in the air. Then his smirk widened. "But what comes next…" he lifted both fists, stance widening, "…that's the hard part."

Dominitus's grin widened until it was ear to ear. "Now, then," he said, stepping in closer until the warmth of his breath fogged in the cold air between them, "let's see if you can actually take a punch. I'm aiming for your chest—prepare yourself."

Liam's eyes widened and he took an involuntary step back, the suddenness of the command prickling the hairs on his arms. "Er—wait—can I—" he began, the word "timeout" on his tongue, but Dominitus' laugh cut him off and he followed through without ceremony.

The older man's fist came like a hammer. It was not telegraphed with theatrics nor slow showmanship, the kind of strike born of motion practiced until it became muscle memory.

Instinct was quicker than thought. Liam's arms snapped up into an X across his chest, forearms braced against the impact.

The force slammed into him and shoved him back a few centimeters despite his feet being firmly planted in the packed snow. The air whooshed out of Liam's lungs with a raw little sound. His teeth clicked together as he fought to keep his balance, but he remained upright—he'd blocked it.

For a breathless second, he simply stood there, chest vibrating from the blow, eyes wide in stunned disbelief at the fact he'd actually done it. The snow around his boots squeaked as he shifted weight, chest still ringing.

Dominitus exhaled, pleased, and gave an approving rumble. "Good," he said, clapping once, "glad you can take a hit. More guards go down from a glancing blow than you'd think." He slapped a hand on his own chest as if marking the point. Then, with a quick motion, he held his palm out toward Liam. "Now—punch my palm. As hard as you can. Throw everything behind it."

Liam loosened his arms, breath puffing white, every nerve buzzing from the contact. For a moment he only stared at Dominitus's extended hand, the imprint of the last strike still warm in his bones. "Aren't we—aren't we going a little fast?" he asked, voice shaky but trying to keep a smile.

Dominitus only waved the concern away. "He called this an accelerated course; I take him at his word. Besides," he leaned in close, voice dropping to a mock-confidential rumble, "you'll learn quicker if you feel it in your bones. So come on, show me what you got!"

Nodding, Liam planted his feet, rolled his shoulders, and launched everything he had. For a heartbeat the motion felt right. Breath driven, core engaged, but the instant his knuckles hit Dominitus's palm, shock shot up his forearm like a thrown spark. It was as if his fist had struck stone: bone jolting, tendons complaining, a tiny, sharp sting blooming across his skin.

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He instinctively recoiled, hand pressed to his fingers as if to hush the protest.

Snow crunched under his boots while he rocked on the balls of his feet, rubbing his knuckles with his thumb. A nervous, breathy chuckle escaped him that was more embarrassment than amusement. "H-How was that?" he asked, voice thin. His fingers trembled a little; the contact had been more brutal than he'd expected.

Dominitus held up his palm and inspected it as if it might show the mark of the blow. There was no bruise, no split skin—nothing. The captain's expression settled into something harsher than the approving grin from a moment before. He lowered his gaze from his hand to a crouching Liam, looked him over with a quick, measuring sweep, and then cocked an eyebrow.

"You've never really been in a proper scrap before, have you?" Dominitus asked, the question more observation than accusation, but the edge in it made Liam flinch.

Liam rubbed the back of his head in response. "Not really," he admitted, "other than that…brief mess with the Oni on the road here, I've only ever been in one actual fight, and that was when I was just a kid. Barely counts." He exhaled through his nose, half a laugh, half a wince at the memory. "Some village boy was picking on Alexandra."

"Alexandra?"

"She's, uh…" Liam began blushing, "my fiancée—and I kind of…swung first."

At "fiancée," Dominitus's eyes popped wide with delighted approval. He smacked a fist into his open palm like two puzzle pieces finally clicking. "Aha!"

Liam blinked. "Eh?"

"I've been wondering," Dominitus said, pointing between them, "why a man more at home with books than brawls is still standing here after I told him I was going to hit him. So, you've got a lass back in Enohay, eh? That explains it! The bookish sorts usually tap out by now. You want to get stronger to protect her, right?"

Caught flat-footed, Liam flushed even more and nodded. "I—yes, b-but—" He started windmilling his hands, words tumbling out to spread the blush around. "It's also for Dama, and Juin, and Jaden, and Moa—everyone in Enohay, really. Himon Koul's is my main inspiration, he's built like a small mountain." He cleared his throat, trying to bundle his limbs back into dignity.

Composed again, he met Dominitus's eye. "Alexandra wants to move to one of the Four Kingdoms after we're married. Bigger cities, better opportunities. But I know there are, you know, 'bad people' out there. If trouble finds us, I don't want to be helpless. I want to be the kind of man who can keep her safe and anyone else who needs it."

For a heartbeat the training grounds held only the quiet hiss of wind over snow. Dominitus studied him, the grin easing into something steadier, more grounded. He then gave a single, approving nod.

"Good. Now you're speaking like a man with a spine and a purpose!" He said, tapping Liam's chest with two knuckles. "Hold onto that. Soulura listens to reasons, to your will, like that. We'll carve the rest into your muscles."

While Liam chuckled in response, Domitius perked up, an idea lighting up in his head. His grin grew conspiratorial. "Say, boy, before we go on," he said, leaning forward, "did you win that scrap with the other boy?"

Liam blinked in surprise at the odd little detour. "Yes—yeah, I won..." he said, puzzled. "Why does that—?"

Dominitus held up a finger as if savoring a punchline. "Did you get hit?" he asked, the question simple but oddly pointed.

Liam frowned and scrabbled at the memory. The scene blurred, shoved faces, the scuff of boots, he couldn't pull the fight cleanly into focus. Then an image flickered through: a sudden, airless pain in his stomach, the world folding in for a second as he took a gut check. "Uh, yeah. I think I did get hit in the stomach."

Dominitus's chuckle was low and indulgent. "Something like this?" he asked, and before Liam could formulate a protest, the captain's fist moved.

It was not the blunt, theatrical strike of a sparring partner; it was a small, surgical jab aimed at Liam's midsection. Dominitus put a little of himself in the motion—a soul of effort that carried more than muscle.

Liam felt it arrive before the contact of knuckles touched skin: a faint pulse, like a bright pinprick of heat under his ribs. The jab landed, and the world folded exactly the way Liam had remembered.

He doubled over, breath blown out of him in a sharp, panicked exhale. The snow at his knees squeaked as he pressed both palms against his abdomen, the aftershock throbbing through his ribs. "Wha... W-What the hell was that for?!" He spat between gasps, eyes wide and angry.

Dominitus didn't look reproachful—only pleased, as if a point had been proved. He shook his head, the smirk settling into something teacherly. "That little jab? It was laced with soulura. Remember, the second method leans on those instincts. A strike that carries soulura makes the body realize that the attack can hurt in a way ordinary blows cannot. So, your reflexes don't just block or move..."

"I-It reaches for something deeper," Liam coughed, still holding his stomach, "for whatever I have under the hood: my own soulura, right...?"

Domitius spread his hands, an approving grin following. "If you've never been struck by a soulura-infused hit, your body won't reach for that resource. But get hit once, and your internal reflex can flip on—like a desperate animal remembering how to do things to survive ingrained into its very cells. You'll be primed to use what you already have, even if you don't know you have it yet."

Domitius finally set his palm out again, steady and patient, the big hand an open target. "Get up, and this time, don't just hit my palm. Put something behind it, like that unspoken promise to protect Alexandra. Use that fire you have for the people you love. Don't simply meet my palm—punch through it, through me."

-

Next: (Chapter 85) Liam's Trial

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