Oblivion's Throne-Chapter 73: Motion and Intent

"You treat your body like a machine," he said at last. "Like a tool to be calibrated, adjusted, corrected. But a tool is only as good as the one who wields it." His lips curled slightly.

Orion exhaled slowly. He understood what this was. Another critique, another lesson in the flaws of his approach. But understanding was not the same as agreement.

"What would you have me do?" he asked, voice steady.

Varun tilted his head, as if amused by the question. Then, without a word, he flicked his fingers.

The weight of the world doubled.

Orion's knees buckled, his muscles screaming as if his own body had turned against him. Every breath was an act of rebellion against the force crushing down on him.

"Get up."

He forced his legs to move, each motion a war against resistance. He had trained in enhanced gravity before, but this was different. There was no time to adjust, no gradual increase.

Varun walked around him, unconcerned. "You rely on structure. On sequences. But an Augmenter doesn't think about moving. He moves."

Another shift in gravity. Orion barely caught himself before collapsing. His mind screamed at him to compensate, to adjust his balance, to analyze the shift in real time—

A sharp impact sent him sprawling. His ribs flared with pain, the attack so fast he hadn't even registered the motion.

"And he certainly doesn't hesitate."

Orion gritted his teeth, forcing himself up, only for another strike to come—this time from behind. He twisted, tried to react, but the moment of thought had already cost him. His shoulder took the brunt of it, sending him skidding across the chamber floor.

"An Augmenter does not seek the right action," Varun said, his gaze piercing. "He embodies it. His body does not react—it dictates."

The lights died.

Darkness swallowed the chamber whole.

Orion steadied his breath, pushing past the fatigue, past the pain. The loss of vision was expected. He had trained for this. He reached for his Sensoria—

And found nothing.

Panic flickered, brief but undeniable. His perception had been severed. He was alone in the void, stripped of everything that made him formidable.

Then the first strike came.

He barely twisted away in time. The air whistled past his ear, the force of the blow alone sending a shudder through his bones. But he had felt nothing before the attack. No presence, no intent, no shift in the air.

The second strike landed.

A brutal impact against his ribs. He staggered, breath catching. There had been no warning, no tell, no sign.

"Your body already holds the answers your mind keeps searching for," Varun's voice cut through the stillness. "But you refuse to listen."

Another strike. Another failure. He was reacting too late. Always too late.

"Doubt is the weight that slows you. Those who wait for certainty will always be a step behind."

Time blurred. The pain became distant. He no longer knew how long he had been standing, moving, failing. His mind was raw, stripped of logic, of planning, of hesitation. There was only breath, movement, and the next attack.

And then—he moved before the strike.

It was not reaction. It was not prediction. His body had shifted before his mind had even acknowledged the attack. His muscles had known before he had.

Something clicked.

The next blow came, but his balance had already adjusted. His weight had already shifted. His hands had already risen. He wasn't countering the attack. He was already there.

The darkness lifted.

Varun stood before him, watching with an expression Orion had rarely seen before. Approval.

The chamber had barely settled from Varun's brutal lesson when the temperature shifted, a new presence seeping into the space like a blade sliding into flesh. Where Varun's instruction had been a storm, this presence was something else entirely. Precise. Measured.

Master Irma moved without sound, yet her presence was suffocating, like a dagger held just out of sight. A woman of medium height, her movements were effortless, unburdened by unnecessary energy. Her eyes, dark and unreadable, barely regarded Orion before she spoke.

"Varun showed you how to last," she said, her voice like a blade. "I will show you how to finish."

She gestured for him to stand. The dim lights overhead cast shadows across the chamber, sharpening the edges of her silhouette.

"Your body is more than a conduit for Sensoria," she said. "It is your first weapon, your last defense."

She stepped into the center of the room. "Strike me."

Orion did not hesitate. The lessons with Varun had burned away his reluctance. He lunged forward, fist snapping toward her centerline—

—And then he was on his back.

He had not seen her move.

Pain registered a second later, not from a single point, but from everywhere. His balance had been stolen, his force redirected, his strike turned against him.

Master Irma waited, unmoving, as he gathered himself. There was no mockery in her expression, no satisfaction.

"Efficiency dictates lethality, kiddo." she continued. "The seamless transmission of force—torque initiated from the ground, channeled through the core, and delivered without hesitation."

She took a single step forward.

"Again."

The next strike was faster, sharper. He adjusted, flowing into a feint before twisting into a second blow. A direct attack was foolish; he had already learned that. This time, he angled his weight differently, his footwork shifting to create a deceptive rhythm.

She caught his wrist with two fingers.

A twist. A shift.

Pain flared, and the ground welcomed him again.

"Your body does not move as one, focus more on that." she said. "You strike with the intent of harming me, but your legs do not commit. Your core does not commit. Your breath does not commit."

She released him and took a slow step back.

Orion rose, slower this time, his muscles aching. The simplicity of it was infuriating. He had thrown hundreds of strikes, drilled countless forms, yet under her scrutiny, it all felt shallow.

Master Irma exhaled.

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"Let me show you."

She stepped forward. No wasted motion, no warning. Her hand cut through the air, an open palm striking toward him.

Orion barely raised his arm before she touched his chest.

The force sent him skidding backward. Not through raw strength, but through total control of momentum.

He gasped, realizing too late what had happened. She had not overpowered him. She had used him against himself.

Time blurred. The lesson stretched into a brutal rhythm. Again. Again. Again. Each strike was met with a lesson in failure. Each motion, no matter how refined, was dismantled, revealed for its imperfections.

She was not teaching him how to fight. She was teaching him how to exist within a fight.

The way his stance connected to his breath.

The way a strike began from the feet, not the hands.

The way power came not from tension, but from fluidity.

And then, something shifted.

Orion moved—not by intention, not by force of will, but because it was simply what came next.

He stepped into her attack, absorbing its momentum instead of resisting. His body adjusted, not because he commanded it, but because it already knew.

For the first time, Master Irma's expression changed.

A flicker of something beneath her gaze. Not approval. Not victory.

Recognition.

She stepped back. The lesson was not over.

"Again."