Carl watched them move through their stretches, the thick resistance bands pulling taut with effort. These weren't standard-issue bands—they were heavy-duty, the kind meant for bodies already shaped by work. Some had frayed edges, the rubber dulled from use, but they held firm.
The workout, as Peter would later describe it, was about being strong when already tired. Not polished strength—working strength.
Carl didn't say much, but when he did, it was clear. And when needed, he'd show them—prosthetic and all—adjusting Peter's stance, shifting his weight, correcting form.
Jud, his father, and Carl trained with urgency. Movements were sharp, consistent. No wasted time.
It was their first real workout, and it was hard. The first hour left their arms and legs heavy. The second hour was harder—mostly mental. Carl made sure of that, keeping the pace steady and expectations high.
During breaks, Carl encouraged holding a plank or wall sit. He didn't always say it twice. Peter ended up doing it for half his rest time, not from instruction—just habit.
They trained for two hours, with short five-minute breaks when needed. Work continued with tired muscles. Each round pressed them further. No distractions. Just training.
Jud was sinew-strong. His muscles moved tight under the skin, built from years of steady work. Even with the semi in the driveway, he didn't move like a typical driver. His hands were worn, his shoulders set like someone used to lifting, hauling, climbing. Everything about him said he didn't waste motion.
Gerald, Peter's father, had the kind of frame that came from playing ball—long legs, good posture, natural balance. He'd been a college basketball player, and it still showed in the way he moved. But he didn't train the way he used to. His fitness came more from routine and a decent lifestyle than hard effort. He looked good for his age, but this kind of workout—two hours deep, sweat heavy, muscles tested—wasn't something he did often anymore.
Peter kept moving, his breath shallow, arms tight from the weight work and band resistance.
And when it got hard, he pictured the bear.
He remembered the way it dragged his mother into the trees. Her blood on the ground. The sound of her voice. He hadn't been able to do anything then. That memory didn't fade—it lived just behind everything else.
He was here so that next time—whether it was the same bear or something worse—he could stop it. He could kill it. Anything that tried to harm him or the people he cared about.
And it wasn't just about survival.
If the strong determined the rules, then he'd be stronger. Strong enough that no one could question it. If he was number two, then nobody could claim to be number one. Not in his world. Not ever again.
After two hours, they brought out some meat—thick cuts of jerky wrapped in faded plastic. Jud said it was from before the apocalypse, something he'd hunted and dried himself- he had been an avid hunter. Peter chewed slowly, working through the dense strip- decent pepper flavor. He'd been hoping for fresh meat—something with real energy, something that might stir his core and help him cultivate again. But this? This was just old-world food from before the energy had come.
Then came weapons training.
Gerald stood slowly. He hesitated, casting a glance at Peter—the kind that said You're still just a kid.
But then he paused, and something shifted.
He reflected on what they'd talked about earlier—the need for strength, for readiness. This new world wouldn't bend to sentiment. It demanded grit, skill, and the will to act. Gerald squared his shoulders and stepped forward, quiet but certain, ready to face what lay ahead.
They brought out the weapons after the workout—mostly spears. All metal. The shafts were repurposed steel pipes, some still faintly stamped with faded numbers or utility codes from their original use. The weld lines where the spearheads met the shafts were rough, a bit raised, some with visible slag beads along the seams. The heads themselves were cut from scrap—old tool steel, maybe—flattened and sharpened into jagged points that caught light unevenly. They were heavy in the hand, especially near the tip, the balance rough but workable. The grips were wrapped with strips of old rubber hose or cracked electrical tape—some of it still tacky from the heat.
One was noticeably shorter than the rest, and when Peter glanced at Jud, it lined up. That one was built for him—thick through the shaft, trimmed down enough to move quick without losing stopping power.
"These came from a book we found in the old library," Carl said, tapping the shaft of a longer spear. "How to fight with medieval weapons. Strategy, spacing, simple forms. Some of it's been useful."
He nodded slightly toward Jud. "The rest comes from his time in the woods. Hunting, tracking—he knows what works up close."
Jud gave a small nod. He stood near a rusted red toolbox, arms crossed, one foot on a slab of cracked concrete. His eyes stayed on the weapons, like he was still adjusting things in his head.
"There's a machinist in town," Carl added. "Still does repair work. Hobby smith on the side. We gave him the book's ideas and some scrap, and he threw these together fast. Just something to start with."
He picked one up and gave it a short toss in his hand. The rubber grip flexed slightly. "We bring him some meat with energy—fresh, not dried stuff—and he'll trade for better ones. These are quick builds. Crude, but they'll hold."
Peter picked one and turned it in his hands. The steel had a faint smell of oil and heat. The point wasn't symmetrical, but it came to a clean taper. It didn't glide—his hand caught slightly on the tape wrap—but the weight pulled forward the way it should. It might not be smooth, but it would hit hard.
"Why a spear?" Father asked.
Carl nodded toward the field. "Reach. Two hands. Works."
He tapped a machete resting on a crate, its handle wrapped in gray duct tape. "That? You gotta step in. Miss once, you're open."
He placed a hand on one of the spears. "Simple. Teachable. Hits hard."
Jud shifted his weight, arms crossed, voice slower and thick with his accent. "Mais, lemme tell ya—this here ain't just theory. Carl? He done seen what it look like when a fight go bad. Folks freeze up, start swingin' like they swattin' flies. You hand 'em a spear, now they got a chance. Keep that thing out in front, don't gotta get too close."
He nodded toward the pile. "Book we picked up had it all in there—old-time armies usin' spears like bread an' butter. Didn't matter if you was a farmer or some poor fool from the village, they gave you a pole an' taught ya to jab. Real basic. But lemme tell ya, you train it right? You get clean with your feet, learn to time that step—ooh boy, that spear turn somethin' ugly."
He looked toward Peter and Gerald. "Y'all gon' train with knives too—ain't goin' nowhere without a blade, no sir—but the spear, that's what we build around. Same length, same grip, same way we move. That way, we ain't just fightin'. We movin' together."
The spears stood out—rough but thought through. Welded. Weighted. Meant for building muscle memory.
"With them old-world guns dead," Jud added, "we ain't cobblin' junk together no more. We settin' a base. Somethin' solid. You train on this, it stick."
Carl gave a short nod. "Same motion. Every time."
He looked at Peter and Gerald. "Knife and spear. That's the kit. That's the work."
Peter adjusted his grip. The welds were uneven, ridged under his fingers. The tape was loose in spots, sticky at the edges. The weight tipped slightly forward—enough to matter. It didn't look like much, but it felt like something you could train into something sharp.
Solid enough for now.
They trained for about an hour after that—just the basics.
Carl led from the start. He didn't waste words. Feet shoulder-width. Knees soft but set. Weight forward, not leaning. The kind of stance that let you move without losing balance.
"Hands low. Elbows tight. Point forward. Step into it," he said, pacing slowly in front of them. His voice was low, steady, the kind that didn't ask—it told. When someone was off, he didn't stop the group. He just stepped in, adjusted them with a firm hand, and moved on.
Peter was already feeling it. His shirt stuck to his back from the two-hour workout before, and his arms still trembled faintly from band work and weighted sprints. The spear didn't help. It wasn't balanced like a bat—it dragged forward, making every repetition feel heavier than the last.
Carl caught him slouching and walked over. No expression. Just reached out, adjusted Peter's back elbow, then moved his rear foot half an inch. "Better," he said. "Now hold it."
They drilled the same movement. Step. Thrust. Reset.
Jud was solid. His frame moved with a kind of natural strength—no extra motion, just clean drive and follow-through. The spear didn't pull him; he directed it. His grip was steady, shoulders tight and anchored, each step landing like he'd done it a thousand times.
Gerald, on the other side, had quick feet—good balance. Even tired, his posture was tight, and his steps reset clean. He didn't overpower the spear, but he didn't fall behind it either. He moved smart.
Peter watched them both as he worked. His own arms burned. His hands were raw from the tape, his breath loud in his ears. But every time he thrust the spear forward, there was only one thing running through his head.
Strength.
Jud's power. His dad's movement. Carl's presence.
That was what he wanted—not just to survive, not just to keep up. Strength to fight what needed fighting. Strength to kill the bear. Strength to make sure no one else decided the rules for him.
His form wasn't smooth. His hands ached. But he kept going. Step. Thrust. Reset. Again. Again.
And Carl, watching from just behind, gave a single nod.
After the spear work came cultivation.
Jud already had the meat ready—thick cuts laid across a wire rack set over a low fire. Smoke drifted through the clearing, carrying the scent of cooked venison and wood ash. "Deer," he said, flipping one of the slabs with a blackened piece of rebar. "Dropped it two days back. Clean shot."
When it finished cooking, he passed out the meat—larger portions for Carl and Gerald, a smaller one for Peter. Peter accepted it but didn't eat. He sat cross-legged beside the fire, hands on his knees, the plate resting beside him.
His father gave him a look.
"You sure?" Gerald asked, voice low. "If it's gonna hurt again—"
Peter answered flatly, "It's my problem."
Gerald didn't argue. Peter had already gone over the breathing and posture with him earlier, and Jud had added his usual sharp comments. That morning, Gerald had taken a few minutes to quietly reread a couple pages from Peter's old library book.
When the food was gone, the three of them settled into the dirt—no countdown, no words. Just steady movement. Carl stayed off to the side, arms crossed, eyes moving between them with practiced calm.
Peter didn't join in.
He watched.
Jud settled fast—posture tight, breath deep and unhurried. Nothing slack in his body. Each inhale seemed to pull the air a little closer, as if the space around him was shifting.
Gerald followed. He adjusted his knees once, then stilled. His hands rested palm-down. His chest moved in slow rhythm. His jaw unclenched as his body began to sink into stillness.
Peter observed every breath, every shift. They were focused. Present. They were drawing energy in.
And yet… no pain.
Not even strain. No signs of what had happened to him that first time. It just worked for them—without fight, without panic.
His eyes lingered on the space between them. On the quiet. On the subtle pull in the air.
He didn't understand it.
Why had it hit him so hard?
Why did it hurt him—but not them?
Peter picked up his plate and started to eat.
The meat was warm, the edges a little crisp, the inside still juicy. It tasted smoky and wild, with a deep flavor that stuck. He didn't rush. The fat clung to his fingers as he ate, he enjoyed every single bite.
Peter set the plate down beside him. The warmth of the meat lingered low in his gut, like something waiting to be used. It didn't fade. It sat there, deep and slow, like it was waiting on his word. He wiped his fingers on the inside of his shirt, glanced once at his father and Jud nearby, then closed his eyes.
He sat cross-legged, hands resting on his knees. His back straightened on instinct. The breeze moved across his forearms. His breath steadied—not forced, just settled.
The energy stirred.
It didn't jolt or jump. It gathered. First in his gut, then branching out in quiet lines, spreading through his stomach and chest. Each breath seemed to draw it in closer, like the rhythm itself pulled something into place. The warmth he'd felt earlier sharpened. His focus narrowed to the space behind his navel, where the feeling first rooted.
It grew clearer with each moment. Denser. Real.
Then it started to move.
Heat stretched out across his torso. Not surface warmth—deep and wide, like holding a plank past comfort, where your body stops asking questions and just starts counting seconds. Cold came right after, coasting along his spine, curling under his ribs, pooling in his legs. The shift made his breath catch, but he held still.
A flicker came alive behind his ribs—short pulses, quick bursts, like the nerves were being lit up one at a time. They weren't sharp—they were just… full. Alive. Insistent.
His jaw clenched.
The energy pressed forward.
It didn't rush. It leaned. Every inch asked for something—focus, grit, posture. The warmth in his chest took on weight. The cold in his back filled out like water moving through tight pipes. Behind his eyes, the flickering turned steady, like a hum building toward something.
His breath hitched.
His hands curled slightly, fingers tightening on his knees. His shirt stuck damp to his spine. Sweat slid along the angle of his jaw.
The energy pulled in.
Not scattered. Not loose. It drew toward itself, winding like cord, layering on its own movement. His ribs stretched under the pressure. His arms locked in place. His legs shook once, hard enough that he had to press his heels into the ground to stay centered. His neck felt hot, the back of it twitching under the strain- he was prepared as the pain set in- it was like being hit with extreme coldness, heat, and electricity all at once- Peter's body wanted him to yell out… give up.
But he mentally doubled down and endured as he continued to push forward.
Still, he guided it.
Not perfectly. Not with certainty. Just with effort. He stayed with it, holding that narrow space where his breath and body met.
The sensation reached through every part of him now. His chest pulsed. His gut tightened, not from fear but from holding something that felt close to completion. It pressed in, and his body responded- but so did the pressure and pain which grew more intensely.
A wave passed through his spine the pain was getting g worse the closer he got the energy to his dantian.
Everything inside him was working now. Breath. Pressure. Focus. Sweat beading at his brow.
And the energy kept drawing closer.
The final stretch came.
As the energy reached the end of its path, something shifted.
Pressure eased from his body, like a hand lifting from his back. His chest rose evenly. His breath slowed on its own, deep and steady. Sweat rolled down his arms, his back, along his jaw. His shirt clung to him, damp from effort.
His meridians pulsed—warm and stretched, filled from end to end. Each one hummed with the memory of movement, like rope drawn tight and then let go. The ache sat deep inside him, not sharp but steady. His whole frame carried it.
And his mind—quiet, but heavy.
He felt the drain now. His thoughts moved slower. His focus didn't scatter, but it had thinned. He had poured something into that effort—more than muscle, more than breath. He stayed sitting, not because he chose to, but because his body wasn't ready to stand. His hands rested where they'd started. His eyes remained closed.
Inside, at the center of him, the dantian held form.
It felt real now. Round, open, balanced—like a space shaped to hold something permanent. And resting there was a sliver.
Smaller than half his pinkie nail. Smooth-edged, set deep in the middle of that space. Its presence filled the dantian not with size, but with weight. Like a starting point carved with intention.
The sliver carried a faint blue tint. Not glowing—just a soft color that seemed baked into it, like cooled steel that had held flame.
Peter breathed around it, slow and grounded.
His arms hung heavy. His thoughts drifted, not with confusion, but with emptiness—used. The kind of tired that ran deeper than muscle.
And still, the sliver remained—anchored in that space.
Jud was the first to speak. "You get it in yer dantian, boy?"
Peter looked up, still catching his breath. Sweat clung to his face, shoulders rising and falling slow and even. Gerald stood nearby, arms crossed, eyes steady.
Peter gave a tired grin. "Yeah. I did. Took everything I had… but it condensed right into my core."
Jud raised an eyebrow. Gerald shot him a glance—both looked unsure—and said at the same time, "Condensed?"
Peter nodded. "That's what it felt like. At first, the energy was like a clear vapor—"
Jud cut in, "I think of it like gas, yeah. That sound 'bout right."
Peter continued, "But as I pushed it through my meridians, the pressure kept building. It hurt—but every time I pushed, it got tighter, heavier. I think the pain comes from the pressure—like the meridians are forcing it to condense."
He looked between them. "That's not what it's like for you?"
Gerald shifted his stance slightly. "For me, it felt like moving gas. I just kept focus and guided it along. I did lose some though—lost focus a couple times. It takes more concentration than I expected."
Jud gave a slow nod. "Same here. Gotta stay locked in. Patient-like."
Peter blinked, still breathing slow. He frowned slightly, wondering why his process felt so different.
Jud scratched at his jaw. "Make me wonder how it work comin' outta you too."
Peter and Gerald both looked at him, puzzled.
Peter's voice came out quiet, a little hoarse. "What do you mean?"
Jud tilted his head. "Well, you can use the energy, yeah? What you think we doin' this for? Ain't tryin' to just hold it."
He flexed one arm and gave the faintest grin. "I ain't punchin' marks in trees with just these ol' bones. I draw it where I want it—make whatever I'm doin' hit harder, run longer. Feel like an extra gear once you get the feel for it."
Carl, still standing off to the side, finally spoke. "Looks like we've got one last thing to work on—using the energy."
Jud grinned, rolling his shoulders loose. "This the part that's fun, once you get the feel for it." He stepped toward a nearby tree, lifted his fist, and punched.
The bark cracked faintly.
Then again. And again.
By the sixth hit, there were solid indentations in the trunk—spaced close, tight and clean.
"That there's 'bout half my energy," Jud said, flexing his hand and nodding. "Ain't a lot, but it land heavy when it's guided right. It stack fast. Keep trainin', keep eatin'. Body get strong, energy just add on top. Double fold, like I said."
Peter moved forward toward the tree, raising his hands. Gerald stepped up beside him, fists clenched.
"Whoa, whoa," Jud said, holding out a hand. "Don't start with a tree."
Gerald paused, lowering his arms.
"Gotta get a feel for it first," Jud added. "Ain't like throwin' a punch. Gotta draw it in—limb by limb. Find the meridian, guide it soft. You start pushin' too hard, it'll slip or stall."
He repositioned Gerald with a quick nudge to the elbow and a point at his stance. "There. Just breathe. Then punch the air. Feel for that thread."
They began.
The minutes passed slow.
Peter was still, breathing deep, eyes closed. He focused inward, tracing the now-familiar weight at his core. It was there—anchored—but distant.
Around ten minutes in, he felt a faint line, something stretching out toward his right hand.
He tried to pull. Nothing.
Focused harder. Still nothing.
Nearby, Gerald stayed silent, sweat gradually dampening his shirt. His brows stayed tight in concentration. He breathed hard through his nose, shaking out his arms every few minutes, starting again.
Twenty minutes.
Thirty.
Peter occasionally glanced at his dad, who hadn't spoken once. Just breathed, refocused, tried again.
Forty minutes. Then fifty.
Peter could sense it. His dad was getting closer.
Then finally—an hour in—Gerald exhaled, deep and fast, and stepped back. "I think… I did it."
He blinked, visibly drained. "It moved. I used it. I could feel the strength behind it."
Jud gave him a nod. "Took you a bit, but that's fine. First time always sticky."
Peter's heart thudded.
He turned back inward. Tried again.
Still nothing.
Every now and then, he swore the energy almost shifted. But it didn't follow. Didn't move. It just waited, like it was watching him try.
He stared down at his hand, lips tight.
Why won't it move?