The suburban home, nestled on a street so quiet you could hear a dog sigh three blocks over, usually hummed with the predictable rhythm of family life. Right now, that hum included the distant thud of a basketball bouncing against the garage door and the surprisingly loud commentary erupting from the living room TV. For Alexander, a boy still navigating the awkward transition from childhood chubbiness to gangly pre-teen limbs, all sound and motion—especially his father's booming cheers—coalesced around the glorious, brutal ballet unfolding on the screen.
His dad, a man built like a reliable old pickup truck with weathered hands and laugh lines carved deep around his eyes, was an MMA fanatic. Every weekend, the living room transformed into a no-holds-barred commentary booth. The volume would be cranked to eleven, making the windows rattle in their frames, as muscled titans clashed in cages across the globe. Alexander's mom, bless her ever-patient heart, would sometimes join them on the worn leather couch, offering gentle observations like, "Ay, that looks painful, dear!" as a fighter absorbed a devastating elbow to the face. She meant it, too—every wince was genuine, every concern heartfelt.
From his earliest memories, the raw power and frankly insane dedication of MMA fighters had captivated Alexander. He didn't quite grasp the intricate chess match of Brazilian Jiu-Jitsu or the precise, devastating footwork of a Muay Thai champion, but the sheer will, the explosive athleticism, and the often-hilarious, unwavering focus of the fighters were magnetic. He'd mimic their stances in the living room during commercial breaks, throwing clumsy, wind-milling punches that usually ended with him stumbling backward into the coffee table, much to his parents' weary amusement. It was fun, a fantastic way to burn off what seemed like an inexhaustible supply of youthful energy. But it wasn't enough.
He didn't just want to watch; he wanted to do. He wanted to be the strongest, the fastest, the most unshakeable force imaginable. He craved a path to mastery, even if he pictured it as something straight out of a Saturday morning cartoon where heroes trained under waterfalls and caught lightning in their bare hands. He instinctively felt that true power lay in pushing beyond limits, in embracing what others considered not just impossible, but frankly, ridiculous. He wanted, with a profound and startling lack of self-preservation, "the worst training."
This innate yearning, this almost comically simple-minded desire for ultimate intensity, eventually led him to the kind of place other kids avoided like a surprise math test. It was an old, dilapidated dojo tucked away on the outskirts of town, practically swallowed by overgrown weeds and shrouded in a vague aura of neglect. The paint peeled like sunburned skin, and the wooden sign out front hung at such a crooked angle it looked perpetually confused. Rumors floated around the neighborhood: it was haunted by the ghost of a failed martial artist, or maybe run by a crazy old hermit who talked to squirrels and practiced his kicks on invisible enemies.
Turns out, the second theory was pretty much spot on.
His name, Alexander would eventually learn, was Master Thorne, though most locals simply referred to him with an exasperated sigh as "the old man who yells at clouds." Thorne was, in fact, the true, unsung inventor of the "Beyonider Style"—a genius whose understanding of human movement, efficiency, and mental fortitude was so far ahead of his time, it practically resided on a different planet. He had meticulously crafted every detail of what he called "inhuman training," perfecting every micro-movement, every infuriating mental exercise, every drill designed to cultivate perfect counters, unyielding stamina, and an imperviousness to feints that made opponents question their life choices and career paths.
But his brilliance had been met with nothing but skepticism, ridicule, and occasionally, bewildered pity from the martial arts community. Other fighters, even those performing feats far beyond normal human capability, scoffed at his claims like he'd suggested they could fly by flapping their arms really hard. "Beyonider Style? More like Bye-Felicia Style!" they'd sneer at tournaments, dismissing his theories as outlandish, his training methods as insane (who trains by not moving?), and his ultimate goal—the "Ultra Instinct" or "Beast Instinct" Grandmaster level—as pure, unadulterated fantasy.
This had left the old master isolated, frustrated, and deeply, profoundly embittered. He spent most of his days muttering sarcastic remarks about the "sheeple" of the world who wouldn't dare push the true boundaries of human potential, usually directing his commentary toward the spiders in the corners of his dojo, who at least had the courtesy to listen without rolling their eyes.
Then, one sunny afternoon that would change both their lives forever, Alexander, with his bright blue eyes and guileless earnestness, pushed open the dojo's creaking door. The hinges protested with a sound like a dying cat, but Alexander barely noticed. He wasn't looking for easy answers or quick fixes; he was looking for the ones that sounded the most uncomfortable, the most challenging, the most likely to make other people back away slowly.
When the old man, half-jokingly and half-bitterly, described his "impossible" training—the discipline that everyone else had literally laughed him out of tournaments for proposing—Alexander's eyes didn't widen in fear or skepticism. Instead, they lit up with pure, unadulterated excitement, like a kid who'd just discovered a hidden treasure map.
"The worst training?" Alexander had asked, his voice clear and unwavering, utterly devoid of irony or doubt. "The most inhuman intensity? Yes! Please, tell me more!"
Master Thorne, who had only ever encountered skepticism, scorn, and the occasional thrown tomato, found himself staring at a raw, unpolished gem—a mind so singularly focused it actually believed such a thing was possible, and a spirit so ridiculously determined it craved the very hardship others sprinted from like it was on fire. After decades of solitude and scorn, his "Beyonider Style" finally had a willing, eager, and strangely untroubled student.
"You're either a complete lunatic or a godsend," Thorne grumbled, a smile almost, almost, touching the corners of his weathered lips. "Probably a bit of both, to be honest. Fine! Let's see if you break as quickly as all the others did!"
And so, the "inhuman training" began, guided by a perpetually grumpy, yet ultimately delighted (and secretly terrified he'd somehow screw it up), old genius. The seeds of the Beyonider were officially sown in the most unlikely of places, by the most unlikely of pairs.
The dojo itself was less a place of vibrant activity and more a sanctuary of profound, almost unsettling stillness. Dust motes danced in the slivers of golden light that managed to pierce the gloom from the high, grimy windows, like tiny, bored disco dancers putting on a show for an audience of none. The wooden floor, dark with age and the footsteps of countless students who had come and gone, bore the faint scars of untold hours of exertion, practice, and the occasional frustrated punch. A faint scent of damp earth and something vaguely metallic, like old iron left too long in the rain, clung to the air—a smell Alexander would forever associate with the sharpening of his own spirit, and Thorne's incessant, creative grumbling.
"First lesson, boy!" Thorne barked on that first day, his voice like gravel scraping over stone, his eyes narrowed into suspicious slits as if Alexander might suddenly sprout wings and fly away. He hobbled over to a weathered blackboard that looked like it had survived both world wars, and with a piece of chalk that had seen better decades, scrawled a single, emphatic word: SILENCE. "You want the Beyonider Style? You must first master the Steady State! You will become 'The Calm Mirror'! And to accomplish that monumental task, you must first master silence! Not just of the tongue, you blithering fool, but of the mind, of the heart, of the very air around you! QUIET! SIT! NOW!"
The training began, and it was nothing—absolutely nothing—like the flashy martial arts Alexander had seen on TV or in movies. There were no graceful katas flowing like water, no sparring partners to test his skills against, no satisfying thwacks against heavy bags that would swing dramatically. Instead, Thorne made him sit. For hours. In the center of the dusty dojo, forcing his young, hyperactive mind to quiet the endless mental chatter, to ignore the aches building in his small body, the gnawing hunger in his stomach, the suffocating blanket of boredom that threatened to drive him insane.
Thorne would occasionally pace around him like a grumpy vulture, muttering observations like, "Don't you dare twitch! Don't you dare think about that ice cream in your freezer! Your thoughts are screaming so loud I can hear them from here! Even the spiders are complaining!"
Alexander struggled mightily. His mind, accustomed to constant stimulation from video games, TV, and the general chaos of being a kid, rebelled like a toddler told he couldn't have cookies for breakfast. He squirmed, shifted, fidgeted, his thoughts racing like trapped birds frantically beating their wings against a cage. Is this it? Is this the worst training? It's just... sitting! This is worse than church on Easter Sunday! This is worse than algebra!
But then he'd remember Thorne's words, the old man's unwavering, almost predatory gaze, and he would force himself back into stillness, pushing through the mental static like swimming upstream against a raging current. He wanted the worst training, didn't he? This quiet, maddening intensity was its own special brand of hell—a really, really boring kind of hell that somehow felt more challenging than any physical workout.
Thorne introduced drills that seemed utterly bizarre, even by the standards of a boy who regularly watched people get choked unconscious for sport and entertainment. Alexander had to stand perfectly still, like a statue, while Thorne would suddenly throw small pebbles at him from different angles, or swing a twig just inches from his face with the precision of a surgeon, sometimes even letting a particularly confused pigeon flutter by his head in a panic. Alexander's natural instinct was to flinch, to blink rapidly, to jump back, or swat the bird away like any normal human being would do.
Every single time he did, Thorne would slam his worn wooden cane against the wooden floor with a sharp crack that echoed through the dojo like an angry gunshot.
"AGAIN, YOU ABSOLUTE LUMMOX!" Thorne would bellow, his voice somehow devoid of actual anger but thick with comedic exasperation, like a frustrated director dealing with an actor who kept forgetting his lines. "Your eyes are slower than molasses in January! Your muscles are loud enough to wake the dead three counties over! The storm comes, boy, and you are not the eye! You are the feather! A very loud, very clumsy feather! The Beyonider must be the eye of the storm!" He'd then mutter under his breath, just loud enough for Alexander to hear, "This is exactly why I stopped teaching regular students... they're all feathers. Loud, annoying feathers."
Slowly, agonizingly, like watching paint dry in reverse, Alexander began to change. Days turned into weeks, then stretched into two full months of relentless, mind-numbing, soul-forging training. His body, once soft with childhood comfort, began to harden and lean out, not with the overt bulk of a bodybuilder, but with a taut, efficient strength that hinted at coiled springs ready to explode into action. His mind, once scattered like leaves in a hurricane, began to coalesce into something sharper, more focused, more deadly quiet.
He learned to control his breath until it was almost imperceptible, a quiet whisper that barely stirred the air in his own chest. He learned to see the world not as a series of distinct, separate events happening to him, but as a flowing current of interconnected actions and reactions, where every movement had a subtle preceding ripple that only he seemed able to detect. He was learning to activate what Thorne called "The Calm Mirror"—a state of perfect receptivity and instant response.
The flinching stopped completely. The involuntary blinking became rare, then nonexistent. Thorne could snap a dry twig an inch from his pupil's nose, and Alexander's gaze would remain as placid and undisturbed as a deep mountain pond, unnerving Thorne slightly more with each successful test.
At home, his mother noticed the changes with growing worry that kept her awake at night. Her playful, energetic son was becoming... different. Quieter, yes, but it was more than that. More focused, certainly, but focused on what? His bright blue eyes held a depth that felt unnatural for a boy his age, a stillness that sometimes made her shiver despite the warm summer air and her overwhelming love for him. He still hugged her when he came home, still ate her carefully prepared meals (though sometimes he'd arrive home late, completely worn out, barely able to touch his food), but there was an invisible wall building around him, a profound distance she couldn't cross no matter how hard she tried.
"Are you truly well, my son?" she would ask during their quiet moments together, her fingers gently tracing the increasingly sharp line of his jaw, the nascent calluses forming on his knuckles like tiny badges of unknown battles. "This old man you're training with, what exactly is he teaching you? You are so thin now, like a reed. You don't play with your friends anymore. You barely speak at dinner. He's not... hurting you, is he?" Her voice would drop to a theatrical whisper, genuine fear tightening her throat as she imagined all sorts of terrible possibilities.
Alexander would meet her worried gaze with that newfound stillness, a calm that unnerved her more than any tantrum or teenage rebellion ever could. "I'm becoming strong, Mom," he'd say, his voice even and controlled, utterly devoid of the usual adolescent angst or defiance, sounding instead like a tiny, enlightened guru who'd discovered some profound truth. "I'm learning not to break under pressure. It's important for my future. I'm learning to protect myself, and to protect you and Dad, too."
He couldn't begin to explain the Beast Instinct, the Ultra Instinct goal, or the impossible pinnacle of human potential that Thorne spoke of with such fervent belief. How could she understand a world where humans regularly pushed their physical and mental limits far beyond what most people considered normal, and he was training to surpass even those extraordinary individuals, to become something like the ultimate guardian? She'd probably just offer him more cookies and suggest he take up a nice, safe hobby like stamp collecting.
His father, however, watched the transformation with a quiet, somber understanding that spoke of his own abandoned dreams. He saw the faint bruises that Alexander tried to hide, the lean muscle steadily replacing childhood fat, but more importantly, he recognized the unwavering resolve burning in his son's eyes like a steady flame. He had chased his own dreams of physical prowess in his youth, had felt the intoxicating pull of pushing limits, and he recognized the single-minded dedication required for such a journey.
He wouldn't openly interfere with his wife's worried pleas and constant questions, but he'd often leave a protein bar or fresh fruit on Alexander's nightstand without comment, a silent acknowledgment of the unseen path his son was walking. Sometimes he'd catch Alexander's eye across the dinner table and give him a small nod—not approval, exactly, but recognition. Understanding. Support for a journey he couldn't fully comprehend but somehow respected.
The summer continued its relentless assault of heat and humidity, the air thick and heavy like a wet blanket even inside the dusty dojo. Alexander, in a rare moment of quiet contemplation outside the training hall's walls, felt the oppressive warmth pressing against his skin as much as he felt the profound changes occurring within his mind and body. He realized with startling clarity how much had changed in just two months, how much still lay ahead like an uncharted ocean.
Two months down, he mused, his gaze drifting toward the distant city lights that shimmered faintly in the humid evening air like scattered diamonds. Only four months left of summer vacation. Four months until high school starts and everything changes again. Four months to get stronger. Much, much stronger.
As the weeks crawled by and high school loomed on the horizon like a distant storm, Alexander's commitment never wavered, never showed even the slightest crack. He was mastering what Thorne called the "Instinct Engine"—the "Feral Instinct" that would serve as the foundation for everything that followed. Thorne would launch increasingly complex and often hilariously creative attacks designed to test every aspect of Alexander's developing abilities.
He'd lunge forward with padded sticks held like swords, whip towels through the air like stinging serpents, or even produce startlingly loud, sudden noises with an ancient air horn that he'd blast inches from Alexander's ear without warning. Each attack was designed not just to test reflexes, but to push Alexander's developing instincts beyond their current limits.
Alexander's body would move in response, not with conscious thought or deliberate planning, but with preternatural reflex that seemed to operate on a level far below normal human awareness. He would slip attacks by margins so thin they seemed impossible, parry strikes with movements so subtle they were barely visible, counter with responses that flowed like water finding the path of least resistance. It was a seamless, fluid dance that seemed to anticipate every move before it was fully committed to, every attack before it reached its target.
He wasn't thinking about how to dodge anymore; he just knew. His reaction speed, once merely good for a kid his age, was sharpening into something truly monstrous, his movements becoming what Thorne called "The Phantom Fang"—strikes that seemed to appear from the ether itself, hitting their target before the opponent even realized they were in danger.
Thorne would sometimes stop mid-attack, staring at his student in bewilderment. "HOW DID YOU DO THAT, YOU LITTLE GOBLIN?!" he'd scream, his voice echoing off the dojo walls. "I DIDN'T EVEN FINISH THINKING ABOUT WHAT I WAS GOING TO DO YET, AND YOU WERE ALREADY MOVING!"
Alexander learned to read the subtle language of the human body with frightening accuracy—muscle tension that preceded movement by microseconds, tiny shifts in weight distribution that telegraphed incoming attacks, even the minute flicker in an opponent's eyes that revealed their true intentions. His mind processed this information at a rate that completely bypassed conscious thought, allowing him to move before attacks fully materialized, striking back with his own instantaneous, devastatingly precise replies.
Thorne taught him to strike only where it mattered most, to deliver maximum impact with minimal effort and energy expenditure, embodying an efficiency that was almost terrifying in its cold perfection. "Don't punch like a clumsy ox trampling through a china shop, Alexander!" Thorne would bark during their sessions. "Punch like an angry hummingbird! Precise! Annoying to your enemies! Devastatingly effective! Every movement should serve a purpose!"
Thorne, for his part, slowly began to shed some of the bitter coating that had accumulated around his heart over decades of rejection and mockery. Alexander's unwavering dedication, his absolute refusal to quit or even complain, was the validation the old master had craved for longer than he cared to remember. No one else had ever made it this far in his training, had ever truly embraced the apparent madness of his methods with such complete trust and commitment.
Thorne had spent years trying to prove the Beyonider Style's validity to a world that refused to listen, but Alexander was proving its actual possibility through pure, stubborn determination. The old master, who had known only frustration and scorn from the broader martial arts community, now looked upon his diligent pupil with a profound, almost reverent pride that surprised him with its intensity.
Thorne would occasionally catch himself muttering, "You're actually doing it, you little weirdo... You're really the one. The first one who gets it." Alexander wasn't just another student who would eventually give up and move on to easier pursuits; he was The First User of the Beyonider Style, the living proof that would carry its impossible truth into the world. He was the breathing embodiment of Thorne's lifelong obsession, a testament that the discipline was not mere fantasy but achievable reality.
The relationship between master and student deepened beyond simple instruction. Thorne began to share stories of his own journey, his failures and discoveries, his years of isolation and the slow, painful development of techniques that the world had dismissed as impossible. Alexander listened with the intensity of someone memorizing sacred texts, understanding that he was receiving knowledge that had been rejected by everyone else who had ever encountered it.
"The world will tell you that what we're doing is impossible," Thorne said one evening as they sat in the dojo's gathering darkness. "They'll say that humans have limits, that there are boundaries we cannot cross. But they're wrong, Alexander. They're wrong because they're afraid to find out what lies beyond those supposed limits. You're not afraid, are you?"
"No, Master Thorne," Alexander replied, his voice steady as stone. "I want to know what's beyond everything."
By the time the new school year began, Alexander was still physically a boy, his appearance perhaps carrying traces of his younger self to casual observers, but his inner world had been irrevocably reshaped into something entirely different. He moved through the world with a subtle grace that seemed almost supernatural, an underlying stillness that set him apart from his peers like a wolf among sheep. His blue eyes, though still innocent in many ways, now held depths that hinted at the inhuman training he'd endured, the countless hours of silent contemplation, and the dawning of an instinct that operated beyond normal human limits.
He was a living canvas of calm, a perfect mirror reflecting the world's chaos while remaining untouched by it, absorbing everything while giving away nothing. Every step he took was measured, every breath controlled, every glance purposeful. He had become something rare and precious: a student who had not only survived the impossible training but had begun to thrive within it.
The world outside the dojo remained blissfully oblivious to what was developing in their midst, but the first spark of the Beyonider's legend had been struck in that dusty, forgotten training hall. It flickered and grew stronger each day, accompanied by the distant, increasingly proud echoes of Master Thorne's exasperated shouts and grudging words of encouragement.
Alexander was no longer just a boy who wanted to be strong. He was becoming something unprecedented: the first successful student of a martial art that everyone else had dismissed as impossible, a living bridge between the world as it was and the world as it could be. The foundation had been laid, the seed planted and nurtured. Now it was time to see just how tall this particular tree would grow.