I’d planned to make friends with our martial arts instructor—or at least exchange a few words. In places like this, people like him always seem to matter more than they first appear. But that idea didn’t survive five minutes into the first class.

  Arnold Grimm. The name alone felt sharp. He spoke little, moved like a blade, and carried himself with the discipline of someone fresh out of an assassin training program. The room shifted the moment he stepped in—postures straightened, chatter died. His presence didn't invite conversation; it silenced it. Cold and exacting, he left no space for anything but what was taught. No one dared step out of line.

  Even thinking about talking to him felt like breaking some unspoken rule.

  The man didn’t speak unless it was necessary, and when he did, his voice was clipped, efficient—like everything else about him. He moved like a weapon drawn with purpose. No wasted steps. No hesitation.

  The first time he walked into class, the room went quiet on instinct. It wasn’t fear exactly. It was something colder, deeper—a kind of alertness he pulled out of everyone just by being there. We stood straighter. Breathed quieter. It was as if the walls themselves didn’t dare echo his footsteps.

  He didn’t introduce himself. He didn’t smile. He simply said, “Line up.” And we obeyed.

  His teaching style was... unforgiving. Not cruel, but brutally precise. Every movement had to be exact. Every stance held until your legs trembled. Mistakes weren’t scolded—they were corrected, immediately and wordlessly. A tap on the elbow. A shift of your foot. A nod. And when he did speak, his instructions cut through the room like command lines wired into our bodies.

  “Again."

  “Lower.”

  “No. Reset.”

  That was it. No praise, no comfort. Just the pursuit of perfection, like anything less would be a liability in combat.

  There were no drills that felt casual. Even the warmups felt like preparation for war. You could see it in his eyes—that distant focus, as if he wasn’t just training students but shaping weapons.

  After the first few hours, I stopped thinking about small talk. Not because I was afraid of him. Not exactly. But because it felt... wrong. Like trying to chat with a storm that’s passing through. You don’t make conversation with a force of nature. You just brace yourself, endure it, and maybe—if you're lucky—learn something from it.

  This tale has been unlawfully lifted from Royal Road. If you spot it on Amazon, please report it.

  And part of me wondered: was he always like this? Or did something make him this way? And how did this group of misers hire someone with such such presence.

  After a grueling session drilling hand-to-hand techniques and footwork, we were made to run four laps around the orphanage. At least we had it easy compared to the second years. They get sent out to the fields every day after class for “manual labor” — you know, to build experience and condition their bodies. Sounds more like free child labour disguised as training, but hey, who am I to question the curriculum?

  “I’ll be back.” Just those words, a nod, and then he launched himself fifteen meters straight into the air. He landed on the border wall with flawless precision and disappeared over it like it was nothing.

  Fifteen meters. Straight up. Like it was the easiest thing in the world.

  And yet, for a moment somehow, I stood there, thinking this was normal.

  Why did I even consider that possible for a human?

  Digging through my memories, it turns out Evans expected this kind of impossible feat. His memories might be unreliable—fractured—but their influence on me is undeniable.

  And now, I’m left wondering how much of what I believe is real... and how much has been rewritten.

  Putting my pessimism aside for a moment—this world actually has superpowers. Real, superhuman skills you can train and master. So what else can Arnold do? It doesn’t matter how cold or aloof he seems—I’m going to talk him out of everything he’s capable of. Just thinking about what he could do with those skills gets my mind racing.

  If there are martial arts this intense, then what about magic? Or cultivation techniques? The possibilities are endless—and honestly, it’s exciting just to imagine it all. I can’t wait to see how far these powers can go.

  Back on Earth, I was a huge nerd for anything involving superpowers—especially the bizarre, reality-breaking ones straight out of Lovecraftian mythos. Powers that could twist time, bend reality, peer into the unseen.

  Was it ever possible for a human to reach that level?

  I don’t know.

  I don’t care.

  Because in 'this' life, I know exactly what I’m chasing.

  My first life was one of quiet mediocrity—a small, forgettable cog in a machine easily replaceable. I wasn’t unhappy, not exactly—but I was forgettable.

  The second life gave me unlimited time, but only ten steps. Freedom, with chains too subtle to fight.

  But this third life… feels different. Open. Untamed.

  For once, I’m not confined. And this time, my path, my purpose, is irreplaceable.

  If there’s even a flicker of possibility, even the faintest path leading to that power… then settling for less would be a betrayal. Of this life. Of myself.

  I wasn’t given another shot to live safe and survive.

  I was given it to live limitless.

  “A man’s reach should exceed his grasp, or what’s a heaven for?”

  —Robert Browning

  This time, I won’t just dream of the impossible.

  I’ll hunt it.

  Bleed for it.

  Become it.

  And when I stand at the edge of what’s real—

  I’ll take one more step.