John ran a hand through his hair, glancing around the cultivation room. A few days until the next song drop. He needed to be on the 20th floor by then. The news about the music additions was spreading, and he knew it would draw attention. People from the higher floors would come looking for him—wanting to pull him to their side in hopes of gaining some kind of advantage. He had learned that lesson the hard way in his last life. This knowledge burned in his mind, a reminder of how easily alliances could shift, how power drew people like moths to a flame. Which meant pushing his martial arts training harder. His mind drifted to the clock face analogy he’d been working on. He took a deep breath and began to move.

  "Okay, imagine you’re standing in the middle of a giant clock drawn on the floor," he muttered, shifting his weight slightly, feeling the balance. "The clock… it’s not just about directions. It’s about flow. And not just for stance—for incoming attacks too. Every attack has its time and direction."

  He stepped forward, visualizing the 12 o’clock position. "Facing straight ahead, 12 o’clock. Weight even, ready for anything. My home base." His right foot shifted, his arm extending as if anticipating an attack.

  "Three o’clock." The words were a breath, his body flowing to the right. "Weight shifts. Ready to move, turn, deal with anything from this side." He pictured a strike at his flank, stepping fluidly through the imaginary assault, redirecting the force. "Don’t block. Flow with it, turn it against them." His elbow snapped forward in a counter, followed by a low sweep of his leg.

  At 6 o’clock, he rocked back on his heels. "Backwards movement. Dodge, set up a counter. Load up like a spring." He visualized a downward strike and shifted swiftly, absorbing the imaginary blow. His body coiled, then snapped forward with a thrust. He turned, shifting to 9 o’clock. "Same principle as 3, but left. Block, step, pivot. Smooth transition."

  His movements became sharper, his voice rising with intensity. "The key isn’t just hitting the numbers. It’s the flow. Turn their attack into an opening." He moved seamlessly, stepping, pivoting, turning, the clock face guiding him like a silent partner.

  "Push at 12? Step to 1 or 11, off the line. Dodge. Or spin to 3 or 9, redirect completely." He demonstrated, his feet gliding. "Push at 3? Step, turn their momentum. Push at 6? Absorb, counter. Push at 9? Pivot, turn the tables."

  Each motion blended into the next. The clock’s imaginary hands ticked, not marking time but tracing his rhythm. He began visualizing attacks coming from different positions. "An attack at 12? Meet it with a shift to 1 or 11, deflect and counter. An attack from 3? Flow to 4 or pivot through to 6." His breath deepened. "It’s body mechanics, timing. Staying relaxed to stay powerful. Practice. Muscle memory. Instinct."

  He paused, sweat beading on his brow, and stared at the floor. "Master this flow, and the 20th floor won’t stand a chance." His fists clenched. He resumed, sharper now, more focused.

  John pulled out another beast core. The faint scent of ozone and raw energy filled the air, a metallic tang lingering beneath it. He popped it into his mouth. A surge of power exploded across his tongue, sinking deep into his core. He was feeling the way the new energy was spreading in his body.

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  "No," he muttered, shaking his head. "Waiting won’t cut it. Not this time."

  In the center of the room, he settled into a tai-chi stance. This wasn’t just about strength. It was control. The beast cores offered raw power, but tai-chi was the art of wielding it. Slowly, deliberately, he began to move. Each motion harmonized the currents of energy within him.

  Eyes closed, he visualized the chi’s intricate pathways, tracing rivers across a map. With each shift of weight, every turn of his wrist, he felt the energy pulse and flow. The slightest intention directed it, amplified it.

  "The cores give me power," he murmured. "But this… this is how I use it." His arm extended, not in a forceful thrust but a fluid arc. He imagined an incoming blow. A subtle weight shift, a torso rotation, and the imaginary force redirected. The echo of the movement resonated through his body.

  Tai-chi wasn’t just a practice. It was a forge, refining raw energy into precision. The subtle changes within him—the tightening muscles, the quickening pulse beneath his skin—were threads he wove into his movements. If he waited passively, the power would remain foreign, like ill-fitting clothes. But if he understood its flow, it would become his own.

  A slow, deliberate turn gathered momentum, coiling like a spring before exploding into a sharp strike. The air shimmered, rippling with released energy. He felt closer with each breath, each movement. The next ten floors loomed, but he was ready to forge his power—a weapon, a tool, an extension of himself.

  John then decided to pull out his fly-rod. It was time to start getting used to using it as a main weapon. He began experimenting with the nano fishing line, testing its capabilities and limits. While he knew he could rely on Max to control the line, he felt compelled to master it himself. The more he swung the rod, the more natural it felt—like an extension of his body, almost instinctive.

  John lost himself in practice, extending and retracting the line with fluid movements. As he trained, he discovered that wrapping the line around the rod adjusted its properties, making it more rigid or flexible depending on how much line was used. This revelation brought a grin to his face. This was what he had been searching for—the joy of creation and mastery. The challenge before him ignited something deep within, a drive that pushed him forward.

  He knew mastery would take years, but that was what he loved most. This was his path. He began alternating his training—unsummoning the rod to practice unarmed techniques, then resummoning it to integrate the rod into his movements. Each transition felt seamless, building a foundation for fighting both with and without the rod.

  "I can’t just rely on the weapon," he thought. "I am the weapon in this world of death."

  Max had been watching John practice. Her new nano body was fun getting use to, she leaned against the doorway, her gaze fixed on him. He was still getting used to his new strength, but it wasn’t just his power that had changed—it was him. He had been different ever since the massacre at the dungeon’s entrance. The way he moved, the decisions he made, even his expression—it all carried the weight of someone who had been shaped by something beyond this life.

  She didn’t fully understand why John adapted so quickly now, but she suspected it had something to do with the urgency driving him. The music, the floors, the attention from above—it was all part of a bigger picture she was still piecing together. One thing was clear: John was determined to send a message to the world. Not just through his actions but through the music that would echo across the floors.

  This was the first time she had seen him commit to something like this. It was unlike him, and yet, it felt right. For now, she chose to observe. If this path he was carving out became a problem, she would bring it up when the time came. Until then, she resolved to assist him in any way she could. Her instincts told her this was only the beginning, and she would be there, watching his back every step of the way.