I was experiencing a passive Blessing. A rare phenomenon, even among those fortunate enough to have manifested any Blessing at all.
While most Blessings required active invocation, required conscious effort and directed will, this one operated at the periphery of consciousness. Watch something. The Journal recorded it. My body absorbed it.
It was, in the most literal sense, a supercharged version of "Copy and Do"—the basic human capacity to learn through observation. But escalated to the point of becoming something supernatural.
The implications cascaded through my mind.
I tested it further by shifting stance and executing a combination I'd invented myself—movements that Gun Man had demonstrated individually but never in this specific sequence. My body performed them with the same effortless precision.
The Journal wasn't simply replaying recorded information. It was 'understanding' the principles underlying the movements and allowing my body to apply those principles flexibly.
I punched a nearby tree to test the integration of strength with technique.
BAMM—!!!
The impact was devastating.
Bark splintered. My fist left an indentation in the wood that would remain visible for years. The force of the strike surprised me—not because I didn't have the physical power (the tumor notwithstanding, my adolescent body was capable of damage), but because it emerged so naturally, so perfectly aligned with the footwork and positioning Gun Man had demonstrated.
"This is real," I said aloud, still processing. "This is actually happening."
For the first time since the regression, I felt something approximating genuine advantage.
The Dark stone would be a weapon, yes—a tool that could amplify my raw mana output to dangerous levels. But this was different. This was the cultivation of skill. This was the development of something that looked natural, that could pass for training rather than innate talent.
This was how I would make myself viable for the match without exposing the true nature of my abilities.
The days leading up to February 26th became a study in disciplined immersion.
I established a routine that mimicked the other orphans' training schedule while operating in complete isolation. Early morning, before the sun had fully risen and the grounds were still empty.
I would practice the fundamental positions and movements that Gun Man had documented. Footwork drills. Stance variations. The mechanical integration of breathing with movement.
By mid-morning, when the other nine were at their peak training intensity, I would retreat to the library or my dormitory room, using my phone to study different instructors, different styles, different approaches.
Muay Thai practitioners demonstrating clinch techniques.
Wrestlers showing leverage-based takedowns.
Judoka explaining falling and recovery.
Each video was another component, another set of principles that the Journal somehow absorbed and made available to my body.
The other orphans noticed my absence from their collective efforts, but my established isolation made my continued detachment seem unremarkable. I was already separate. My non-participation was simply an extension of that existing separation.
By midday, when most of the facility was occupied with meals and rest, I trained in earnest.
The progress was almost supernatural. Movements that should have required weeks of repetition became available in days.
Combinations that would normally demand dedicated practice became possible after a handful of conscious rehearsals. My body was learning faster than any human body should be capable of learning.
It was exhilarating and terrifying in equal measure.
The tumor, notably, didn't stop.
The periodic dizziness continued. The headaches persisted. The knowledge that I was living on borrowed time, that my body was a slowly deteriorating instrument, never disappeared. But somehow, the integration of Gun Man's techniques seemed to enhance my ability to compensate for physical decline.
The footwork kept my center of gravity stable, reducing the impact of vertigo. The breathing techniques provided a framework for managing pain. The stance principles distributed my weight in ways that made my chronic weakness less noticeable.
By the time the match was ten days away, I could execute complex striking sequences with the fluidity and precision of someone who'd trained for years. I moved like someone who understood his body, who had integrated martial principles into his fundamental physical being.
I moved like someone dangerous.
But not suspiciously dangerous. I was still visibly a teenager. Still bearing the obvious markers of someone who'd been chronically ill.
The kind of person who might surprise observers with competence but who wouldn't strike them as possessing the kind of elite-level skill that would warrant further investigation or concern.
The balance was delicate. I needed to perform well enough to register as a candidate for Aulria's attention.
I needed to be good enough that Sia, watching from whatever vantage point had been arranged for her, would see something worth remembering. But I couldn't be so good that I raised questions about how a terminally ill orphan had acquired such capability.
Which meant the match itself would be calculated. I would demonstrate enough skill to impress, but not enough to seem impossible. I would make the right kind of mistake—the kind that showed effort and intelligence but also human limitation.
February 25th arrived with the peculiar weight that always preceded significant transitions.
The nine were being given a day of rest before the match.
The theory was that they needed mental preparation and physical recovery. The reality was that their fate was already sealed. A single day of rest wouldn't change the outcome. But it allowed the orphanage to maintain the fiction that they believed in the possibility of success.
I spent the day in my usual isolation, which now felt like something different. Not avoidance, but strategy. Not weakness, but deliberately cultivated invisibility.
That evening, the entire facility gathered for what was nominally a motivational assembly but functioned more as a funeral vigil for an institution everyone knew was dying. The director gave a speech about heritage and duty.
The teachers offered encouragement. The children chanted slogans that sounded increasingly hollow.
I sat in the back, observing rather than participating.
The nine who would compete tomorrow were trying to maintain their optimism, but the cracks were showing. A few looked genuinely frightened.
One of them—a girl whose name I still couldn't quite remember despite years of proximity—was openly crying. The reality was setting in: they were about to face an opponent they couldn't overcome, and losing would mean displacement, homelessness, the severing of the only social structure they'd ever known.
It was a brutal kind of mercy, I thought. At least they had each other. At least they faced it as a community.
I didn't want to go through them this kind of experience but I was too powerless to do anything.
But I think I can do this....
I was going to write a letter and not to anyone but Sia Aulria