Tyson woke up in his home. The first thing he saw when he opened his eyes was his mother sitting beside him, pressing a steaming cloth onto his ribs. The heat bit into his skin, and he winced a little. That was the pain he had been feeling in his dreams. His body ached all over. His side burned, and his wrist throbbed with every breath. He blinked, trying to piece together how he had ended up in bed. Brute's voice echoed faintly in his mind, and suddenly he remembered everything. The fight. The ground. The pain. And the embarrassment.
Strangely, it almost made him laugh. Brute had predicted it right.
The moment Tyson woke up, he would have to explain everything to his mother. The thought made him chuckle under his breath. It hurt to laugh, but he couldn't help it.
"Mom," he said weakly, "when did I—"
Before he could finish the sentence, his mother, Mia, pressed her hand against his lips and pushed him gently back onto the bed. Even in his weakened state, the push felt stronger than expected. She was not smiling. Her eyes were red and puffy, and her expression was a mix of anger and sadness. She looked like she hadn't slept.
"Are you finally happy now?" she asked, her voice low and trembling.
He looked at her, unsure of what to say.
"After everything I told you," she continued, this time sobbing, "you still went ahead and fought. You don't even think about how I feel. You just act like none of this matters. Your father and I—we are proud of who you are, Tyson. Why do you keep pushing this nonsense? Why can't you just let it go?"
He had heard this speech before.
Not once or twice, but many times. It always came from a place of fear, not disappointment. His mother didn't hate warriors. She just hated the idea of losing her only son to something as brutal as battle. But Tyson couldn't help the way he felt. He had never been satisfied with just farming, and every fiber of his being told him that he was meant for something more. Being a warrior felt like it was written into him. That belief never faded, even after being knocked unconscious and waking up bruised and broken.
He let her talk. His ribs hurt too much to argue. Her voice faded into the background after a while. His mind drifted back to the fight. The pain, the struggle, the way Brute moved—it all taught him something. That last moment, when everything seemed to collapse, was the key. It helped him understand how to integrate the two footwork techniques he had been practicing for months. That moment of defeat became the breakthrough he needed.
Lying there, barely able to move, he still managed to focus his thoughts. He spent the next two hours running through every move in his head. The shifting of weight, the angle of the legs, the transition between one style and another—he saw it all clearly now. The method had always been just out of reach, but now, it was right in front of him. He just needed to apply it, to practice until it became muscle memory.
A faint smile appeared on his face. He felt excited, energized even though he was stuck in bed. His mother paused and looked at him. That smile told her everything. She let out a long, exhausted sigh and quietly left the room, probably realizing that he hadn't heard a word she said in the last two hours.
Three days later, Tyson was already back in his home dojo. The pain was still there—sharp and deep in his ribs, dull and constant in his shoulder—but he ignored it. His movements were slower than usual, but his mind was sharper. Every motion had a purpose. He had already mapped it out in his head. Now it was time to bring it to life. His legs moved quickly across the room, sweeping and turning in tight circles. He adjusted each step based on what he had visualized while lying in bed. The movement felt more stable, more fluid. He corrected his posture, shortened the gap between steps, and rotated his hips more smoothly. He didn't stop when the pain hit. He only stopped when he couldn't breathe.
He named the new technique the Caterpillar Steps.
The idea came from how it looked during motion. As his footwork picked up speed, it created afterimages that resembled multiple legs moving together. It was difficult to track, and even harder to predict. The illusion would confuse opponents and leave them guessing his next move. That was the goal. Confusion leads to hesitation, and hesitation opens up an advantage. He believed in it completely. The first week passed in a blur of sweat, pain, and repetition. The injuries were healing slower than he wanted. Every time he turned too fast or landed too hard, his ribs reminded him that he wasn't ready. But he refused to stop. His mother watched from a distance, never saying much. His father kept himself busy in the fields. Neither of them said anything about the training, but their eyes said enough. They were hoping he would eventually stop on his own.
By the second week, Tyson had started to feel the weight of reality. The final recruitment test was drawing closer, and his body wasn't keeping up with his ambition. The bruises had faded, but the deep pain in his side stayed. His wrist had started to swell again after one of the heavier training days. No matter how much he told himself he could make it, deep down he knew the truth. He wouldn't be able to participate this time. His body was not ready.
For the first time in months, Tyson stepped away from training and began helping around the house. He cleaned the tools, helped in the field, and carried water from the stream. His mother didn't ask questions. She just smiled whenever she saw him working. His father gave him a quiet nod one evening, the kind that spoke more than words. They didn't mention the test. They didn't bring up the training. They were just happy to have him there, alive, moving, and calm.
Tyson didn't say anything about his disappointment. He kept it to himself. Every night, after everyone had gone to bed, he would sit quietly and go over the Caterpillar Steps in his mind. He would whisper the sequence under his breath and trace the footwork with his fingers on the floor. The dream hadn't died. It had only been delayed.
He knew his moment would come.
Little did he know, his life was about to take a sharp turn, and he wouldn't be able to tell if it was for the better or worse.