Los Angeles | 2011
Bradley's POV
"Good evening, students. Welcome to Krav Maga for Youth," the instructor's voice echoed in the brightly lit dojo. "This is an elementary program... to introduce young adults to self-defense, discipline, and fitness. My name is Harry Katz, and I am your instructor for the next seven months."
He stood on a small dais, a compact man with a wiry strength and the kind of cauliflower ears that spoke to a lifetime of grappling. We were in three neat columns in front of him. There were about eighteen students in the class, mostly boys, but I counted seven or eight girls, only two of whom looked to be my age. My dad's compromise. It was a start.
"...IKMF students can participate in classes worldwide by simply showing their IKMF Passport, which they receive after taking their first test," Katz continued. "Most Krav Maga students are ready for the level 1 test after three to six months... Once our training... is complete, I will be conducting your test to assign your practitioner grades. Any questions?"
I had zoned out but caught on to the important bits. As some of the students raised their hands to ask minor questions, my mind turned inward. I thought back to my last check-in after the weeks of painful recovery from the fight .
'Status'
The shimmering translucent screen formed before my eyes.
STATUS
Name: Bradley Mark Naird
STR: 19
VIT: 21
AGI: 22
END: 21
DEX: 27
INT: 41
TITLES: TRANSMIGRATOR
TALENTS: SHARPSHOOTER, MASTER STRATEGIST, AMBIDEXTROUS, MEMORY PALACE
My eyes scanned the numbers. The stats were still lower than before the fight by almost two to three points everywhere, apart from Intelligence. The brawl and the one-on-one with Damien had taken a real, physical toll. It was a sobering reminder of my vulnerability. It was a relief to know I had not suffered any head injury to lose my intelligence. The only persisting issue for now were the ribs—still tender—and a slight pain in the knuckles, but soon even that would pass. I had delayed going to school for two weeks now because Mom was persistent and didn't want me to go back until I was fit again. That time was soon approaching, I wasn't much worried about the academics but the situation at the court bothered me. Still there were other things to focus on for now.
The best things to happen over the past year, however, were the creation of my new talents. Ambidexterity was something I had been chasing ever since the summer tournament in 2009 , a product of relentless drills with my weaker hand. The Memory Palace was the result of constant effort on my behalf to memorize and store knowledge of both the past and the future. It was a technique that allowed me to have clear recall. While no such thing as photographic memory existed, I had the literal next best thing. I had already abused its perks to make some savvy investment calls through Mom, analyzing Berkshire Hathaway's filings just as I'd planned. It would all pay off in the end.
"Alright, no more questions?" Instructor Katz called out, pulling me from my thoughts. "Good. Let's begin. First, the warm-up. Jog around the training center. Ten laps. Go!"
The students, a mix of awkward teenagers and a few surprisingly focused adults, began to jog. I fell into an easy lope, my new, taller frame feeling fluid. The main issue was the constant, dull ache in my side. Even after weeks of rest, my cracked ribs were a persistent, annoying reminder of my failure.
After the laps, he didn't let us rest. "Down! Push-ups! Give me fifty!"
A collective groan went through the class. I dropped to the floor and began. The motion was easy for my arms (STR 19), but every time I lowered my chest, my ribs sent a jolt of discomfort through my torso. It wasn't the searing agony from that first day on my home court though. It was a dull, manageable protest.
This was... interesting. My recovery was happening far faster than usual. Another facet of the system I had finally identified. The System didn't just give me stats; it gave me a faster healing potential. This was, I believed, probably the most broken ability in my arsenal. It meant I could push harder, break myself down more often, and return stronger in a fraction of the time. While I had not identified the quantifier of this healing rate, I had plans to run tests on that front as well.
After push-ups came crunches, then squats, then burpees until my legs burned and my lungs felt raw. The instructor finally stopped the warm-up exercises and let us grab a quick sip of water before gathering us in the center of the mat.
"Alright, listen up!" Katz barked, his voice sharp. "This isn't karate. This isn't Tae Kwon Do. We don't bow, we don't wear gis, and we don't fight for points. Krav Maga P1 training focuses on basic self-defense principles. The principle is simple: survive. Get home. Everything we do is based on your body's natural reactions."
He paced in front of us, his energy radiating outward. "We will be defending against common attacks: punches, kicks, and grabs. But we don't block. We defend and counter-attack simultaneously. We are always on the offensive. Your attacker isn't going to fight fair, so you sure as hell won't."
He pointed to his own head. "Practice will involve striking vulnerable points. Eyes, jaw, throat, groin. We don't punch to the chest; we strike the throat. We don't kick the thigh; we use a basic knee or front kick to the groin. We use a stomp kick to the kneecap. We end the fight. You will learn how to release from grabs and chokes, not by pulling, but by using leverage and pain. We'll even cover defending against a handgun threat, how to redirect the weapon and neutralize the attacker."
This was it. This was exactly what I had asked my dad for. This was not "show business defense". This was brutal, efficient, and necessary.
"But before you can attack," Katz continued, "you have to learn how to stand. Everyone, form your stances!"
We spread out. "Feet shoulder-width apart, knees slightly bent, weight on the balls of your feet. Hands up, open, palms facing your opponent. Protect your face, protect your centerline. You are a coiled spring, ready to explode in any direction!"
He went around correcting the other students. "You're too stiff, kid, you'll get knocked over." "Get your hands up! Are you inviting him to punch you?"
"Stop bouncing! This isn't a boxing movie!"
I dropped into the stance. I didn't mimic the shape; I felt it. The weight distribution. The tension in my core. The open palms, ready to parry, to grab, to strike. My mind, enhanced by an INT of 41 and the new Memory Palace talent, kicked into high gear.
I "saved" the stance. In my mind, I visualized a new wing of my mental palace, a stark, gray dojo. A three-dimensional, fully annotated model of myself in the P1 stance appeared in the center. I could walk around it, analyze the angles, the load-bearing joints, the lines of force. I was able to file it away for continuous learning.
Katz then demonstrated the first move: a simple release from a one-handed wrist grab. "He grabs you," he said, motioning to an older student. "You don't pull. That's a strength-on-strength fight you might lose. You rotate your hand, find the weak point—his thumb—and you pluck. At the same time, your other hand attacks." He demonstrated in a blur: a short, sharp rotation of his wrist, and a simultaneous, vicious palm-heel strike to the student's chin (which he pulled at the last second).
I watched. I analyzed. The physics of it. The biomechanics. The simple, brutal efficiency. Rotate against the thumb. Strike the jaw. My Memory Palace filed it away.
"Alright, find a partner. Practice the release. No strikes. Just the release," Katz commanded.
I partnered with a man my height, who immediately grabbed my right wrist, his grip sloppy but strong. I didn't resist. I didn't pull. I simply rotated my wrist, my elbow coming up and in, breaking the hold at its weakest point. It was effortless.
"Whoa, dude, how'd you do that so fast?" he asked, surprised. "Just... did what he said," I replied.
"Naird."
I looked up. The instructor was standing in front of me, his arms crossed. "Let me see that again." My partner grabbed my wrist. I repeated the move. Fluid. Instant. "Other side." He grabbed my left wrist. I executed the same release, my Ambidextrous talent making it feel just as natural as my right. Katz's eyebrows raised, just slightly. "You've done this before?" "No, sir. This is my first time." He stared at me for a long, silent moment, his expression unreadable. He was amazed by how fast I was learning. "Your form is precise," he finally said, a note of approval in his voice. He clapped me on the shoulder, a solid, heavy pat. "That's what I like to see. You're paying attention to the details. Good dedication, son. Keep it up."
He moved on to the next pair, leaving me with a small, cold smile on my face. The pain in my ribs and knuckles was still there, a dull echo. But for the first time since that day in the gym, I didn't feel weak. I felt... focused. This was a new kind of training. And I was going to master it.
The instructor, Katz, dismissed us from the partner drill. I moved off to the side of the mat, my mind already working, replaying the simple wrist-grab-and-release. It was efficient. I liked it.
I dropped back into the basic combat stance Katz had demonstrated. I was practicing my stances, testing the weight distribution, the force-and-fluidity ratio of each move. I mimicked the palm-heel strike, feeling the way my obliques and hip had to rotate to generate power. My cracked ribs sent a dull, throbbing protest, a blunt reminder of my weakness. I ignored it, pushing past the discomfort, filing the kinetic chain of the movement into my Memory Palace. I analyzed the other students, watching Katz correct a taller boy. "You're off balance," Katz barked. "Stop leaning. Your power comes from the ground."
I processed the correction, tweaking my own stance. I bent my knees slightly, lowered my center of gravity. I needed to master this. I needed to be unbreakable. The thought of Damien, of the seniors, of that feeling of helplessness... it was a cold fire in my gut. I would not feel that way again.
I was so focused, trying to find the perfect balance, that I didn't notice a blonde-haired girl approaching until she was only a few feet away.
"Excuse me?"
I snapped out of my analysis and looked at her. She was one of the two girls who looked my age. She was smiling, her expression open and friendly.
"Are you Bradley Naird? From class 9B?" she asked, her voice cheerful.
I was slightly surprised to be recognized, especially since I'd barely been at school. "Yeah. That's me," I told her.
"I knew it!" she got excited, clapping her hands together once. "I saw you in English class, like, the first day, but then you were gone. I thought maybe you'd transferred or something. I'm Bianca Stratford. I just transferred from New York. I'm in 9B too!"
She stuck her hand out. I hesitated for a fraction of a second—a residual effect of the last few weeks—before shaking her hand. Her grip was firm, confident. "It's nice to meet you," I said.
"I saw Mr. Katz talking to you earlier," she continued, gesturing with her head toward the instructor. "You picked up that wrist-release thing like that. He seemed to have praised you. My sister and I are... well, we're kind of terrible at this. So I was asking if my sister and I can practice with you, since you seem to know what you're doing? You could help us out."
I weighed the options. It was a distraction from my own internal drills, but teaching something is often the best way to master it. And besides, I didn't want to be rude. "I have no issues with that. Sure."
"Awesome! Be right back!" Bianca then ran back into the crowd of students milling about, disappearing behind a taller guy. She appeared moments later, dragging another girl by the hand.
This girl was also blonde and slightly taller than Bianca. She had the same face, mostly, but where Bianca was all bright, sunny energy, this girl was... different. Reserved. Guarded. She wasn't cold, just... self-contained, her eyes analyzing me with a sharp intelligence.
"Brad, this is my twin sister, Katherine Stratford—" Bianca started.
"Just call me Kat," Katherine interrupted, her voice lower, smoother.
"Hello," I said to her, giving a polite nod. "I'm Bradley. I'm in 9B."
"I know," Kat said. Not unkindly, just as a statement of fact. "We're in the same class."
"Oh, my bad," I said, feeling slightly off-kilter. "I haven't been to school in a few weeks."
"That's okay," she replied, and that seemed to be the end of her required social interaction. She looked at me, then at Bianca, then at Katz, clearly just wanting to get on with the lesson.
"Okay," I said, refocusing on the task at hand. "So, the stance is the most important part. It's all about balance." I dropped into the position Katz had shown us. "Weight on the balls of your feet, knees bent, hands up and open, protecting your centerline."
The sisters tried to mimic my movements. The difference was immediate and stark. Bianca struggled. She was too stiff, her movements jerky and uncertain, her balance all wrong. Kat, however, was a natural. She mirrored my stance somewhat murky but striving to perfection, her body sinking into the posture as if she'd done it a hundred times before, her eyes focused and analytical.
"Okay, now the wrist release," I continued. "He grabs, you don't pull." I demonstrated the rotation, plucking my own wrist free from an imaginary grip. "You rotate against the thumb and find the weak point. Attack the joint."
Kat's brow furrowed. "So the rotation is against the thumb? Not with it? You're breaking the grip by twisting the radius over the ulna?"
I was taken aback. "Yeah... exactly. That's a... good way to put it."
We practiced for the next twenty minutes. I continued helping them, correcting Bianca's footwork—"Stop locking your knees, you have no power that way"—and refining Kat's form. She was a fast learner. Every move I showed her, she absorbed, analyzed, and replicated with a sharp, fluid precision.
"Alright, everyone, bring it in!" Katz clapped, his voice booming. "Good work today. You all look... less likely to get murdered. That's progress. The class is over for today. Go home, rest, I hope to see you fit and healthy for the next session!"
A collective sigh of relief went through the room. My ribs were throbbing, but I felt good. I felt... solid.
As I was grabbing my bag, Bianca ran up, her face flushed with exertion. "Thank you so much, Bradley! That actually made sense. Hey, can I share your contact information? You know, so we can remain in touch? Maybe coordinate for class?"
She was forward, but her energy was infectious. "Sure," I said, obliging her as I punched my number into her phone.
"Bianca, let's go!" Kat called from the doorway, her bag already slung over her shoulder. She was tapping her foot impatiently. "Dad won't like this too much."
"Oh, he's just a guy from school! Dad won't mind!" Bianca shot back as she started to leave.
"We shall see," I heard Kat mutter as they disappeared out the door.
I shook my head, a small smile on my face. A weird family dynamic. I could definitely relate.
They left, and then so did I. I limped out of the dojo, the ache in my ribs and knuckles a dull, constant reminder. I boarded the car, and Harris turned to look at me, his eyes checking me for any new injuries.
"How was your lesson, Bradley?" he asked.
I sank into the leather seat, wincing as my ribs complained, but feeling a strange, new sense of clarity.
"It was... informative, Harris," I said, my mind already replaying the stances, the moves, the feel of Kat's analytical gaze and Bianca's easy friendliness. This had been a very good start to something integral for me and I hoped it would continue to be so. "Very informative."