The moment he stopped, Fulen felt as if he was exhausted, but unlike before when he had to exert all his strength to succeed, Fulen clearly felt that he was different from his past self.
While resting, Fulen clearly felt that his breathing also had an indescribable rhythm, and the same was true for Wilson beside him. Of course, unlike Fulen's disheveled appearance, Wilson was calm and composed. Although it might be an exaggeration to say Wilson didn't even pant, it was close enough.
"Hey kid, that short distance already got you? Oh, right, where's your plastic bottle?" Wilson still had his usual sloppy demeanor. "Oh, right, I forgot to tell you, although that bottle is made from the processed secretion of a certain tree discovered in the South Continent, Mr. Rosell stubbornly calls it a plastic bottle. This is also a topic of conversation in the army after meals, hahaha."
Fulen pointed to the spot near the training ground where he had placed his belongings before running. Besides the plastic bottle, money pouch, keys, and other miscellaneous items, there were also roses, playing cards, and silk threads—things Laze had specifically instructed Fulen to carry with him.
When instructing Fulen, Laze had said meaningfully, "For a Magician, props are the most important. Techniques can be mastered through practice without much further preparation, but props need to be carried with you for a long time. This is our destiny: for that moment of wonder, a long period of silence and tedium is required."
Wilson walked to the table with the plastic bottle, poured some of his homemade "energy drink," and handed it to Fulen. After Fulen finally stopped panting and started drinking, Wilson suddenly asked, "Got a girlfriend? How many months? Did you… you know?"
Fulen finally couldn't hold back and, half-intentionally, half-unintentionally, aimed the sprayed energy drink at Wilson. Without Fulen noticing, Wilson moved with a speed that Fulen could barely catch, dodging the spray. At the same time, he once again teased Fulen with his unreliable tone, "Roses are for giving, playing cards are for having fun together. Do you have two girlfriends? What are the silk threads for? Hmm, you don't know?"
A primordial power surged from Fulen's body. Fulen strongly resisted the urge to jump up and slap this dog-coach who talked nonsense, and then began to unleash his own trash-talking skills, matching his opponent's level: "No way, no way, there's no way someone in their thirties or forties still doesn't have a girlfriend, right? You're not still a single dog, are you? No way, no way. Is your training just running? Is that all you've got?"
Wilson's face showed displeasure as he looked at an opponent with equal trash-talking ability. In a world where the art of passive aggression hadn't yet been introduced, an otherworldly soul in Wilson's training ground brought the highly destructive branch of trash-talking into this world. What a joyous occasion, what a joyous occasion… Not!
Wilson's face clearly showed a look of embarrassed, not knowing whether it was because Fulen called him a virgin or because Fulen questioned his professional skill: "Tsk tsk tsk, young man, you're very brave. I originally didn't want you to suffer too much, hehe, alright, let me show you what real skill is."
After speaking, Wilson struck a pose in front of Fulen. His fists were like fire, his momentum like a dragon. There was nothing flashy; Wilson only showed Fulen pure speed and a clearly standard fighting sequence. Fulen had to admit that sometimes, what was mere showmanship in others' hands became a complete weapon in his.
"Come on, you've rested enough. Let's train." After finishing his set, Wilson exhaled sharply. Although it wasn't as exaggerated as the "exhaling like a rainbow" described in wuxia novels, Fulen could imagine how strong this man's lung capacity was just by hearing the wind.
"I surrender, I haven't rested enough." Fulen immediately chickened out, and at the same time, sat on the ground in a childish, sulking posture common in kindergartens, rare in elementary school, and completely absent in middle school. In one second, he developed severe breathing difficulties and a condition where he would die if he stood up, using his strong body language to indicate that this was merely due to his poor health, not a lack of ability.
Wilson felt that his many years of military rogue life had finally met its match. He kicked Fulen's butt with his foot and then roared into his ear, "Bastard, get up! I won't mess with you, I'll teach you real skills."
Fulen felt that he had also met his match. How could there be such a goofy person in another world? Weren't people from other worlds supposed to be innocent and cute, without schemes, and with low intelligence? How could there be such a stubborn old rogue? Releasing his hands that were covering his ears, Fulen stood up, striking a posture of surrender.
Wilson stopped nagging and instead struck a pose Fulen had never seen before. Fulen hadn't said anything yet when this old man, who looked young but had a temper like a menopausal woman, shouted, "You dog, what are you still gawking at? Watching a monkey show? Get into this stance."
He lost his temper. After all, the other person was a professional instructor. Even if he might be a little unreliable, he should be very professional when teaching students. So Fulen still struck that pose.
After correcting him two or three times, Wilson just threw out a "Practice," and then continued to lounge in his chair, doing nothing.
This training left Fulen mentally and physically exhausted, but there was nothing he could do. He was a man, and watching fist-to-flesh combat was still exhilarating. At the very least, he had to train a strong physique. As Wilson's only current student, Fulen still enjoyed lessons that exceeded the amount he paid—sparring. However, from the process, it looked more like Fulen was unilaterally getting beaten.
This also resulted in Fulen being covered in bruises. Fulen was still cursing inwardly, but perhaps it was the Beyonder effect of the potion, or perhaps Wilson truly had some skills, Fulen genuinely learned a few things.
Take the previous skirmish, for instance. At least Fulen wouldn't fall after two hits… at least he'd take four or five hits. What was he thinking? The opponents were all Warriors and Assassins. How could a Warrior riding your face lose?
After the training, Wilson did not forget to ask Fulen when he would be available. The two agreed that Wilson had time every afternoon. Fulen would knock on the Door three times; if no one opened it, he could go back. However, the number of training days per week should not be less than five.
In Wilson's words, it was: "Damn it, when I was in the army, I trained every day! You only train for a little while in the afternoon. Forget it, forget it, five days a week then. Roughly from two to five in the afternoon. It's settled, now scram, scram."