I didn't slow down.
I didn't look back.
The sirens and shouted orders faded behind me as I cut through side streets, lungs burning, legs screaming, every step daring my body to finally give up.
It didn't.
That was the problem.
I ducked into the stairwell of a half-abandoned building and kept climbing until my knees buckled. I caught the railing, staggered, then dropped onto the steps, back hitting concrete hard enough to knock the air out of me.
I lay there, staring at the ceiling, chest heaving.
"…Still alive," I whispered.
The System appeared, uninvited as always.
"Yes.""You continue to exceed expectations by remaining functional."
"Low bar," I gasped.
"Correct."
I waited for the pain to spike.
It didn't.
My knuckles throbbed. My ankle ached. My ribs complained every time I breathed—but nothing felt like it was about to fail completely.
I sat up slowly and looked at my hands.
They were shaking.
Not fear.
Fatigue.
"…That was messy," I said.
The System hovered closer.
"You attempted to substitute technique with desperation.""This is not a sustainable strategy."
"No kidding."
I pushed myself to my feet and, without really planning to, threw a punch at the air.
It was bad.
Wide swing. Shoulder rising. Balance drifting forward.
I almost laughed.
"…That's how I fight."
"That is how you flail," the System corrected.
I tried again, slower this time.
Still wrong.
I looked at my knuckles, remembering the sharp jolt when bone met monster skull. How close I'd been to breaking something important.
"I'm not built like them," I said quietly.
"Define 'them.'"
"Talented fighters," I replied. "They activate something and the rest just… works. Fire knows how to burn. Blades know how to cut. Even amateurs look deadly."
"Talents include instinctive execution," the System said."Users often mistake this for mastery."
I leaned against the wall, letting that sink in.
"I don't have instinctive anything," I said. "If I move wrong, I pay for it immediately."
"Correct."
I stared at the stairwell. The cramped space. The hard edges. The way my shadow shifted when I shifted my weight.
"So if I can't use Talents," I continued slowly, "then I can't fight like someone who expects them."
The System said nothing.
I adjusted my stance again. Feet shoulder-width apart. Knees bent slightly. Weight centered instead of leaning forward.
I remembered things I'd seen years ago, before any of this mattered—boxing gyms, grappling mats, sweaty rooms where people learned how to move without breaking themselves.
"Then I need to know how to use my body properly," I said.
I threw another punch.
Still rough.
But my balance didn't break.
"…Okay," I murmured.
"You are attempting structure," the System observed."This is new."
"I have strength," I said. "Speed. Endurance. Even perception, apparently. But I'm wasting them by swinging like an idiot."
I shadowboxed lightly now, testing movement instead of power. Small steps. Guard up. Breathing controlled.
Every mistake was obvious.
And that was… useful.
"I don't need flashy techniques," I went on. "I need fundamentals. How to hit. How to move. How to fall without breaking something."
The thought settled in my chest, heavy and practical.
"…Martial arts," I said.
The words felt right.
Not heroic.Not impressive.Just necessary.
"Clarification," the System said."You intend to seek instruction?"
"Yeah," I said. "Dojo. Gyms. Rings. Whatever still exists."
I flexed my hands again.
"If I'm stuck with stats," I added, "then I'll make sure every point actually means something."
The System paused longer than usual.
Then:
"This is an inefficient path.""Talents bypass years of training."
"I don't have years to waste," I said. "I have fights I don't want to die in."
Another pause.
"Acknowledged," the System said."You are choosing the hard way."
I shrugged.
"I don't have another way."
I took a breath, steady this time, and headed back down the stairs.
Tomorrow, I'd look for a place that taught people how to fight without powers.
If I couldn't rely on Talents—
Then I'd rely on myself.
[End of Chapter 5]