Weak Fist

The Martial Hall had been packed lately, buzzing with energy as the First-Year students trained relentlessly. They had started to realize something crucial—the fastest way to get stronger wasn't through lifting weights or basic exercises.

It was through combat. Real combat.

If they wanted to see real progress in a month, they had to put their skills into practice, and sparring was the only way to sharpen the blade. Many walked out of the hall bruised and battered, faces swollen from the blows they took. But not a single one looked disappointed. Instead, they were focused—scribbling down notes, analyzing each mistake, each loss, determined to turn defeat into strength.

George stood on the left side of the hall, his body poised as he hurled another opponent to the ground with a sharp throw. The kid hit the mat hard, gasping in pain.

"Ah! I lost! I lost!" the student croaked, his hand flying to his neck.