Bruce woke before the others.
Not because he was disciplined.
Because something felt wrong.
His body was warm - too warm. Qi pulsed beneath his skin like a restless tide, coiling and uncoiling with every breath. The core in his abdomen felt solid, present, as undeniable as a second heartbeat.
He sat up slowly.
The air felt... close.
Not heavy. Not thick.
Crowded.
Bruce clenched his fist. The sensation sharpened. The space around his knuckles tightened, like the world itself was bracing.
He released his grip.
The feeling faded.
"..So that's what he meant," Bruce muttered.
Derek noticed immediately.
"You're leaking," he said, handing Bruce a piece of dried meat.
Bruce frowned. "Leaking?"
"Qi," Derek clarified. "Not wasting it - but you're not containing it either."
Bruce chewed thoughtfully. "It feels uncomfortable when I try."
Derek's gaze hardened. "Good."
Bruce nearly choked. "Good?"
"Yes," Derek said flatly. "It means your body hasn't accepted it yet."
Bruce stared at him. "That's... not reassuring."
Derek shrugged. "Acceptance without resistance is stagnation."
That didn't make Bruce feel better.
Training started brutally.
No warm-up.
No explanation.
"Hold your stance," Derek ordered.
Bruce dropped into position, knees bent, back straight, arms raised. His Qi responded instantly, flooding into his legs, reinforcing muscle and tendon.
For the first minute, it felt empowering.
By the second, it burned.
By the third, his vision wavered.
"Breathe," Derek said. "Contain. Don't expand."
"I am breathing!" Bruce snapped.
"Not like that."
"Stop talking in riddles!" Bruce squeezed in between breaths.
Bruce's teeth clenched. The core pulsed harder, Qi surging instinctively to relieve strain.
"Don't let it run," Derek warned.
Bruce tried to pull it back.
The backlash hit instantly.
His muscles spasmed, pain lancing through his thighs as Qi collided with resistance. He gasped, nearly collapsing.
Derek caught him by the collar.
"That," Derek said calmly, "is what happens when you fight your own energy."
Bruce panted, sweat dripping from his chin. "Then what am I supposed to do?"
Derek released him. "Listen to it."
They moved to weapon drills.
Dagger only.
Bruce welcomed the distraction.
He struck, slashed, pivoted - his body moving faster than before, instincts sharper. Qi flowed naturally during motion, reinforcing each strike.
Then Derek stopped him.
"Again. But slower."
Bruce groaned. "Why?"
"Because speed hides flaws."
Bruce obeyed.
The moment he slowed, everything fell apart.
His movements felt clumsy. The dagger dragged. His sense of space twisted - too much information, too many possible positions at once.
He stumbled.
Derek didn't intervene.
Bruce corrected himself.
Stumbled again.
"Again," Derek said.
By the tenth repetition, Bruce was shaking.
By the twentieth, his hands were numb.
By the thirtieth, frustration boiled over.
"This isn't working!" Bruce shouted.
Derek's eyes were cold. "It is."
Bruce slammed the dagger into the dirt. "Then why does it feel worse than before?"
"Because you're no longer just moving," Derek said. "You're deciding where you exist."
That stopped him.
"...What?"
Derek gestured vaguely. "Your sixth sense doesn't care about effort. It cares about intent. Every time you hesitate, it splits your focus."
Bruce picked up the dagger slowly. "So I have to commit."
"No," Derek said. "You have to accept the consequence of committing."
By afternoon, Bruce's body screamed.
Not fatigue.
Pressure.
His core felt tight, compressed, like it was packed too full. Qi churned inside him, restless and uncooperative.
He knelt by the lake, hands submerged in cold water.
It helped.
Barely.
"Dad," Bruce said quietly.
Derek didn't look up. "Yes?"
"...Did it hurt like this for you?"
Derek was silent for a long moment.
Then: "Worse."
Bruce nodded. "Figures."
Derek finally met his eyes. "You're not failing."
Bruce laughed weakly. "Sure feels like it."
"Because your strength isn't physical," Derek said. "It's directional. You don't overpower the world - you position yourself within it."
Bruce frowned. "That sounds... abstract."
Derek smirked faintly. "Welcome to martial arts."
That night, Bruce couldn't sleep.
Every time he closed his eyes, he felt the space around him - expanding, contracting, shifting. His body twitched as if responding to threats that didn't exist.
Or maybe did.
He sat up, breathing slowly.
Contain. Don't expand.
He focused inward.
The core responded sluggishly, Qi resisting his attempts to compress it. Bruce winced as pressure built, his chest tightening.
Then he remembered Derek's words.
Listen.
He stopped forcing it.
Instead, he imagined placing the Qi - settling it gently, letting it rest where it wanted to be.
The pressure eased.
Bruce exhaled shakily.
"...Oh."
For the first time since forming the core, it felt quiet.
Not weak.
Contained.
Morning came too soon.
Bruce rose anyway.
Training resumed.
This time, Derek said nothing.
Bruce moved.
Slowly. Deliberately.
Each step chosen. Each strike committed.
When he finished the sequence, sweat soaked his clothes - but his breathing was steady.
Derek nodded once. "Better."
Bruce smiled faintly. "Still hurts."
"It always will," Derek replied. "Just less."
Bruce sheathed his dagger and glanced toward the cave.
Vernon wasn't watching.
For once, Bruce was glad.
This path was his.
And it was heavy.