Wellyn continued his ascent of the staircase without breaking stride. Below, Violet remained seated at the table, her gaze fixed on Lance as he recovered his breath and collected his thoughts. He looked down and offered her a smile. For a brief moment, he caught a reflection of himself in her eyes, but beyond that glow, he sensed the nascent stirrings of his own fierce determination. This instant of clarity solidified his resolve: regardless of the outcome, his sole focus was seeing the conclusion of Wish Legacy. He knew he had been lured here, like many others. He no longer cared whether Oddnet understood the Spectre device's true function. A part of him believed the lines between truth and lies were already blurred, and he would decide for himself what was real. Reaching out, he embraced Violet and then headed upstairs.

  Stepping into the training room, Lance found the empty space transformed. His Ork Wok, Cleaver, and chest of items rested on a newly placed table. Opposite the table, on the other side of the ten-square-meter room, stood two targets: a simple mannequin and a hay arrow target labeled "Boss."

  Wellyn had shed his overcoat and shirt, folding them neatly on the table, and was currently tying his shoes. Meanwhile, Violet bounded off Lance and across the floor, bouncing over to the table before ducking underneath toward a small crate that appeared to have been moved from the kitchen.

  Lance watched as Wellyn stood, his gaze drawn to the man's torso. It was a perfectly sculpted form, yet crisscrossed with a proud collection of scars, each with varying degrees of imperfection. The most striking was a massive cross slash that dominated his entire left ribcage, stretching from beneath his breast to the small of his back.

  Suddenly, Wellyn produced a four-foot stick, expertly whittled to a dull blade, seemingly from nowhere. Lance felt a flicker of fear as Wellyn held it upright to his nose, striking a quick pose—a kata—before dismissing it. Wellyn then stepped toward the center of the room.

  When he spoke, the authority in his tone was more impactful than the curt words themselves. He simply and plainly ordered, "Disrobe, to your unders."

  Lance paused, momentarily taken aback by the audacious request, but after a brief hesitation and a raised eyebrow, he agreed. Stripping off his bat leathers until he was only in his boxers, he placed the armor on the table before joining Wellyn in the center of the room. As soon as he started to speak, Wellyn interrupted him.

  "I'll be focusing on the subtle differences between your human physique and others. Often, minor variations in muscle structure are key to utilizing your full strength. While we might appear to be of similar height, remember, I am Elven. My body is built quite differently than you might expect." Again, Lance prepared to speak, only to be cut off. "Ah, ah, ah, SHH. I'll answer your questions once we've started, blow for blow. Now, come at me while I wave this toothpick around."

  Lance sighed, disgruntled, but raised his fists toward Wellyn. Wellyn gave a slight downward nod, raising the "Sword" to his nose before pointing it down at the floor like a foil. Lance, no boxer, did his best to mimic one, hopping from foot to foot for a moment. Quicker than Lance could react—but slow enough to register as a blur—the sword cracked against his ankle, shifting his weight and forcing his feet two feet apart.

  "RRGh! What th—"

  "Cut that shit, boy. Does you no good. You've low strength in your hips and no sense of weight distribution yet. You're a chef, right? I said, COME."

  Lance abandoned the thought of grabbing his ankle as the sword below him posed a greater threat. He switched to a southpaw stance and charged. He took two steps before Wellyn made a minimal wrist movement, pointing the sword toward Lance's waist. Lance felt a sharp poke in his belly and twisted, rolling onto the floor just in time to avoid being impaled. He quickly stood up as Wellyn merely circled him with a sigh before casually waving the sword away.

  Wellyn scratched the back of his head while addressing Lance, who was still near the floor. "Aye, it's as I suspected—a world wallowing in excess. False peace and decadence, eh? Figured as much when I saw that blubbered one. No martial training to speak of from anyone? Perhaps it was once common, but now it's just a fancy for a few. You've got the rib-straps of muscle, thinner than most, but they're there," he observed with a slanted eye, continuing his slow circle. "And the shoulder blades of the laborless. Just what fills your days of ease, ladd? No crops to tend or animals to keep?" Wellyn completed his circle, then dropped into a squat. "Don't let those stats inflate your head. You're no different here than you were there; the system is merely easing some burden. Alright, we'll start from the ground up. You'd be dead without your skills and weapons."

  Lance let out a heavy sigh, the shame of Wellyn's accurate assessment weighing on him. "He wouldn't even have to lift a finger before I'd be dead." A sudden surge of resolve, mixed with embarrassment, prompted him to stand. "Alright, what do you want me to do then?" he asked, standing quickly so Wellyn couldn't cut him off.

  "Eh, well, no offense, but you're rubbish, lad. Poor in many categories. No matter. It's practically a blank slate. We'll start small. First, a warm-up—I want a fire in you before I can mold it. Lap the room a hundred times," Wellyn instructed, waving the stick-like object again, "with this above your head." Lance sighed, taking the stick. It immediately fell to the floor, and only then did he realize its weight—about twenty pounds. He picked it up and began his task.

  He failed, collapsing after only 22 circuits. The stick, too heavy for his exhausted muscles, fell to his shoulders like a dead weight. Wellyn immediately stopped him, instructing him to catch his breath and walk the rest of the way. During this time, Lance checked his game clock, realizing he had already spent over an hour in the game. When he finished, Wellyn gave him a water skin and a brief rest. While Lance sat on the floor, Wellyn approached, quickly touching various muscles in his shoulders and back and applying pressure to several points on his arms. Afterward, Lance felt a wave of relief before standing up again.

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  “Alright, so you're weak—no problem. I'm going to outline a regimen for you. Find a space just like this, with walls, at home, and perform the same exercises when you're out. Follow that with a thirty-minute walk. Cut your meals down to once a day, consumed only before you come here. Since you're a chef, it will benefit you to prepare this meal yourself, so make it a good one, at least 3,000 calories and high protein. Now, tell me how you approach combat.” He finished, sitting down next to him.

  Lance sat up straighter, laying out his strategy. Wellyn simply nodded, taking in the details and noting the weaknesses. When Lance finished, Wellyn responded with a torrent of observations:

  “Shadows are out; your higher-perception opponents will spot your eyes. Relying on your teammates too much keeps you from sharpening your own strength. A hatchet is unconventional in a kitchen, though it sparks ideas. The pan is versatile, but you’re risking your livelihood. Knives and cleavers will suit you well; you’re slender, and you need to utilize your current skills more. The Dice you chose is an excellent foundation. While Freeze and Boil might have sent you in different directions, I’m sure you’ll eventually add versions of them to your arsenal. Pan Sear, by the way, is clever and devious, but it’s a double-edged technique. I know the basics of the Orkish War Dance, which might suit you, or you can learn the Dominant Steps. You’re not Ork, but steps from one race allow for flexibility for a similar build. The Dominant Steps have no racial bias. Both have an evolutionary aspect, your expertise alters their benefits, and they can be combined with other war forms or 'Martial Arts.' Consider ‘em basics.”

  Lance's eyes brightened at the mention of martial arts training. He almost agreed immediately but first posed a question. “What was that art you performed in the bath?”

  Wellyn offered a slight smile, unsurprised by the query. “That was the Moon Dance. It's an art from my home, not a combat discipline, and it loses its effectiveness without music. Honestly, lad, you're too inexperienced—too green—to learn it yet. My apologies.” Lance's shoulders slumped in disappointment.

  “Well, can you show them to me? So I can choose?” Lance asked.

  Wellyn stood and moved to the center of the room. He started with a rapid stream of quick breaths, huffing and puffing until his face flushed red from increased blood flow. After a few moments, Lance could see steam beginning to rise from his body. Wellyn paused, then clenched his fists at his sides. With a slide of his left foot, he dropped into a lower stance and began to call out words in Orkish, each word corresponding to a series of steps, sweeps, and punches.

  The sequence continued as Wellyn moved within a five-foot square for what felt like a minute, the steam rising from him becoming denser and more apparent. His movements started to blur, leaving subtle afterimages in his wake. At the peak of the routine, he began to alternate between raising and lowering his stance, loading his legs and arms for tighter, snappier kicks and punches, sometimes delivered in a rapid flurry. The war dance depicted a fight in a space of dense combat, against mental enemies perpetually aiming for his back. Wellyn finished the dance dripping with sweat.

  Lance was awestruck, appreciating the sheer effort Wellyn poured into the dance. Activating his mana sight midway through felt almost like cheating, offering a secret perspective. He observed Wellyn's mana circulating with the rhythmic rise and fall of a wave, like a pump through his limbs, accenting each movement. As Wellyn's form started to blur with afterimages, Lance caught a startling truth. The blur was external mana, circulating outside the body. It whipped out like a lash before snapping back against his skin. The intense focus burned Lance’s eyes, forcing him to dismiss the sight just as Wellyn's performance drew to a close, causing Lance to miss the final steps.

  Wellyn paused for a brief respite, taking deep breaths and long drinks of water. "Alright, the Dominant steps," he announced, moving to the center of the room. The cork-like padding quickly absorbed his sweat. He took a deep breath, then pulled out a cloth and wrapped it around his head, effectively blinding himself.

  The warm-up for this specific stance began with Wellyn raising his hands and slapping his thighs rhythmically for several seconds with forearm strikes that should have caused bruising. This seemed designed to drive blood flow to his legs. He followed this with a few quick squats, then stood straight, holding a deep breath.

  A moment later, Wellyn took a step forward, yet instantly appeared two strides ahead. The movement looked no more difficult than a casual walk. He then stepped backward with the same ease, reappearing in his original spot. Identical shifts in distance followed with a step to the right and a step to the left. Wellyn repeated this back and forth in all four cardinal directions, gradually increasing the tempo.

  It was then that Lance realized Wellyn was deliberately adjusting his speed so Lance could observe the technique. Soon after the pace began to rise, Lance started to lose track of him, and the shifts in distance became longer as the speed intensified. Lance activated his mana sight, but even with it, Wellyn's blur was like a snapping rubber band, making him even harder to track.

  Wellyn gradually decelerated, stopping once he reached the initial, slower speed. He released his held breath with a gasping inhale and coughed a couple of times. The entire display lasted no more than thirty seconds. Lance was again struck by the immense effort Wellyn exerted and found his respect for the man growing even deeper.

  Wellyn sat back down with Lance, having taken another minute to steady himself.

  "Well? Make your choice. But first, I should outline their flaws. The Orkish—"

  "The defense is lacking in any limbs not currently channeled with mana," Lance cut in, "and I'm assuming the Dominant steps require such intense focus that they temporarily prevent you from using other skills?"

  Wellyn sighed and then lightly struck Lance on the head. “Stop talking about your damn mana sight! Shut it until I get a chance to explain. You’re too inexperienced to make assumptions, you little shit. But yes, there's more.”

  “The Orkish Dance requires a lot of calories; otherwise, you’ll burn up your body. It might even do your blubber some good—but it does have a major weakness. It takes time, not an immediate reaction, and you need to learn Orkish to gain calm over the rage; you won’t know what you’re chanting without it.”

  “The Dominant Steps are much more difficult than you’d think. They require intense concentration on your lower body, channeling mana to the ground, where you learn to bend the earth beneath you. Very few can use it with skills simultaneously unless they’re in mastery, and you must hold your breath or risk bursting your lungs. So, before you get any green ideas, pick one.”

  Lance rubbed the top of his head as Wellyn spoke, a wide grin spreading across his face a moment later. “Wellyn, my man… How about both?”