Strength Based Wizard-Chapter 37. Class Sessions, Part II (Teacher’s Pet)

Chapter 37

Class Sessions, Part II (Teacher's Pet)

“Guard up,” Jordan says, circling me with the precision of a raptor deciding whether or not I’m prey or project.

I’m standing in the middle of the boxing ring. My hands are still wrapped, but I’m not wearing any gloves. I do as she says—elbows in, fists up by my chin. I feel like I’m trying to look like I know what I’m doing while simultaneously preparing for someone to punch me directly in the gut. The stance is exactly as Jordan showed me before.

“Good. Now jab… cross… jab.” She demonstrates the motion. Her punches slice through the air like a viper strike.

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I throw the first jab. It’s not elegant. But Jordan nods anyway. I follow up with a quicker cross-and-jab.

“Now, bob and weave.”

I duck, swing low to the side, then come back up like I’m dodging imaginary volleys. We go again. Jab, cross, jab—bob and weave. Over and over.

“Alright, let’s change it up,” she says, stepping around me again like a predator that smells inexperience. “Double jab. Cross. Slip, slip.”

I do it. One jab, two, then a cross—step off-line and duck twice. My body is starting to get into it. My breathing? Not so much. I’m already huffing like I just ran a marathon made of stairs and regret.

“Jab, cross, uppercut, slip front.”

Now there’s an uppercut. I throw it too wide and she quickly, but gently corrects my form. I try the combo again. Then again. I’m getting the rhythm now.

“Final combo,” she says. “Jab, cross, hook, bob and weave.”

I run through it. Again. Again. Muscles aching. Shoulders burning. But something about the movement is satisfying in a way I didn’t expect. Like I’m actually shaping myself into something new. Something sharper. Stronger. It’s similar to the satisfaction of hitting the weightroom.

Jordan claps her hands. “Alright! You can work those in with some jump rope and that should be a good place to start on solo exercises. Wanna run a couple partner drills?”

“Yes!” I say, way too fast. My voice cracks like I’m thirteen again and asking someone to slow dance.

Jordan raises an eyebrow.

“Uh, I mean… if that’s alright with you,” I add, trying to reel in the excitement like it’s a loose kite in a thunderstorm. God dammit, man, I think, silently chastising myself for being so lame and over-eager. But the thought of getting better at boxing is thrilling. Particularly if the lessons translate to Righty and Lefty, like I suspect them to.

She chuckles. It’s not mocking. It’s… warm. Approving. “Put your gloves back on, Killer.”

I grab the beat-up rental gloves I used earlier. They absolute reek, the acrid smell of old sweat mixing with the sterile smell of disinfectant to result in an absolutely disgusting entanglement. But hey, they get the job done. Jordan pulls out a pair of focus mitts and motions for me to step up.

Jordan runs through a series of drills. The first she calls an ‘eight-count drill.’ The goal is to throw a series of eight punches in quick succession, aiming to land each punch as accurately as possible. Once she runs through that drill a few times, she mixes in a body shot and counter drill. This one involves her throwing a body shot to my side that I’m expected to block with my elbow before countering with a 1-2 combo.

We go again. And again. My arms are starting to feel like hot taffy. She moves fast, switching angles ever so slightly. Enough to really test the accuracy of my punches. I’m dripping sweat, and somewhere deep in my lungs, a small part of me is wondering if I’ll ever stop breathing like a panicked vacuum cleaner.

“Stop,” she says suddenly. “You’re not breathing right.”

I blink at her. “I’m… what?”

“You’re not focusing on your breath,” she says, stepping closer, mitts resting at her sides. “It’s a common mistake. Breathing comes so naturally to us we forget it’s part of the movement. Exhale when you throw a punch. Every time. It’ll keep you from locking up. Right now you’re holding your breath, and it’s killing your power.”

I nod, panting. “Thanks. That actually… yeah. That makes sense. Like in lifting. Exhale on the upward push of a motion. Explode.”

“Exactly,” she says, flashing a grin. “You’ve got good instincts. You just need to breathe.”

Easy for her to say. She’s standing there like a poster for functional strength. I’m one more combo away from puddling onto the floor.

Still… I square up again.

I breathe in. I jab, exhaling in a short, quick breath. Another jab. Exhale.

Jordan runs me through another four rounds of the drill before she feels merciful and tells me it’s time to call it quits. “I need to prep for my next class,” she says. “Great job!”

“Thanks,” I sputter, desperately reaching for where I left my water bottle on the gym’s floor.

After signing up for a class the following week, I grab my gym bag from one of the lockers and say goodbye as I leave the gym.

“See ya again soon,” Jordan cheerfully calls after me as the door bell jingles in my wake.

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Saturday.

It arrives like a boot to the ribs.

I roll out of bed at 5:05 A.M., peel myself off the sheets like a slice of deli ham, and stumble into my gym gear with the grace of a tranquilized panda. By 5:40, I’m at Diesel Athletic Club, hammering away at the treadmill incline setting like a gambling degenerate at a slot machine.

The gym is quiet at this hour. Silent, except for the rhythmic thud-thud-thud of my feet hitting rubber and the low hum of fluorescent lights overhead. Outside, the world is still dark, the sky hanging low and slate-colored, like the world forgot to turn itself on yet.

Forty minutes on incline. No music. Just me, my thoughts, and a growing resentment for the concept of cardiovascular health. This is, I have to admit, a whole lot easier than boxing.

My mind runs through the different possible scenarios that me and the party may face on the other side of the Bronze Gate. From what people were willing to share on the Discussion Channels, Bronze Gates simply dropped you off in a slightly elevated section of the same Realms Gates typically brought people. Once there, the System would give you a Class and a Quest. Simple. I spent most of last night looking up as much as I could about the different Realms. From Candy Land to The Veld.

I finish drenched in a fresh sweat glaze, the kind that makes you feel simultaneously accomplished and like a used dishrag. It’s one of the best feelings in the world. It’s technically my rest day from lifting—which is weird, because nothing about my body feels rested. But whatever. The real goal today isn’t gains.

It’s information.

And an appointment to probably get my ass kicked… We’ll see.

As I towel off and make my way toward the exit, I spot Steve, the gym’s owner, rearranging some kettlebells near the front desk. Steve looks like someone squeezed a linebacker into a car dealership polo. He’s got a permanent tan and the kind of thick, manicured beard that makes you think he owns several Yeti coolers and possibly an ATV. Despite looking a bit like a jackass, I know he’s actually a pretty chill, and nice guy.

“Yo, Steve,” I call out.

He looks up and grins. “What’s up, Joe?”

“Just getting in some low-intensity cardio before my first jiu jitsu lesson” I say. “You up to anything this weekend?”

“Jiu jitsu?... That like karate?” Steve stands, brushing chalk dust off his hands. “Heading out to Hocking Hills with the missus. Got a cabin this time. Couple days of hiking, drinking, and pretending we know how to build a fire without a lighter.”

I laugh, casual. “Sounds awesome. Enjoy, man.” I wave goodbye on my way out.

I try to contain my excitement. He’ll be out of town this weekend.

Which means his junkyard will be unoccupied. Perfect. We were in the clear for our Bronze Ticket dungeon trip tomorrow night. Just good old-fashioned interdimensional spelunking without the risk of Steve strolling in and finding a glowing portal in his backyard.

I slap the door bar and step into the morning chill. The air outside still tastes like night. Dew clings to everything like shy ghosts.

I pull out my phone, thumb in the address for Lakewood Jiu Jitsu Academy, and drop into my car. Time to roll around on the ground a bit! I crank the ignition and peel off.

I push open the door to the Lakewood Jiu Jitsu Academy and step inside, the bell above the frame giving a tired jingle.

Kyle’s down on one knee, a bottle of disinfectant spray in one hand and a rag in the other. He’s short with dark, curly hair, thick beard, cauliflower ears, lean as a butcher’s knife. He looks up, eyes widening in genuine surprise.

“You really came back,” he says. His shock melts away into a smile.

“I had to hold you to your word,” I say, walking forward and sticking out a hand. His grip is strong. The kind of strong that doesn’t need to brag about it.

He nods toward the back room. “I’ve got a few spare gi. Should be something in your size. Go ahead and change, and we’ll get started.”

Ten minutes later, I step out wearing a navy blue gi. The material is stiffer than I imagined. The belt hangs loose and awkward around my waist.

“Nice fit,” Kyle says, walking me to the center of the mat. “Let’s start with some stretching.”

“Sounds good,” I say, nodding.

Kyle walks me through a series of stretches, largely focused on the calves and shoulders. “Most common injuries for beginners come to these areas while rolling,” he explains.

“Makes sense to me,” I reply

As we wrap up the last bit of stretches, he squats down next to me, casual. “Hey, I know it’s a little personal, but you mind sharing your Physical stats? Helps me get a sense of what you’re working with and how much I can push you from a physical standpoint.”

I shrug. “Sure. Uh… 19 Strength. 12 Dex. 8 Constitution.”

Kyle blinks. “Wow. And what did you say your Level was?”

“11… Oh, wait!... Er, sorry. Those numbers were with gear. Base stats are 19, 3, and 8.”

He nods appreciatively. “Still, with a Strength stat like that, you could apply to a Guild as an entry-level associate. My Guildmaster would probably welcome a Warrior with those numbers.”

Warrior, I think. I bit my tongue and stifle a laugh.

“Right,” I say instead. “So,” I say, “what’s next?”

Kyle begins by showing me the fundamentals—shrimping, bridging, shoulder rolls—and each movement feels like trying to drive a go-kart through wet cement. My gi is too stiff, my belt won’t stay tied, and I’m sweating like someone who knows they’re about to be a cautionary tale in a very painful YouTube compilation. Idiot tries BJJ for the first time!

Shrimping, by the way, sounds adorable. It is not.

It’s sliding backward on your ass using your heels and hips like a deranged crab. It burns my abs, roasts my thighs, and makes me question all my life choices that led to this very moment. But Kyle’s patient. Steady. Like a stone Buddha statue with a low-key sadistic streak.

Once I stop flopping around like a dying fish, he nods in approval. “Good. You’re catching on quicker than most. Let’s try a few rolls.”

We do shoulder rolls, forward rolls, and a few bridge-to-shrimp-to-roll transitions until I’m dizzy, soaked in sweat, and wondering if Jelly Boy would like to trade bodies for a day. Being a slime sounds easier. I could probably get into the Real Housewives thing.

Then he claps. “Alright. Ready to spar?”

Yes. Yes! Hell yes! This is what I came here for.

“Yeah,” I start to say, then freeze. “Wait. Uh… if you don’t mind me asking. What are your Level and stats?”

Kyle grins. “Smart man. No worries. I’m Level 16. 22 Strength, 26 Dexterity, 15 Constitution. But I’ll take it sufficiently easy on you, I promise.”

Oh.

I’m in danger, aren’t I?

He’s a goddamn monk-type class or some shit, I know it.

“Alright,” I say as confidently as possible. “Let’s do it.”

And then he proceeds to absolutely ruin me.

He takes it really easy on me. That much is obvious. But it doesn’t stop me from having my ass kicked. Strength score be damned.

It’s like being attacked by a hurricane made of spider monkeys and clinical efficiency. One second I’m trying to hold position, the next I’m flying, flailing, and flopping. I get my arm wrenched into angles that should only exist in digital animation. Twice. I’m too stubborn to tap, and twice I get dangerously close to needing a sling—or a new arm altogether.

Kyle’s good about it, though. Every time I go down—and I go down a lot—he walks me through it. “Don’t reach like that when you’re in bottom guard.” Or: “Try hooking your leg here next time.”

My ego gets beat up harder than my body, and my body is very bruised.

By the time we collapse for cool down stretches, I’m sweating from my soul. I’ve discovered new muscles, and most of them are screaming. But somehow, I feel incredible. Like I just got steamrolled by a freight train made of wisdom and now I’m spiritually aligned with the pain.

I look over at Kyle. “Would you… be willing to spar again sometime?”

Kyle grabs a towel and wipes his face. “Until I’m able to get an actual System-enhanced gym up and running, I’m happy to help you train. Maybe eventually, you’ll be an actual sparring partner.”

I laugh.

It’s a ragged, bruised-lung kind of laugh, but it’s real.