I am 15 chapters ahead on my patreón, check it out if you are interested.
https://www.patréon.com/emperordragon
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Chapter Twenty-Two: Technique
Less than a minute. That's all it took for my body to start pulling itself back together. Sixty seconds—or maybe less—before the pain began to slip away like a bad dream chased off by daylight.
One moment, I was sprawled flat on the ground, gasping like a fish out of water. My ribs felt like they'd folded in on themselves. My ears were still ringing from the impact, a sharp, metallic hum that made it hard to focus. The world tilted, then righted itself, like someone had shaken my snow globe of a skull. But then—like flipping a switch—it all began to fade. The pain ebbed. The pressure in my chest loosened. My limbs stopped trembling. The fog behind my eyes began to lift.
My werewolf healing was kicking in, doing what it always did—knitting bones, dulling bruises, soothing torn muscles and battered pride. It was eerie how fast it happened. Like the damage had never been real to begin with—just a passing inconvenience, quickly smoothed over by something ancient and instinctual.
I groaned and pushed myself upright, brushing dirt from my jeans. My body didn't feel broken anymore. The soreness had evaporated almost completely, like the heat of it had burned off under an invisible sun. Physically, I was fine.
Emotionally? My ego had definitely taken the hit.
"Okay…" I muttered to myself, rolling my neck until I felt a satisfying pop. "How the hell do you hit like that?"
Richard hadn't moved an inch since he knocked me down. Still standing there like a stone monument, arms crossed casually, face unreadable. His expression didn't change as he spoke—cool, unbothered, like knocking me into the dirt hadn't even registered as effort.
"Strength isn't just about muscle, pup," he said, voice even. "It's about everything working in unison. Your bones, your breath, your posture. That's where real power comes from."
I frowned, squinting up at him. That sounded like something I'd read in the fortune cookie at the bottom of a takeout bag. Poetic, maybe. But it didn't help me understand what had just happened. "Okay, but… I mean, I get that in theory, kind of. But that still doesn't explain how you hit like a wrecking ball."
He saw the confusion written all over my face and stepped forward, hands going to his hips like he was preparing to explain gravity to someone who still thought the earth was flat.
"Look, you and I? We've got raw strength. More than enough. The kind that regular humans can't even dream of. That's why they invented techniques. The right way to punch, to stand, to breathe—every little detail matters when you're working with limited resources. It's the way of turning nothing into something."
He paused, letting it sink in. "Humans don't get to rely on brute force. They don't have claws or healing factors or supernatural endurance. All they've got is what they can train. That's why they learned the proper way to move, to shift their weight, to breathe in rhythm. Every motion becomes intentional. They squeeze every last drop of strength from a body that, by all rights, shouldn't be capable of that kind of force."
He held up a hand, fingers splayed. "On average, an untrained human only uses maybe twenty percent of their potential power. That's all they can tap into. But when someone masters proper techniques? When every muscle is in alignment, every breath purposeful? That number can shoot above ninety percent."
That made me pause. Twenty to Ninety percent. That wasn't just a difference—it was a canyon. A chasm between what should be possible and what is when someone knows exactly what they're doing.
It was the difference between a clumsy slap and a knockout punch.
My gaze snapped to Richard, a realization starting to take root. "So if someone like us—someone who already has superhuman strength—learns to use those kind of techniques…"
Richard's smile was cold and sharp, not friendly at all. It was a predator's grin. The kind that came just before the kill.
"Then you're looking at a truly devastating combination."
And just like that, it clicked. Hunters weren't dangerous just because of their enchanted silver weapons or their superhuman strength from the Mark. No—they were terrifying because they knew how to fight. Their training made them lethal. Their technique turned them from soldiers into precision instruments of death. The Mark enhanced them, yes—but the real danger was in their discipline. Their skill.
"So every hunter goes through this kind of training," I said, voice low. "That's how they survive against creatures that should outmatch them in every way."
Richard nodded once. "Without actual skills, the Mark is just borrowed strength. No foundation. It collapses under real pressure."
I took a breath, then straightened my shoulders. "Then that's what I need to learn. Not just how to hit harder—but how to hit right."
Richard raised an eyebrow at that. "You think it's that easy?"
"No," I said. "But it's something I can work for. Something I can earn. If I want to fight beside you—if I want to pull my weight on hunts—I have to master this. No shortcuts."
He was quiet for a moment, his eyes studying me. Then he sighed—a deep, resigned sound, the kind that said he knew arguing with me would be pointless.
"Pup," he said, his tone flat but not unkind. "Mastering these skills isn't like picking up a new hobby. It's control—over everything. Your feet. Your breath. Your center of gravity. Your instincts. It's drilling the same movement over and over again until it's part of your bones. And even then, most hunters, after years of training, can barely tap into fifty percent of their true strength."
I met his gaze, unwavering. "But I'm not most hunters."
That earned me a dry chuckle. "No. You're definitely not."
And for a moment—just a moment—he looked at me differently. Not like I was a kid tagging along. But like someone who might actually belong in his world. Someone who could carry the weight of it.
He sighed again, rubbing a hand over his jaw. "Alright. But I'm warning you—this isn't going to be fun. I'm not a gentle teacher. I'm harsh. I don't sugarcoat. And I don't tolerate laziness or mistakes."
"Good," I said, voice steady. "Because I don't plan on making any."
He snorted. "You will. Over and over again. And I'll make sure you learn from every single one."
I didn't flinch. I didn't back down. I stared him in the eyes and made a silent promise.
Let the pain come. Let the bruises bloom and the frustration mount. Let the drills wear me down to nothing and then build me back up again. If that was what it took to stand beside Richard—really stand beside him—I'd do it.
No matter how long it took.