The morning sun filtered through the thin curtains of the small, dimly lit room where Rion stood. A soft breeze danced through the open window, carrying with it the faint scent of the city beyond. He took a moment to appreciate the cool air, closing his eyes as he centered himself.
His morning routine had become a familiar rhythm, and as the golden light filtered into the room, he found a strange sense of calm. It wasn't the bustling chaos of Moon Shadow Village nor the incessant demands of his new world, but it was his moment to reflect. No eyes watching, no mouths judging. Just him and the quiet. His solace.
When he opened his eyes, his gaze met the reflection staring back at him in the mirror, and with a mixture of disappointment and determination, he sized up the body that wasn't quite his own.
This wasn't the first time he had stood in front of a mirror like this, feeling the weight of what needed to be done. This body, Rion Hale's body, was like an engine that hadn't been tuned properly. All the wrong settings, controls in places that didn't make sense, like trying to pilot an alien machine. Rion ran a hand through his hair, his fingers combing through the unfamiliar texture. His voice, gruff and tinged with impatience, broke the silence of the room.
"Alright body," he muttered to himself, stretching his arms out and rolling his shoulders. "Let's see if today's the day I stop tripping over my own feet."
Talking to himself had become more than just a habit; it was a coping mechanism. He wasn't sure if it was a side effect of living in this strange new world or if he had always been this way. Maybe it was a bit of both. At least back in Macipher, talking to himself made sense.
After all, who else could he trust but himself? Now, though, it felt like the only thing keeping him tethered to reality in the chaos of it all. Not that there was anyone around to judge him for it.
As for the phrase, it had become a personal mantra, repeated before every training session. Despite his rigorous efforts, his new body had an uncanny ability to make even basic maneuvers feel foreign. He dropped into a low fighting stance, feet spread for balance, arms raised for defense. His muscle memory screamed that this should feel right—natural—but it didn't.
"Come on, legs. We've done this a thousand times," he whispered, shifting his weight from foot to foot. He clenched his fists, then opened them again, allowing the feeling to settle.
Another deep breath, and then a quick jab with his right hand. His form was sharp, his technique clean, but the recoil threw him off, sending him staggering backward.
"Oh come on!" he grumbled, his muscles tensing as his jaw clenched in frustration.
Steeling himself, Rion squared his shoulders and moved into a series of punches and kicks, his eyes focused on his reflection. Each strike landed with more precision than the last, and though he could feel the tension in his muscles, it was starting to ease.
His movements were gaining fluidity, albeit slowly. He threw a roundhouse kick, the familiar sensation returning as his foot cut through the air, but his landing was off, and he stumbled back with a grunt.
"Ouch."
The frustration was palpable. Back in his previous life, as Adelaide, he had moved with the grace of someone who had spent years honing his skills in the chaotic environment of the scavenger world. Combat had been a necessity, not a choice.
He could still remember the agile body of the chuzkah species he had inhabited, how it moved with a natural fluidity, its instincts perfectly in sync with the chaos of his environment. But this? This human form felt like an ill-fitting suit, tight in all the wrong places, loose in others. It wasn't that the body was weak, but his muscle memory from his past life kept clashing with the reality of his new limitations.
He stepped back into his stance, breathing heavily. The movements were coming easier, but there was still an awkwardness, a disconnect. His body wasn't aligned with the sharp, efficient techniques Adelaide had once used to fend off danger.
"One more set," he said to himself, gritting his teeth.
He moved through a series of attacks again, alternating between strikes and defensive movements, pushing himself harder with each repetition. The sweat beaded on his forehead, dripping down his face as his muscles burned with exertion.
This time, the punches felt sharper, the kicks more stable. His feet found their balance, and for a brief moment, he felt something click. His body, finally, seemed to remember the way it was supposed to move. The familiar rhythm of combat flowed through him, and his movements became a blur of precision and power.
And then, just as quickly, the rhythm vanished as his foot caught on the edge of the mat, sending him sprawling onto the floor.
"Brilliant, just brilliant," Rion sighed, lying on his back, arms splayed out. "Adelaide, the legendary scalper, conqueror of junkyards, now defeated by a rogue yoga mat. Truly we've reached rock bottom."
For a long moment, he didn't move, staring blankly at the ceiling, contemplating the absurdity of it all. He had lived through much worse in his previous life. And now? He was here, grappling with the reality of transmigration and the frustrations of a body that wouldn't cooperate.
It was laughable.
After a few more moments of brooding on the floor, Rion rolled onto his side and pushed himself up slowly. Then, he took a seat on the bench at the edge of the room, wiping the sweat from his brow and catching his breath. In moments like this, the somewhat incomplete fusion of his two personalities became more apparent.
Adelaide and Rion, two minds from two vastly different worlds, were still learning to coexist. But instead of fighting against it, Rion had always been accepting of the merger. Each day, the lines blurred a little more. And that fusion, that balance, was where his true strength would lie.
As for the result? Well, so far, it felt like a bad case of whiplash.
As he sat, Rion found himself reflecting on some of the old techniques he'd learned in his previous life. Combat on Moon Shadow had been brutal, unrefined, and entirely pragmatic.
There had been no room for elaborate techniques or fancy martial arts—just whatever it took to survive. Fights often devolved into scrappy brawls, with punches thrown wherever they'd hurt the most. It was a style of fighting that required agility, precision, and an utter disregard for anything resembling honor.
That was Adelaide's way. And it had served him well.
Rion's body on the other hand wasn't built for the same kind of fast, scrappy movement that Adelaide had excelled at. The body of humans was built differently than chuzkahs, and it demanded a different approach. It wasn't only about being fast and ruthless anymore—it was about precision, power, and control.
"Okay, round two," he said, rolling his neck as he stood up again. "Let's see if I can avoid the floor this time."
He turned to the punching bag in the corner of the room, his mind clear as he approached it. He wasn't trying to become Adelaide again, nor was he trying to fully embrace Rion's old ways. He was carving out something entirely new—a combat style that reflected both who he was and who he had become. This time, he wouldn't rely on his past life's instincts.
Rion took his stance once more, took a deep breath and threw a jab, letting the weight of his punch carry through. It wasn't as fast as he wanted, but the force was there. He followed up with a quick succession of strikes, focusing on precision rather than speed. His knuckles slammed into the bag, the dull thud reverberating through the room.
As the hours passed, he found a rhythm. The strikes were steady, methodical. They weren't the frantic blows Adelaide would've thrown in a desperate fight for survival, but they were effective.
The tension in his muscles began to ease, and his movements grew smoother. He threw a roundhouse kick and landed it perfectly, the bag swinging violently from the impact. A grin crept onto his face.
Rion stepped back, his chest heaving. "Not bad old man," he said, flexing his fingers and wincing at the soreness. "Maybe I'm not completely hopeless after all."
As he stood there, catching his breath, memories from his old life began to creep back. Flashbacks of graveyard fights on Moon Shadow, where every move was a matter of life and death, flooded his mind. The tension, the urgency—it was all so different from the structured training he was undergoing now. Adelaide had never been given the luxury of practice. Every battle had been a real, bloody confrontation.
"Who knew transmigration would come with so much self-reflection?" he muttered, walking back to the center of the room.
He resumed his stance, this time with a sharper awareness of his posture. The tension in his shoulders eased as he adjusted his footing, ensuring his weight was evenly distributed.
He drew in a deep breath, centering himself, and began moving through the motions. Slowly at first. Deliberately. Each punch cut through the air with measured precision, and each kick was executed with a focus on balance rather than force.
As the minutes ticked by, something began to shift. The resistance he'd always felt—the invisible barrier that made every move feel like a struggle—started to fade. It was subtle at first, like the gradual lifting of a fog, but the change was undeniable.
His punches became cleaner, the arcs of his arms sharper and more deliberate. His kicks no longer wavered, the power behind them beginning to align with the precision of his technique. He flowed from one movement to the next with a grace that felt alien but exhilarating, as though his body had finally started to understand what he was asking of it.
For the first time, it didn't feel like he was fighting against himself. His limbs responded with a newfound fluidity, his muscles working in harmony rather than resistance.
And in those fleeting moments of clarity, he felt something that had eluded him for weeks—a sense of control.
He lost himself in the rhythm of his training. Time became irrelevant, measured only by the steady thud of his fists and the sharp exhalations of breath that punctuated each strike. Sweat poured down his back and dripped from his brow, but he didn't care. The strain in his muscles and the burning in his lungs weren't obstacles—they were proof that he was pushing forward.
When he misstepped, he didn't feel the usual surge of frustration. Instead, he corrected himself, analyzing the mistake and moving on.
After what felt like an eternity, Rion finally collapsed onto the bench. His chest rose and fell with labored breaths, his entire body slick with sweat. His arms felt like lead, his legs shaky from the exertion, but his mind buzzed with an energy he hadn't felt in weeks.
The frustration that had weighed him down earlier was gone, replaced by a quiet sense of accomplishment. His movements weren't flawless—not even close. There were still missteps, moments of imbalance, and punches that lacked the power they should have had.
But all of that could be fixed with time.
His training wasn't just about physical combat, it was preparation for fulfilling his goals. And that meant more than just cultivating muscle memory. He had to master his abilities, refine his plans, and outthink his enemies.
"Not that I'm complaining," he said aloud to no one in particular, "but it would've been nice to transmigrate into someone a little more… coordinated."
Rion wiped the sweat from his forehead and stood in front of the mirror again, watching the rise and fall of his chest as he caught his breath. The face staring back at him was still unfamiliar in some ways—his features dull, his eyes intense. But as the days passed, it was starting to feel more like his own.
"You're getting there," he said quietly, locking eyes with his reflection. "Slowly but surely."
With a grin, Rion stood up and stretched, rolling his shoulders. He remembered an old lesson from his scalper days, one that had been drilled into him from the moment he was old enough to survive on his own: Adapt or Die!
That was the rule in Moon Shadow Village, and it was just as true here. If he wanted to thrive in this new world—if he wanted to make something of himself—he needed to evolve.