The world around me did not just stop, it froze, turning into a dense installation suspended in time. The hum of the air conditioner in the corner of the hall and the creak of tatami underfoot vanished in an instant. I felt a strange lightness, as if the axis of gravity had been pulled out of me, and my consciousness drifted smoothly upward toward the high ceiling of the gym.
I came to a halt just beneath the beams and looked down. Below, in the middle of the bright blue mats, two figures stood frozen. One of them was Mr. Santiago, my instructor, locked mid-lunge, his face twisted with extreme focus, the muscles in his arms coiled into tight cords. And the second… the second was me.
A chill ran across what I now considered my skin. Was this it? A stupid death during training, and now my soul was being inexorably pulled upward, away from my mortal body?
Neon lines of system notifications surfaced before my eyes, hanging in empty air:
[Warning! Hostile actions against the Familiar detected]
[Tactical Mode activated]
A breath, if I was even breathing at all, escaped me in relief. My memory obligingly supplied the missing pieces: right, this strange option had unlocked when my [Trainer] leveled up. The description said it triggered automatically under threat and allowed analysis of the situation under conditions of halted time.
But why could I see the top of my own head? Did I grow some kind of third eye? My curator Danny, when reading my official ability assessment from the state registry, classified my abilities as weak control over physiology and consciousness. The latter usually implies telepathy. I had never dug into the depths of mentalism, but from books and films I remembered that powerful telepaths could create psychic projections for remote interaction. That seemed to be my case. Something like an ethereal periscope, transmitting the image directly into my brain. For now, that was the only logical explanation.
I tried to drift farther to survey the hall, like a free camera in a video game, but my body refused. I was anchored in place in midair about a yard above my own head. Still, the view was excellent. From this angle, for the first time, I clearly noticed a few silvery strands of gray at the back of my head. Damn, I really was aging. Somehow that stung.
My gaze shifted to Santiago. He was not standing still, he was moving, but at an incredibly slow speed, like a drop of thick honey sliding down glass. So it was not a full stop, but an immense deceleration. The system had given me a chance to build a defensive strategy for the [Familiar], that is, for my own body. And this time was not infinite. I had to decide, and fast.
Training footage from jiu-jitsu lessons surfaced in my mind. The key was stance. The math of combat here was simple: leverage. Use the opponent’s mass against him, turn his strength into his weakness. That was the only way to bring down someone significantly bigger and more experienced.
I felt it through my skin as invisible threads, thin as spider silk, began tugging at my muscles. My body below started to transform: knees bent slightly, the center of gravity shifted downward, the torso turned sideways, and my hands rose into a defensive position. All of it happened in the same viscous, slowed rhythm.
Then reality snapped back on.
Sound slammed into my ears, Santiago’s exhale, the rustle of his clothes. He lunged at me with the speed of an attacking tiger, but I was already like a wound steel spring. His momentum became my ally. I caught his arm, dropped my weight, and with a smooth, practiced motion flipped him over my back. The dull impact of his body hitting the tatami vibrated through my feet.
What came next according to the manual? Right, immediately take top position, secure him, and go for a submission.
But while I was running through theory in my head, reality moved faster. Santiago rebounded from the mats like a rubber ball. Before I could process the maneuver, he was already behind me. A yank, a sweep, and I was on my knees, his forearm locking around my neck like a steel ring. A powerful bicep mercilessly squeezed the remaining oxygen out of my throat.
My vision darkened, my pulse hammered in my temples. I had definitely seen in those videos how to escape a choke, there was some simple hand motion and a hip turn… but which one? My thoughts tangled, panic flooded my mind, and my lungs burned. Unable to resist any longer, I slapped the tatami three times in quick succession.
"The beginning was magnificent, Mr. Ross. I felt real experience," Santiago said, instantly releasing the hold and stepping back.
I collapsed forward onto my hands and greedily, with a whistle, dragged the cool air of the hall into my lungs. My heart was pounding somewhere in my throat.
"And then…" the instructor thoughtfully adjusted his shirt. "Shall we go again?"
"Of course," I rasped, getting up and wiping sweat from my forehead. "Just give me a minute… to catch my breath."
Santiago attacked again, sharp and straightforward. I instinctively braced for time to freeze once more, for myself to rise to the ceiling, but… nothing happened.
[Tactical Mode: 0/1]
I see. The limit was exhausted, magic was over for today. Without the system’s assistance, I was just a guy against a professional. I had no time to think, Santiago skillfully took me down and pinned me to the mats with his full weight. I knew this position, knew what to do to break free, but my body would not obey. The trainer seized my arm and began twisting my elbow at a completely unnatural, terrifying angle.
Along with a sharp white flash of pain came panic. I tapped the mats again, surrendering.
"Mr. Ross," Santiago stood up and extended a hand to help me rise. Polite bewilderment colored his voice. "Tell me honestly, did you really practice jiu-jitsu before?"
I felt blood rush to my face. That was the most delicate way possible to accuse me of lying. Apparently only that perfect throw at the start was stopping him from throwing me out right now. Or maybe he was just an exceptionally well-mannered man. In situations like this, excuses sound pathetic. Diplomas and words mean nothing where muscles speak.
I had to act.
"I am ready to demonstrate the technique of every move I know," I said firmly.
I stepped into the center of the hall and began slowly, almost ritualistically, demonstrating basic stances. And again, a miracle. I felt those same invisible threads. They did not seize my mind, but gently corrected the position of my elbows, the angle of my foot, the distribution of weight. Every movement was geometrically perfect.
Santiago remained silent, watching me closely with his arms folded across his chest. I could see the skepticism in his eyes gradually give way to genuine, deep respect. Then, with his silent approval, I began demonstrating techniques on him: escapes from holds, transitions, submissions. I did it deliberately slowly, meticulously calibrating every inch of movement. It was perfect.
"Mr. Ross, to be honest, I do not even know how to comment on this," Santiago said after a long pause, slowly circling me as if inspecting a rare exhibit in a museum. "Your technique… it is flawless. Every stance, every weight shift, as if carved from stone. My best students spend years wearing their skin raw to achieve this level of precision."
"Thank you, Mr. Santiago," I replied, trying to keep my breathing steady, although my heart still echoed the recent chokehold.
"The problem lies exactly there," he stopped and looked me straight in the eyes. "It is obvious that you are thinking. I can practically hear the gears turning in your head as you consciously assume each position."
I frowned, not fully understanding where he was going with this.
"And is that bad? Control over the body, is that not what we strive for?"
"For demonstrations or a parade, it is perfect," Santiago shook his head. "But for a real fight, it is a death sentence. Understand this, Mr. Ross: in a match, you do not have that luxury of a spare second to think. A second in jiu-jitsu is an eternity, enough time for your arm to be broken or for you to lose consciousness. Actions must be instinctive, burned into the subcortex. You must become a set of reflexes, pure muscle memory. In that first sparring session, in that very first second, you acted like a beast. Your body found the perfect angle on its own. Then you turned your brain on. You started analyzing, choosing options… and that is exactly why you lost."
I listened, keeping my face completely unreadable. The role of a disciplined brute and diligent student was becoming easier for me. Inside, however, something burned that felt very much like shame. His praise for that first throw was undeserved. It was not my instinct, but the cold calculation of [Tactical Mode]. I felt like a fraud who had hit the jackpot by peeking at someone else’s cards.
"Mr. Santiago, I understand," I met his gaze directly. "What do I need to do to fix it?"
"Practice, Mr. Ross. Only that. Your foundation is already something even a master would envy," he smirked. "You just need to train your muscles to work without the involvement of your brain. Have you seen how cashiers in large supermarkets work?"
"Of course," I nodded, involuntarily picturing an endless conveyor of goods.
"An experienced cashier, after a couple of weeks, no longer looks at the items. The hands find the barcode on their own, send the products in the right direction on their own. The eyes can wander anywhere, the brain can think about dinner, but the hands work flawlessly. You need to achieve the same. If someone’s fingers touch your throat, your body must produce a counter before you even have time to feel fear. No thoughts. Only action."
"Where do we start?" I was ready for any load.
"We will do the same as before, but to exhaustion. We will drill combinations. You attack, I evade. I attack, you defend. We will repeat every exercise a thousand times. Then another thousand. Until your muscles begin to act without orders from your brain."
Santiago turned out to be absolutely right. After just a few days of endless repetition, I felt something inside begin to change. When someone’s hands closed around my neck, I no longer froze trying to recall the correct technique from a video. My body found the leverage on its own, broke the hold on its own. It was as if I had finally thrown away the training wheels and started riding on my own.
It was an exhausting, brutal time. I spent up to five hours a day on the tatami, soaking my shirt through with sweat. Several times I felt the temptation to use the [Special Command] to skip the boring part in a single instant. But I immediately pushed that thought away. I imagined how it would look from Mr. Santiago’s perspective: his student suddenly turning into an emotionless bio-machine, moving with frightening mechanical precision, seeing nothing but the target ahead. No, that would raise far too many questions. Better to grind like everyone else, especially since the passive bonuses from the influence of the [Trainer] already gave me an advantage ordinary people could not even dream of.
Santiago’s words also made me think about another weakness of mine. The invisible threads were a great gift, but they required my concentration, my conscious command. In a real fight, there was simply no time for that. And this applied to more than just grappling.
Shooting. This rule applied there completely. With a sniper rifle, one could afford to be a philosopher: hold still, calculate the wind, wait for the right heartbeat. Haste there was the enemy. But a pistol or an assault rifle in close combat was a completely different matter. There you had to fire instinctively, reacting to the slightest movement of a shadow. At the range, I could allow myself the luxury of aiming and thinking, but in a real firefight no one would give me that advantage. And [Tactical Mode] was unreliable, only once per day. It could not be relied on as a crutch.
I changed locations. Instead of the pretentious and expensive "Taran," I found a simpler shooting range where the air smelled not of expensive coffee, but of old oil and burnt gunpowder. Here, for the first time, I fully appreciated the weight of my certificates. It was enough to show proof of completed courses, and the instructors immediately lost interest in me, allowing me to work independently.
After renting a private lane to avoid attention, I picked up ten boxes of ammunition. The pistol in my hand felt like an extension of my bones. I activated [Special Command] and started shooting. Four hours without a break. Magazine after magazine. The thunder of shots, the ringing of ejected casings, and the sharp smell of cordite became my reality for the entire week. I drove bullets into the bullseye until my hand began to raise the weapon to eye level on its own, without any threads or system prompts. I did the same with an assault rifle, getting used to its weight, recoil, and character.
Today I took the next step and signed up for airsoft. Paper targets were good, but it was time to test how my skills would perform against real people who could also hide and shoot back.