I left Natural Philosophy knowing considerably less about gravity than when I entered. Apparently knowing the name of something did not mean I understood it. I know definitions like gravity, mass, matter. But it felt like no one in that class knew what I was saying. And when the professor pressed me for the definitions, I realized I didn't know what I was saying. Maybe I can find a book somewhere that talks about gravity? I tried searching in that recessed corner of my mind of inexplicable knowledge to try to understand what I understood about gravity. As I swam around in my head, students poured into the corridor around me. Understanding precedes power. Professor Aurelia had written those words across the board as if they explained everything. I thought I understood gravity when I said it. I looked down at my schedule. Martial Arts and Combat Training That sounded like I shouldn't be wearing my current uniform. I should probably go back and grab the training uniform I got. But I'd be much too late doing that. It suddenly made sense why do many students just walk around with weapons and large bags. Maybe it'll be fine if I go there like this. It's still technically my first day. Worst case they'll just make me go grab my uniform or something. At the very least I don't think anyone is going to ask me what these hands are made of. After asking several students for directions, I was sent across the academy grounds toward a massive stone building near the outer wall. It looked less like a classroom and more like somewhere soldiers might gather before a war. Wide double doors stood open beneath a stone arch. Students passed through them carrying wooden swords, shields, staffs, bows, and several weapons I couldn’t identify. I checked my schedule again. Definitely the right place. From the outside, the building looked large enough to contain several classrooms. The moment I stepped through the doors, I realized it probably did. The room was enormous. No flooring… Just fine, soft dirt with patches of straw and hay scattered across it. 0/10 flooring would not stare again. Wooden dummies stood along the walls, shaped roughly like torsos and heads. Some wore dented helmets. Others had old pieces of armor strapped around them. Most were covered in cuts, cracks, holes, and dark stains from years of being struck. They were probably used for target practice. There was a weapon racks lined the far wall filled with mock training weapons Wooden swords, spears, staffs, shields of varying shapes and sizes, axes with blunted heads, and several things I had absolutely no name for. Students were already gathering inside. Everyone gathered with people they knew. I couldn't help but notice almost every group looked ethnically the same. Students who looked Asian, or Zhanghua or whatever, stood together near one side of the room. The local white students, who Lynne calls Albion, gathered around a raised wooden platform near the front. Another group wore long robes, headscarves, and turbans while speaking loudly in a language I couldn’t understand. Not all of the students were acting this way though, some students from different groups spoke to one another. Just not that many. It was like someone had poured the entire world into one room and everyone had immediately separated themselves according to geography. Maybe that's what we were supposed to do? That's a…slightly problematic system. My eyes continued across the building. Then stopped. Well more like they were aggressively captivated. June. She stood among several Zhanghua students with both arms raised behind her head, gathering her long black hair into a ponytail. I forgot why I was looking around the room. Probably didn't matter anyways. Her hair was so dark and smooth that the light seemed to slide over it. She pulled it together behind her head and tied it with a narrow strip of red silk. I would have thought her hands were delicate, fragile even if I hadn't seen her beat the shit out of four grown men. They mesmerized me with their practiced and graceful maneuvering. Once. Twice. Then into a small bow. Her ponytail fell almost to the middle of her back. At some point while I was staring at her, I realized that I was staring at her. I continued staring anyway. They don't even have flooring here. She wasn’t wearing the yellow jacket I had first seen her in. She wasn’t wearing the academy uniform either. Instead she wore a fitted white silk tunic with red trim and small knotted buttons running down the front. The hem split at either side of her hips over loose red trousers. Black stockings disappeared into soft shoes. Several students around her wore similar clothing in different colors. Others wore thick canvas robes wrapped across the chest and tied at the waist. They reminded me vaguely of the uniform that came to mind when I thought “martial arts.” The only name from this world I recognized was Zhanghua. Despite sharing similar features, even those students divided themselves into smaller groups. It seems it's their clothes that matters the most for who's in who's group. June finished tying her hair. For a second, her eyes moved toward me. I immediately looked somewhere else. Very naturally. At a wall. There was nothing interesting on the wall. But better than the floor I guess. When I finally risked looking back, she was speaking quietly to another girl. At the front of the room stood an elevated wooden platform. It looked like somewhere an announcer might stand during a tournament, although it worked just as well as a place for an instructor to lecture. A large group of Albion students had gathered around it. Their gambesons came in deep reds, royal blues, greens, purples, and gold. Even though I knew almost nothing about clothing in this world, I could tell they were expensive. The fabric was clean and the stitching was intricate. Several had embroidered animals or symbols sewn onto their chests. Like a family crest or something. Probably a family crest. Farther behind them stood more Albion students, except they were wearing faded brown, gray, or white gambesons. Ah, the poor white kids. Then the doors behind me opened. Several boys entered while speaking in loud, boisterous voices. Some wore turbans. Others had scarves wound around their heads and necks. Beautiful curved swords hung from their belts, their scabbards decorated with metalwork and tiny colored stones. They walked like they owned the building. People moved out of their way without being asked. I still couldn’t tell whether several classes were gathering in the same room or if the class was deliberately divided by culture, equipment, fighting style, wealth— Probably all of the above. As I searched for somewhere to stand, I noticed three boys a little distance away. Something about them caught my attention immediately. Their skin, hair and facial features looked more like mine than anyone else in the room. Albeit both were lighter skinned than I was. One has a thin face and carefully combed hair. Another was stockier with broad-shouldered. The third stood slightly ahead of them. He was taller than the rest, with the typical lean build that went along with it. His face sported a hooked nose, and a smile that looked more like he was laughing at you than with you. I mean they did kind of have my same skin color, I guess they kind of look like me. Am I supposed to go stand with them? Everyone else seemed to have sorted themselves out according to that logic I stayed where I was however. The hooked-nosed boy noticed me staring. He frowned slightly, then pointed me out. He seemed to say something to his friends. All three looked over. They smiled, looked back at each other, said something else then laughed. I couldn’t tell whether they were inviting me over or making fun of me. Maybe that was how they greeted people? That's a douchey way to greet people. Still, standing alone felt awkward. I walked toward them and lifted one hand. “Hey.” The lighter-skinned boy said something to me. I couldn't understand a word of it. I stared at him. “Sorry?” His eyebrows rose. The broad-shouldered one said something else to me. I didn't understand, but the rhythm and the way he accentuated certain sounds were different. They looked at one another. Their smiles replaced by a perplexed look. The hooked-nosed boy glanced down at the nameplate on my uniform. His eyes narrowed. “Xu Xiaoxing.” Hearing someone else say it made the name sound even less like mine. He looked at my face. Then back at the name. “Why are you wearing a Zhanghua name?” “Oh.” I looked down. “This is actually a long story. When I woke up, they—” “If I were Vanga, I’d hide it too,” the broad-shouldered boy said. He wasn’t speaking to me. He said it to his friends as though I weren’t there. I looked at him. “Vanga?” All three went quiet. The lighter-skinned boy stared at me. “You don’t know Vanga?” “No.” That apparently was not the right answer. The hooked-nosed boy’s eyes narrowed. “You expect us to believe that?” “I don't know what you want me to say.” The other two looked at one another. “Maybe he was fostered abroad,” the lighter boy said. The broad-shouldered boy laughed. “Fostered? Are they shipping them off to the moon now?” All three laughed. I didn't understand their sense of humor. The hooked-nosed boy looked me over again, as if he was trying to look past my uniform. The color of my hair and skin, my facial features. Something in his expression changed into a kind of amused disgust. “A Vanga boy wearing a Zhanghua name who hasn't a word of his own tongue.” He clicked his tongue. “Such a sorry thing.” I looked between them. “What the fuck is that word you keep calling me?” That only made them laugh again. They turned away. Apparently the conversation was finished. I stayed there for another second. What the fuck was that? Before I could decide whether I should be insulted by a word I didn’t understand, the doors behind me flew open hard enough to strike the stone walls. The crash echoed through the building. An older man stormed inside. He was mostly bald, although short gray hair still clung stubbornly to the sides and back of his head. Several days of rough stubble covered his jaw. His eyebrows appeared permanently lowered, making him squint at everyone as though the entire world had personally disappointed him. He wore a white gambeson. Not a beautiful one like the students near the platform. His was kinda busted, plain and faded, stained around the collar. There were several tears that had been repaired with ugly stitching. Looks like he did it himself in the middle of a battlefield of something. The moment he entered, the room became quiet. He walked straight through us and climbed onto the raised platform. “Limber yourselves!” Nobody moved. I had no idea what he just said His eyes widened. “Must I stretch your limbs for you? Move!” Everyone immediately started stretching. Students scattered across the room. Some folded forward and reached toward their feet. Others twisted from side to side, stretched their shoulders, rolled their necks, or dropped into positions that looked extremely uncomfortable. I tried copying the people around me. At first, I thought everyone was following the same routine. Then I realized they weren’t. The Zhanghua students moved through slow, controlled motions. The students in the thick canvas uniforms sat on the ground and stretched their legs. Several Albion students jogged around the room. Others practiced moving while holding shields. The boys I had spoken to were doing something that looked like a stretching dance? I spread my feet apart and folded forward. My palms touched the dirt easily. That surprised me. I shifted toward one leg. Then the other. My hips moved easily too. Stretching wasn't a problem. Holding myself up on the other hand. My legs still tired embarrassingly quickly. I mean I climbed a lot in the last few hours. But still, it felt like there was an underlying weakness underneath everything. Like I should be able to do things and my mind feels like I can do it. But my body fails. After several minutes, the instructor climbed back onto the platform. “Stand!” Everyone immediately rose. Feet together. Hands at their sides. I was still sitting on the dirt with my legs spread apart. Oh. I scrambled upright. Several people snickered. “Ready!” Everyone stepped out with the left foot until their feet were about shoulder-width apart. I stayed standing in the same position. I thought he was asking whether we were ready. Apparently ready was a position. I stepped out a moment late. “And sit!” I started lowering myself toward the ground. Nobody else did. They stepped wider and bent their knees. I stopped halfway down. Straightened. Then copied the nearest student. My thighs immediately began working way harder than they had while stretching. “Neutral!” Everyone changed again. One foot forward. One behind. Knees bent. Weight somewhere between them. I tried to copy the boy beside me. Too late. The instructor noticed. His head slowly turned. Then his entire body followed it. He stepped down from the platform. Students watched him cross the room. Their eyes followed him. Until naturally all of those eyes ended up on me. He stopped directly in front of me. Looked at my feet. Then my knees. Then my hips. “Weak legs.” I wasn't sure whether that was an observation or what he named me. “Wider.” I moved my front foot farther forward. His mouth tightened. “I said wider. Not longer.” “Oh. Sorry.” I moved my left foot sideways. My balance shifted. I nearly fell over. He stared at me. “Of course.” He grabbed my shoulders and turned me slightly. Then nudged the inside of my foot with his boot. “Out.” I moved it. “More.” I moved it farther. “Show me front.” The class leaned forward. I copied them. Or tried to. He immediately seized my shoulder and turned my chest. Then adjusted my hips. My lower body faced one direction. My chest faced another. It felt wrong. Which apparently meant it was right. My left thigh started burning. “Lower.” I bent farther. The burning became considerably worse. My leg began shaking. He watched it tremble. “We’ll have to put some strength into those.” His eyes traveled upward. Then stopped at my nameplate. The same faint confusion crossed his face that I had seen on almost everyone else. He looked from it to me. “Mr. Xu.” I nodded. There was no point explaining. He returned to the front. “Again!” We moved through more positions. Every time he called one, the entire room moved almost at once. Every time I was a beat behind. My thighs burned. My knees shook. My balance was terrible. At one point the instructor walked past me and sighed without saying anything. That somehow felt worse just being yelled at. Then we started punching the air. I found that way easier. I still didn’t know what the movements were called. I still had to watch the people around me. But once my body started moving, I needed to look around less. My fist traveled forward. My shoulder turned naturally behind it. My other hand returned beside my face. Again. The opposite hand. Turn. Return. When we moved to kicks, my knee lifted first. Then my lower leg extended. My hips turned without me consciously telling them how far. My legs still felt weak, but I could just shift my hips and head to find my balance relatively easily. It's just my body felt weak. The movements almost like home. The instructor noticed. I saw him watching me. He frowned. Not the same frown as before. At first I expected him to come over and correct me again. Instead he watched several strikes. Then several kicks. His eyes dropped to my feet. Back to my hands. Then he walked away. I don't know if he was impressed, or decided I was so far behind, he shouldn't waste his time. Eventually he called us together. “Pairs!” Everyone immediately started moving. I looked around instinctively for the one person I knew who normally made situations like this easier. Lynne. She wasn't there… We had different schedules. I hadn’t seen her since that morning. Students found partners quickly. Friends. People from the same groups. People who trained together frequently. Within a minute almost everyone had someone. Almost. There were two of us left. Me, and the hooked-nosed boy. He stood several paces away looking around with increasing irritation. Nobody seemed particularly eager to pair with him either. Eventually his eyes found me. His mouth curled upward. “Come on, then.” He walked toward me. “You’ll do.” Not this asshole. I looked at him more closely now. He was taller than me by several inches. Not especially broad, but there was obvious muscle beneath his clothing. He carried himself with his chest forward and his chin slightly raised. Everything about him suggested that he believed being taller than someone was a moral achievement. He stopped in front of me. “Varma.” I wasn't sure whether he was introducing himself or expecting me to already know. “Uh. Xu.” He looked at the nameplate. “Yes. I can read.” Right. He hadn't chosen me because he wanted to. It seemed nobody wanted to partner with him Of course, nobody wanted to partner with me either so I guessed it worked out. The instructor demonstrated from the platform. “One attacks slowly. Straight hand toward the face. The other turns it aside.” He demonstrated the movement with another student. Simple punch. Small redirect. “Do not chase the hand. Do not strike in earnest. This is an exercise.” His eyes moved across the room. “If I see fools proving their courage during a guarding drill, I will cure them of it.” I don't know why, but the way he was talking. It was making it really hard for me not to laugh. “Begin.” Varma stepped into position. I raised my hands. He didn't. My turn first. I slowly extended a punch toward his face. His hand slapped down against my wrist. Hard. My arm dropped toward the ground. Something about it immediately annoyed me. Not the pain. Although my wrist did sting. Something else. He dropped his hand all the way toward his chest. The entire right side of his head was open. For some reason, I couldn't stop looking at it. His turn. He stepped forward. His fist came at my face. Fast. Much faster than the instructor had demonstrated. My hand moved before I thought about it. It touched the outside of his forearm and guided the punch just far enough away that his knuckles passed beside my cheek. He pulled his hand back. He seemed slightly agitated. My turn. I punched slowly again. His hand crashed down against my wrist. Harder. My fingers tingled. Again his hand dropped toward his chest. Again the entire side of his head was exposed. It bothered me. It was like looking at a door someone had left hanging open during a storm. Close it, or do something! His turn. He punched even harder. I redirected it. This time without letting my hand travel very far from my face. Yeah, felt good, felt right. The harder he struck, the easier it was to understand where his arm wanted to go. He glared at me. I began wondering if I was doing something wrong. Maybe he was irritated because I wasn't punching fast enough. Maybe the instructor had said slowly, but slowly meant something different here. When my turn came again, I decided to match him. At least a little. I stepped forward. My fist shot out. Varma slapped downward. Just a tad bit too late My knuckles struck his hooked nose. His head jerked back. My eyes widened. “Oh shit. My bad.” He grabbed his nose. When he lowered his hand, there wasn't any blood. That was a relief His expression however was straight menacing. “You meant that.” “No. I thought you wanted me to go faster because you kept—” He shoved me pretty hard. I stumbled back several steps. “You little Vongo cur.” I almost laughed at the ridiculous sounds of his curse words. Vongo? Cur? The way he enunciated almost felt like he was spitting out the word with his whole being. I still had no idea what either meant. But I understood well enough from the way he said it. His eyes widened in anger, I could see his entire iris almost rattling inside his skull Like he couldn't believe I had touched him. I couldn't hold it in, a laugh escaped. I quickly bit my lips, but it was too late. “You think to make sport of me?” “No. I literally just said it was an accident.” He stepped into my space. I lifted my hands. Palms open. “I don't want to fight.” “Then guard yourself.” His fist flew toward my face. My feet woke up. A moment earlier my legs had felt weak and clunky. Now they pushed me backward before my mind had decided to move. His fist missed my nose. “Wait–” He followed me, trying to punch me again. My hand touched his wrist, his arm glided across, missing my face just like we drilled He swung from the other side, my other hand was already there before I noticed. My hands seemed to know exactly how little they needed to do. “I'm sorry!” I said. “I didn't mean to—” He wasn't listening. He was trying to hurt me now. As soon as I understood that, it felt like the world shifted into a different perspective. It was a strange, but pleasant feeling. The best way to describe it is maybe. Being moved? Like a symphony so masterfully played you can't help but weep. I don't think I've ever experienced it, but I somehow knew the concept amongst other things. Varma stepped in again. I extended my left hand toward his face, trying to hold him away. His right palm slapped it downward. Exactly the same movement. His right hand dropped. The side of his head opened. Something deep inside me recognized it. Commanding me to touch it. I only understood it as words afterward. My right foot drove into the dirt and turned out. My hips turned. Before I understood what I was doing, the instep of my left foot struck the right side of Varma's head. The sound was sharp. His eyes flashed wide as he stumbled sideways. I could see his knee buckle slightly. His right elbow lifted away from his body as he fought to regain his balance. Another opening. I should have stopped But it felt like I didn't have time to think, my body was just responding to that opening almost like it had no choice. My left foot touched the ground ahead of me. My weight shifted. My left fist drove beneath his ribs. For one strange instant, it felt as though my hand weren't trying to hit him. It was trying to pass through him. Past his skin, under his ribs. Like there was something behind all of that and I wanted to rip it out. Varma made a strange high pitched noise. Almost a squeak. It would have been funny in any other situation. Then his entire body folded around my fist. He dropped to one knee. Both hands went to his side. He tried to breathe. But he only managed a gasp that sounded like he had aged about sixty years at once. I froze. The nice warm fuzzy dancy feeling just disappeared. My body returned back to normal, and I instantly became aware of my legs. It felt like I had demanded more of them than they could offer, and now they were in debt. I took a step back. The building had gone quiet. I looked around. Students from every group were staring at us. The white Albion kids The Asian kids The brown kids in turbans. Some were shocked, others looked entertained, openly smiling. The two boys Varma had been speaking with earlier weren't laughing anymore. I felt a pair of eyes burning through me. I turned and saw June. She stood completely still, her eyes locked on me. Her gaze moved over me, as if she was scanning and processing. Like she was replaying what she had just seen. She looked at me the same way she had at the pool. The same way she had in the hallway. Like I was a question she didn't particularly want answered. Then her eyes dropped to my nametag The instructor was already marching toward us. “Did I bid you fight?” His voice filled the entire building. I looked at him. Then at Varma, who was still on one knee making terrible gasping sounds. “Hhh…” He managed a gasp that sounded like his soul was leaking out of him. Definitely not helping my case. The instructor reached us and shoved me backward with one hand. “Stand fast.” Then he grabbed Varma beneath the arm. “Up.” Varma tried to remain folded over. “Stand, Varma.” He pulled him upright. “Hands high.” Varma immediately tried bending again. The instructor slapped his arm upward. “Hands high, I said. Draw breath. It'll pass.” Varma reluctantly put both hands over his head. He sucked in several short breaths. The instructor watched him for a moment. Then looked at me. His usual scowl was still there. The emotion behind it had changed. “Weak legs?” “Huh?” I wasn't sure if he was speaking to me. Or himself. He looked at my feet. Then back at Varma. “There’s the price of baiting every fellow in the hall.” Varma tried to speak. Only another wheeze came out. The instructor continued. “Sooner or later, one of them fries your liver.” Several students laughed. Varma's face darkened. The instructor turned toward me. “Who taught you?” I blinked. “What?” “Who taught you to fight?” “Oh.” I looked at my hands. “No one.” He stared at me. “This is my first class.” “Your first class here.” “No.” I shook my head. “My first class.” Silence. His expression slowly flattened. “Do not play the fool with me.” “I'm not.” “You cannot hold a forward stance for half a minute.” “Yeah.” “You know none of the calls.” “I know.” “You move about this hall like a boy who has never set foot in one.” “Yeah, I haven't.” He pointed toward Varma. “Yet you read his hand, struck through his balance, then found his liver before he had his feet again.” I looked at Varma. Then at my fist. “I mean when you explain it like that, it sounds all fancy. I just kicked and punched him.” The instructor stared at me. I stared back. His eyes narrowed. “Aye.” He nodded slowly. “And I'm the Queen of Albion!” “...Um your highness?” A few students laughed. “Be serious.” “I am!” “You're doing poorly at it.” “I'm not joking!” More laughter. I looked around helplessly. I didn't have an answer for him. I really did just kick and punch him, it wasn't that spectacular. The instructor stepped closer. “I can have your record brought up before supper.” His eyes dropped toward the nameplate. “Mr. Xu.” I sighed. I don't think that would explain anything. He looked back toward Varma. “And you.” Varma had finally started breathing normally again. “If you cannot keep your temper in a guarding exercise, you do not get a bout.” “What?” Varma dropped his arms. “He kicked me!” “After you struck at him in earnest.” “He struck me first!” “In the exercise.” The instructor pointed at his face. “Because you left your head open.” Several students laughed. Varma's face darkened. “It was a cheap blow.” “A straight hand a cheap blow?” “He—” “Had you guarded yourself instead of swatting at flies, it wouldn't have reached you.” More laughter. Varma glared around the room. The instructor pointed toward the wall. “Sit.” Varma looked at me. For a moment I thought he might actually try again. Then he turned and walked toward the wall with one hand pressed against his ribs. The instructor looked at me. “You as well.” “But he—” “I saw him.” He leaned slightly closer and lowered voice. “He knew what he was doing, you didn’t, that makes you both unsuitable sparring mates.” I didn't really have an argument for that. He returned to the platform. “The rest of you, pair off!” Nobody moved fast enough. He pointed toward the battered wooden dummies lining the wall. “Light hands. No earnest blows. Anyone starts another brawl and you may spend the rest of the hour beating oak!” The room immediately returned to motion. Students spread apart, feet dragged through dirt, and conversation naturally followed. I walked toward the wall and sat several feet away from Varma. He refused to look at me. Fine, fuck you too. I wasn't particularly interested in speaking with him anyways. I stared down at my hands. They looked ordinary, almost boney. My knuckles didn't look conditioned, there were no scars or calluses across them. Nothing that suggested years of hitting things. My legs looked even less impressive. They still hurt from the stances. One thigh twitched slightly every few seconds. Weak legs. Yet those same legs had moved before I told them to, and had the ability to kick someone taller than me, to the head. The sensation didn't feel new, it felt strangely familiar, exhilarating, but at home. Across the room, students began sparring. Some moved cautiously. Others bounced lightly around one another. Some of the Zhanghua students moved a lot in very acrobatic ways. Others barely moved at all until suddenly they'd both leap into action. June stood opposite another girl in white and blue. Her stance looked relaxed, almost bored. Then the other girl moved. For a moment I wasn't entirely sure what happened. June wasn't where she had been. The girl's hand passed through empty air. June appeared slightly to the side of her. I'm sure she moved, but for a moment I thought maybe she was a ghost too. The other girl turned. June stepped away. They continued. She didn't move like the other students. Everyone else seemed to react. It felt like June chose her reactions like it was a menu. I found myself staring again. For an entirely different reason this time. Mostly. June and her partner finally stopped She said something to her. June didn't answer. Instead she turned her head Our eyes met. She held them for a moment. I felt caught, but I felt like I couldn't look away now. Her eyes lowered towards my chest. Then back to my eyes again For half a second neither of us looked away. There was something in her expression I couldn't understand. I couldn't tell if it was anger? Or maybe it was grief? Probably neither, I think that's just how her resting face looks. Then she turned back toward her partner. I looked down for something to distract me with so I wasn't sitting around staring awkwardly. I pulled out my notes folded under the stone from class. Professor Aurelia's words returned to me. Understanding precedes power. Knowledge comes first. Except that wasn't what had happened here at all I hadn't understand shit. I don’t know these stances or drills. I just found out today where the liver was located And that's only after I punched the snobby kid next to me. It felt like power had come first with no understanding. I looked at my trembling legs. Or maybe the understanding was already there. Just somewhere I couldn't reach. Buried in some crevice of my mind to catch up. Or hidden between the joints of my bones.

Chapter 17-The Body Remembers