MIGHT AS WELL BE OP Chapter 967: Martial Dimension

Kingsley attempted to circulate the Martial Rhythm throughout his whole body just as he had earlier, yet he couldn't manage it—the sensation resembled hauling water across sticky mud, assuming he even grasped such a comparison. The blockage felt dense and unrelenting, as if an unseen barrier pressed against each try to steer the stream along his arms and legs, turning the formerly smooth glide into something remote and irritatingly elusive.

"You've barely awakened it, and before, you could only envelop your full body in it because you'd slipped into that awakening mode," Anthony said while gazing at Kingsley, his voice steady and composed. "Martial Rhythm works somewhat like mana or other energies—even though you don't wield them, you're familiar with how they function. You'll need to practice it starting from scratch, much like you did with your Concept Of Destruction," he added in a relaxed manner, speaking as if it were a straightforward fact, an unavoidable truth instead of a tough challenge.

Kingsley paused quietly for a second, then gave a nod of comprehension. Though he'd never handled any energy before, he possessed some understanding of their mechanics, since he wasn't foolish by any means. Still, that point was irrelevant; Martial Rhythm wasn't merely an energy—it was a current, a principle, an essence, almost like a Concept in its own right, something basic and unchanging rather than a resource to hoard or expend, existing in all places and none simultaneously.

"No need to fret over years of practice, though. Given your background with Concepts Of Destruction and different martial techniques, you'll pick it up quickly enough and master it within weeks or perhaps a single month," Anthony remarked evenly, presenting the idea as entirely logical, not as a feat that left countless others devoting lifetimes to fruitless pursuit.

Kingsley raised an eyebrow, questioning if it could really be so simple. Anthony offered no response to the unspoken doubt; Kingsley would grasp it only through training. With his extraordinary Physique and aptitude, he'd conquer what eluded others effortlessly—what even long-ago awakeners had labored over for eras without ever fully achieving.

Even after Kingsley had fallen to nearly all opponents here, that didn't diminish his status as a freakish outlier among them. He still occupied a solitary pinnacle unmatched by most, a towering height forged from gore, trials, and unyielding determination, one that couldn't be gauged merely by wins or losses.

Noting Anthony's silence, Kingsley simply dipped his head in agreement and fell quiet, turning his attention inward instead. He regulated his breathing and quelled the subtle thrill pulsing in his heart.

"I'm feeling generous today, so I'll assist with your Martial Rhythm training for a short while. I'll hold back on using it myself and dial my pace down to just slightly faster than what you'd handle without it. We'll go for precisely four minutes: the initial two on my attack while you just dodge, then switch for the final two," Anthony announced once more. He halted briefly before adding, "Whatever you learn in those four minutes depends entirely on you, Kingsley." His grin lingered, soft but brimming with subtle assurance.

Kingsley acknowledged with a nod and dropped into position right away. In the instant that followed, his awareness of the surroundings altered as Martial Rhythm surged inside him. No clock was necessary; at their caliber, they could track each ticking second effortlessly if desired, their thoughts keen enough to mark time without conscious effort, perfectly accurate.

Anthony stepped forward with a grin, shifting his weight—but before his foot met the ground, he vanished. The world flickered, momentarily blind to his presence. He materialized in front of Kingsley as if he'd stood there eternally, not freshly arrived, like a cut inserted abruptly into the scene.

Under normal circumstances, Kingsley wouldn't have tracked it at all, but he perceived the strike approaching. He sensed the environment responding to Anthony's move. Even prior to the assault's completion, he'd already discerned it as a Brazilian kick targeting his brow, with path, slant, and power laid out clearly, as if pre-scripted for his eyes.

Enveloped in Martial Rhythm around his soles, he sidestepped with bare minimum exertion, motion, and air, evading in a seamless glide he hadn't imagined feasible, his form weightless and free, gravity's grip seemingly slackened.

The strike from Anthony whiffed, ripping through the atmosphere and void where Kingsley had lingered, the gusts parting with a sharp snap. Yet Anthony pressed on; his grounded foot pivoted to realign, and the airborne leg from the prior assault swiftly realigned, launching into the next blow with terrifying cadence, fluid and unbroken like a river tumbling downward.

Once more, Kingsley perceived it all—he witnessed everything, experienced it fully. He merged with the surroundings, the prior sense of flawlessness now appearing childish as a vast gateway to infinite potential swung wide open before him. Aligning his breath with Anthony's, he retreated, his steps hushed, his form's motion pristine and elegant, each action stripped of any surplus or inefficiency.

Thus, they slipped into harmony: Anthony struck, and Kingsley weaved away without countering or defending. He shifted like a performer to some hidden melody, his soles skimming the soil as if Anthony directed the beat for his routine, every assault a beat and every dodge a move in an unseen routine.

Once again, Kingsley sensed bliss, fulfillment, unity, as if the cracks inside him had mended soundlessly without his awareness.

The opening two minutes concluded, signaling his turn to press the assault. He advanced smoothly, no streak, no shadow trail, no air ripple— all stayed serene and attuned. His punch lanced out lazily, yet those with sharpened perception would detect the deadly power packed within, tight and heavy like a spring primed to unleash.

As the blow neared Anthony's midsection, Anthony shifted, echoing Kingsley's earlier sidestep sans Martial Rhythm. But the instant he stirred, Kingsley had gauged his muscular twitch, foreseen the dodge, and struck anew. Still, just as Kingsley anticipated Anthony, the elder evaded with absurd simplicity, asserting his dominance in the bout. It underscored that, Martial Rhythm or not, Kingsley stayed the learner, the divide between them immense and indisputable.

In this isolated realm, their wordless exchanges unfolded, drawing them into a private martial realm visible and comprehensible only to each other. They exchanged smiles like companions on a serene outing, oblivious to anything outside this instant, their actions weaving, colliding, and parting in natural accord, transforming the arena into a tranquil platform for their mutual performance.