My Perfect Isekai: Pragmatic Protagonist, Progression Fantasy and Strategy

The third dawn in the hidden basalt valley arrived under the sign of a dry, biting frost, which overnight had bound the banks of the roaring stream with a thin, glassy crust of ice. The damp fog that had hung thick over the foaming water for the past two days now settled low against the ground, exposing a flat, black rock plate stretching right beside the stream. The basalt surface was perfectly smooth, polished by millennia of spring river floods, yet rough and treacherous at the same time—covered in fine, microscopic cracks where particles of water had frozen solid.

Dave stood at the edge of the plate, releasing a cloud of dense, white vapor from his mouth. In accordance with the old man’s Spartan rigor, he wore nothing except a pair of short trousers. The frozen stone beneath his bare feet burned like living fire, but the young man’s sharpened senses immediately registered the shift. Two days of agonizing training on the slick boulder in the current had reset his reflexes. The energy conduits in his chest remained silent, locked down by the old man’s hard KAI seal, but the mighty structure of his regenerated Vessel operated on a pure, biological engine.

”Step out of the stream, kid,” came a rough, emotionless voice from the side.

Sensei stood at the other end of the black plate. With a slow, economical motion, he set his flexible bamboo staff aside on a flat river stone near the lean-to. This time, he had no intention of using wood. The old man raised his broad hands, covered in thick, calloused yellow skin, and slowly clenched them into fists. Every single knuckle was gnarled, thickened, and hard as the stone they stood upon.

”In the water, the current cushioned part of the force,” Sensei spoke, taking his first noiseless step toward the young man. ”The water absorbed the impact of my strikes and softened your falls. Here, there is no stream to forgive a mistake. Every fist of mine that reaches your skin will deliver one hundred percent of its destructive force directly into your bones. On solid land, an evasion is not a matter of aesthetics or style. It is a matter of survival.”

Dave tightened his lips, and in his sapphire eye ignited the same predatory, masochistic enthusiasm that always flared up at the sight of an extreme challenge. Practically speaking, the old man was dead right. The water had forgiven far too much, absorbing kinetic energy and dulling the physical shock of tumbles. The hard, unyielding basalt was the ultimate verifier of biomechanics and skeletal fortitude.

Instead of adopting a traditional guard with raised hands, Dave set his bare feet somewhat wider apart. The black basalt bit into his skin with a freezing, sharp sting. He lowered his center of gravity at the hips, letting his arms drop completely loose along his torso. He did not clench his fists. In line with the foundation of the Sapphire Flow Style, defense was to be built on an absolute lack of rigidity and frictionless fluidity of motion, not on a passive muscular block that would simply shatter like brittle branches against the tonnage of KAI.

”Let’s begin,” Sensei grunted.

In that very same split second, the old man simply vanished from sight.

It was neither magic nor a burst of conduits. It was pure, terrifying biomechanics of KAI. The old Japanese master shredded his body’s inertia with unhuman speed, cutting through the fog like a black shadow. The ten-meter distance ceased to exist in a millisecond, and the hard stone beneath his feet did not so much as emit a loud scrape.

Dave did not try to trace the old man with his eyes. Experience from the stream had taught him that biological eyes were far too slow against someone who had mastered KAI to perfection. He closed his eyelid, shutting off his sight, and let his restless, hyperactive mind spread wide across the entire black plate.

The ADHD that had once made focusing on a single thing on Earth so difficult now became his most lethal asset. Rather than suppressing the forest of thoughts, Dave permitted his brain to register everything at once: the whistle of air sliced by the old man’s shoulder, the sharp spike in pressure near his right ear, and the micro-vibrations his bare feet caught from the hard basalt.

BAM!

Sensei’s lethal straight punch zipped a millimeter past Dave’s right cheek. The displacement of air accompanying the fist was so intense that it sliced the skin near the young man’s temple, releasing a single, red bead of blood.

Dave did not flinch backward. He remembered the lesson from the stream—retreating backward meant an immediate loss of balance and opening oneself up to a follow-up thrust. Instead, he executed a minimalist micro-rotation of his hips and neck. His torso tilted by a mere two centimeters, allowing the old man’s destructive force to fly past without meeting any resistance whatsoever.

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Sensei did not decelerate for a fraction of a second. His left hook burst upward, aiming directly for Dave’s sore, bruised ribs. The strike was engineered with merciless precision to shatter bone and end the clash in a single second.

Dave dropped his right shoulder, pivoting his foot on the rough basalt. His body acted like a resilient pendulum—he let the momentum of the strike pass, brushing against the old man’s fist with nothing more than the fabric of his loose trousers. Every movement was surgically calculated: no unnecessary gestures, no flailing arms, zero waste of precious oxygen and calories.

SWISH! SWISH! SWISH!

Upon the black basalt plate, a raw, soundless dance of two reincarnators unfolded. Sensei unleashed dozens of strikes in a lethal, machine-like flurry: straight punches, hooks, uppercuts, open-palm thrusts. Every one of his fists carried force capable of shattering granite rock into fine dust.

Yet Dave moved within this destructive storm with closed eyes, barefoot, and with total, predatory ease. His evasions were painfully economical. He performed no bounces or wide dodges. He tilted his head by a centimeter, pulled his chin back by a millimeter, and twisted his hips at the exact tempo of the incoming blow. The young man’s body absorbed the rhythm of his surroundings, becoming absolutely transparent to the old man’s attacks.

At one point, Dave felt a microscopic fissure in the stone under his right heel provide a subtle anchor. He used this point of support not to launch a counter, but to optimize the line of his evasion even further. The young man’s brain processed the trajectories of the old man’s fists like an advanced processor, predicting the next strikes a fraction of a second before Sensei even tensed his forearm muscles.

After ten minutes of this relentless pounding, Sensei abruptly altered his trajectory. Instead of a single punch, he closed the distance to zero and delivered a two-handed, titanic thrust toward Dave’s solar plexus—a blow meant to collapse his entire structure and hurl him against the rocks with the force of a battering ram.

Dave sensed the sudden compression of air pressure before his chest. Practically speaking, attempting to slip sideways at such close quarters was rendered impossible by the sheer density of the old man’s aura.

The young man did something else. Instead of tensing his muscles and fighting the rushing wave, he completely relaxed his spine and lowered his hips, allowing the momentum of the air blast pushed by the old man’s fists to drive his torso backward on its own. His back arched like a flexible oak bow, and his bare feet anchored into the edge of the fissure.

Sensei’s lethal fists passed precisely one millimeter above Dave’s chest, slicing through the mist hanging over the plate and generating a sharp, dry whistle of torn air.

Dave stood motionless, his hands still hanging loosely along his sides. Sweat dripped from his forehead, and a thin trickle of blood ran down from his cut temple, but his slowly opening sapphire eye gleamed with an uncompromising, confident ferocity.

Silence fell over the black arena. Only the loud, foaming roar of the stream beside them filled the basalt valley.

Sensei stood half a meter before him, hands lowered. The old master breathed rhythmically, thin wisps of steam rising from his lips. He stared at Dave in absolute, ringing silence. Upon his stern, wrinkle- and scar-covered face there was no smile, but within his golden-brown Tiger Eye eyes there gleamed, for the first time, a deep, unquestionable recognition.

In three days, this young man had traveled a path that took local martial artists entire decades. Without the use of a single thread of magic, without igniting his conduits, relying solely on pure intellect, masochistic discipline, and frictionless biomechanics.

”That’ll do for today, kid,” the old man uttered roughly, turning with a slow, calm step toward the lean-to. ”Your body has finally stopped fighting the ground. You’re beginning to understand what the Sapphire Flow Style truly is.”

Dave wiped the blood from his temple with the back of his hand. Upon his lips crept that same well-known, arrogant grin.

”Practically speaking, Sensei... that’s what I’m here for,” the young man rasped.

Beside the evening fire, as red tongues of flame licked the basalt river stones, Sensei lit his pipe and looked up into the night sky over Crossgard.

”Tomorrow, we weave energy back into it,” the old man muttered, shifting the ash with a stick. ”We’ll rebuild your conduits anew. And you’ll see what a true laminar ignition looks like.”

As the last rays of the cold sun faded behind the jagged peaks of the surrounding rocks, the valley plunged into a dark, smoky twilight. Smoke from the campfire drifted quietly across the hard surface of the black basalt. Dave, sitting by the lean-to, washed his shaken joints with cold water from a clay pitcher. Every touch of the hardened skin beneath his feet and ankles served as a reminder of how brutal the uncompromising physics of this world could be once all magic and the illusion of protective shields were set aside.

The young man glanced toward the darkening forest stretching beyond the border of the basalt ravine. A brief, analytical thought crossed his mind regarding the girls back at the manor near Crossgard. He had entered this year-long marathon with a clear, ironclad plan—to return to the base as a monolith that no balanced or corrupted reincarnator could even scratch. Kaede kept the radars active, Shnee honed her rapier in the depths of the dungeons, Karys learned discipline in the armor of the Black Fenrir, and Elena and Luthia closed the financial loops. The entire machine throbbed with life, awaiting the return of its apex predator.

Dave lay down in the lean-to, placing his black coat under his head. His entire body throbbed with pain from the micro-thrusts and the cold, but within his chest he felt a pure, unbroken power. The ordeal continues, and with every dawn, he was forging himself into a monolithic monster.