TALENT BEYOND LIMIT: Stacking Many Talents

Two tons bothered Joe for an unexpected reason.

It was too much.

Not too much for his body.

Bone VII had accepted the warehouse test cleanly. His joints recovered without discomfort, his muscles had not reached their limit, and Skin Great Completion contained the movement without the slightest sense of tearing or excessive strain.

The number bothered him because of what it implied.

Two thousand kilograms.

Joe had heard estimates for true Martial Artists before.

Most conversations were vague because ordinary guards did not discuss Internal Organ practitioners in precise terms. They said stronger. Faster. Dangerous. A different class.

Joe disliked vague categories.

So three days after his Bone VII test, he went to Theodere.

The Hall had emptied for the evening. Rain tapped gently against the training-room shutters while Theo sat beside a brazier rubbing warmth into the leg that still bothered him during cold weather.

Joe closed the door.

“I have a question about Internal Organs.”

Theo looked up.

“That usually means five questions.”

“Probably.”

“Sit.”

Joe did.

He chose his wording carefully.

“How strong is a newly advanced true Martial Artist?”

Theo’s eyebrows rose.

“That’s your first question?”

“Yes.”

“Why?”

“Comparison.”

“With what?”

“Bone.”

Theo studied him for several seconds.

Joe smiled mildly.

The older man eventually gave up.

“A decent new true Martial Artist? Somewhere around sixteen hundred kilograms of usable whole-body strength isn’t unusual.”

Joe said nothing.

Theo continued.

“Some lower. Good constitutions higher. Method matters. Foundations matter.”

“And after entry?”

“The organs aren’t all finished merely because someone crosses the threshold.”

Joe nodded.

He knew that.

Theo held up one finger.

“Each major organ properly tempered tends to add another substantial step. Around five hundred kilograms is a useful rough figure.”

There.

Joe stored it.

A newly advanced Internal Organ practitioner could actually be physically weaker than him already.

That was important.

It was also confusing.

“Then why is Internal Organ treated as such a large divide?”

Theo stared at him.

Then laughed.

Not politely.

Actually laughed.

Joe waited.

Finally, Theo said, “There it is.”

“What?”

“The question every unusually strong Bone fool eventually asks.”

Joe’s mouth twitched.

Theo leaned forward.

“You’re counting weight.”

“Weight is useful.”

“Very.”

Theo stood.

“But if weight decided fights, we would train oxen.”

----------

He led Joe into the rear training room.

A heavy practice post stood near one wall, wrapped in old leather and layered cloth.

Theo stopped in front of it.

“Bone teaches the body to carry force.”

Joe nodded.

“Internal Organs changes how force is produced and delivered.”

“Blood Energy?”

“Still Blood Energy. Still the body.”

Theo glanced at him.

“No immortal tricks. Nothing from the air.”

Good.

That preserved the distinction Joe understood.

Theo placed one hand against the post.

His movement looked almost lazy.

A short contact.

Barely any visible windup.

The post did not fly backward.

The outer leather barely shifted.

Then something inside the layered structure gave a dull crack.

Joe’s expression changed.

Theo removed his hand.

“An Jin.”

Hidden force.

Joe approached the post.

The exterior remained mostly intact.

One internal board had split.

Interesting.

Very interesting.

“The force passes through the outside?”

“Not literally without resistance.”

Theo tapped the wrapping.

“People explain it badly. Think of it as force delivered past the first point of contact instead of spending everything there.”

Joe considered the implications.

Skin Great Completion was extraordinarily resistant to ordinary impact.

Muscle absorbed and controlled force.

Bone supported the whole structure.

But if An Jin transferred part of an attack deeper before dissipating—

His defense remained valuable.

Just not absolute.

Theo watched him understanding.

“Now you see why strong Bone practitioners die when they decide strength means realm.”

Joe looked at him.

“A Bone practitioner can still kill a true Martial Artist.”

“Of course.”

That answer came immediately.

Joe liked Theo more for it.

“A spear through the heart doesn’t ask politely what realm you reached. A stronger man can crush a weaker man’s skull. Surprise works. Poison works. Falling off a cliff works.”

Theo waved one hand.

“Cultivation changes odds. It doesn’t rewrite reality.”

Joe nodded.

Theo continued.

“A Bone practitioner with exceptional strength can be very dangerous to a new true Martial Artist.”

“How dangerous?”

Theo looked at him suspiciously again.

“You ask that like you have someone in mind.”

“No.”

Mostly true.

Joe had a category in mind.

Not a person.

Theo sighed.

“If the Bone practitioner lands first with enough force, the fight may end before An Jin matters.”

Exactly.

“But?”

“But if he thinks, I can lift more, therefore I can trade blows, he’s an idiot.”

Theo tapped his own chest.

“A true Martial Artist only needs one good opening to put hidden force where your hard Skin and strong Bones don’t help as much as you expect.”

Joe understood.

Mutual danger.

Not equality.

If Joe struck cleanly with two tons of controlled strength and everything his perfected Foundations could add to that delivery, a newly advanced true Martial Artist could die very quickly.

But if Joe allowed that person to land An Jin carelessly, his repeated tempering would not make him immune.

His Perfect Health would help recovery.

Stolen novel; please report.

Perfect Body would help distribute damage.

Neither justified getting hit.

Joe smiled faintly.

That was much more interesting than simple numbers.

------------

Bone VIII began the following week.

Joe approached it differently.

Not because An Jin had anything to do with Bone Tempering.

Because Theo’s explanation had reminded him that raw capacity and combat effectiveness were different things.

The eighth tempering refined structures that already felt nearly flawless.

Nearly.

Blood Energy still found differences.

A fraction of imbalance through the pelvis under rotation.

Small asymmetries in how force passed from spine into shoulder.

Regions around the joints where repeated loading revealed what ordinary movement could not.

Joe welcomed every flaw.

Flaws meant progress remained possible.

Bone VIII consumed more medicine than VII.

His savings fell again.

This time Joe barely cared.

The purchase was useful.

The reserve existed for useful things.

He still kept enough untouched for the Root test and travel, but the five-gold line had stopped feeling sacred.

That was healthier.

Money was strength stored in another form.

It was meant to move when needed.

--------

Theodere’s lesson also changed the way Joe watched Renford.

They crossed paths once at the medicine workshop when Renford came to review a family shipment.

Before, Joe had noticed the true Martial Artist’s balance.

Now he noticed something else.

Restraint.

Renford rarely moved with visible force.

He did not need to.

The body beneath those movements had crossed a threshold Joe’s had not.

Joe wondered how many organs Renford had tempered. At most one.

He did not ask.

There were questions one could reasonably ask a business partner’s relative.

That was not one.

Still, Joe’s internal calculation changed.

Could he kill Renford?

Possibly.

If Joe attacked seriously, first, at close range, without warning, his raw strength might make the answer unpleasantly simple.

Could Renford hurt him?

Absolutely.

That prevented arrogance.

Good.

Joe preferred confidence with boundaries.

Simon noticed none of this.

He had more immediate concerns.

“They want me at another meeting.”

Joe looked up from dinner.

“Who?”

“Guard quartermaster, Black-family steward, two caravan people.”

Mira smiled.

“You’re becoming important.”

Simon looked horrified.

“I don’t want to be important. Important people have meetings.”

Joe said, “You wanted promotion.”

“I wanted better pay.”

“Those are connected.”

“That feels dishonest.”

Mira laughed.

Simon pointed toward Joe.

“This is his fault somehow.”

Joe continued eating.

Simon had begun receiving exactly the kind of responsibility Edwin predicted.

Not command.

Translation.

The guard understood rules.

The family understood relationships.

Merchants understood schedules and profit.

Simon understood enough of all three to stop conversations from becoming arguments.

That usefulness was accumulating.

Slowly.

More honestly than a sudden promotion would have.

Joe approved.

Bret approved of none of it.

Joe saw him less frequently at the compound.

More frequently near the southern taverns.

That pattern was not difficult to understand.

One cold evening, Joe used Disguise and entered a different drinking house two streets from Bret’s usual place.

He found Bret there anyway.

Alone at first.

Then the broad warehouse man arrived.

Joe chose a table near the wall.

Bret had already been drinking.

“My father barely talks to me.”

The warehouse man sat.

“Maybe stop giving him reasons.”

Bret laughed bitterly.

“Now you’re him too?”

“No. I’m sober.”

Bret drank again.

“Vale gets everything.”

Joe continued eating.

House.

Marriage.

Guard respect.

Black-family connection.

The things Bret listed were revealing because none had once belonged to him.

Simon had not taken them.

Bret experienced another person’s progress as theft.

“He was nobody.”

“So?”

“So people like that don’t just become somebody.”

The warehouse man stared.

“You do understand that’s how becoming somebody works?”

Joe nearly smiled.

Bret did not.

“He thinks he’s untouchable.”

“He barely talks to you.”

“That makes it worse.”

There it was.

Joe slowed his eating.

Bret did not want an apology.

He did not want compensation.

He did not even seem to want Simon to acknowledge him anymore.

He wanted the hierarchy restored.

Simon beneath him.

Anything else felt wrong.

That was harder to solve.

The broad man drank half his cup.

“Your father told you to stop. I told you to stop. The red-cord boys don’t want another run at him. What exactly are you planning?”

Bret looked into his drink.

For several seconds he said nothing.

Then:

“I’ll figure something out.”

The warehouse man swore quietly.

“That’s what I’m afraid of.”

Joe agreed.

Bone VIII completed before the first Deepwinter winds reached Blackwood.

Joe gave the body nine days to settle.

Then returned to the warehouse.

Two thousand kilograms rose with less effort than before.

He added weight.

Two thousand one hundred.

Then two thousand two hundred.

His muscles tightened.

Bones carried.

Feet remained stable.

Two thousand three hundred kilograms rose slowly and cleanly.

Joe held it.

Then lowered it.

Enough.

The exact maximum did not matter.

Bone IX remained.

And beyond Bone waited a realm whose average entrant might possess less raw strength than Joe already did.

That no longer confused him.

Numbers described capacity.

They did not describe everything a body could do.

Joe flexed one hand.

If he struck first, he was terrifying.

If he became careless because of that, a true Martial Artist could still teach him the difference between strength and realm.

He intended not to learn that lesson through injury.

Outside the warehouse, Deepwinter wind moved through Blackwood’s empty streets.

Bone IX was next.

So was whatever Bret eventually decided “figuring something out” meant.

Joe suspected one would arrive before the other.

Chapter 91: Hidden Force

Two tons bothered Joe for an unexpected reason.

It was too much.

Not too much for his body.

Bone VII had accepted the warehouse test cleanly. His joints recovered without discomfort, his muscles had not reached their limit, and Skin Great Completion contained the movement without the slightest sense of tearing or excessive strain.

The number bothered him because of what it implied.

Two thousand kilograms.

Joe had heard estimates for true Martial Artists before.

Most conversations were vague because ordinary guards did not discuss Internal Organ practitioners in precise terms. They said stronger. Faster. Dangerous. A different class.

Joe disliked vague categories.

So, three days after his Bone VII test, he went to Theodere.

The Hall had emptied for the evening. Rain tapped gently against the training-room shutters while Theo sat beside a brazier rubbing warmth into the leg that still bothered him during cold weather.

Joe closed the door.

“I have a question about Internal Organs.”

Theo looked up.

“That usually means five questions.”

“Probably.”

“Sit.”

Joe did.

He chose his wording carefully.

“How strong is a newly advanced true Martial Artist?”

Theo’s eyebrows rose.

“That’s your first question?”

“Yes.”

“Why?”

“Comparison.”

“With what?”

“Bone.”

Theo studied him for several seconds.

Joe smiled mildly.

The older man eventually gave up.

“A decent new true Martial Artist? Somewhere around sixteen hundred kilograms of usable whole-body strength isn’t unusual.”

Joe said nothing.

Theo continued.

“Some lower. Good constitutions higher. Method matters. Foundations matter.”

“And after entry?”

“The organs aren’t all finished merely because someone crosses the threshold.”

Joe nodded.

He knew that.

Theo held up one finger.

“Each major organ properly tempered tends to add another substantial step. Around five hundred kilograms is a useful rough figure.”

There.

Joe stored it.

A newly advanced Internal Organ practitioner could actually be physically weaker than him already.

That was important.

It was also confusing.

“Then why is Internal Organ treated as such a large divide?”

Theo stared at him.

Then laughed.

Not politely.

Actually laughed.

Joe waited.

Finally, Theo said, “There it is.”

“What?”

“The question every unusually strong Bone fool eventually asks.”

Joe’s mouth twitched.

Theo leaned forward.

“You’re counting weight.”

“Weight is useful.”

“Very.”

Theo stood.

“But if weight decided fights, we would train oxen.”

----------

He led Joe into the rear training room.

A heavy practice post stood near one wall, wrapped in old leather and layered cloth.

Theo stopped in front of it.

“Bone teaches the body to carry force.”

Joe nodded.

“Internal Organs changes how force is produced and delivered.”

“Blood Energy?”

“Still Blood Energy. Still the body.”

Theo glanced at him.

“No immortal tricks. Nothing from the air.”

Good.

That preserved the distinction Joe understood.

Theo placed one hand against the post.

His movement looked almost lazy.

A short contact.

Barely any visible windup.

The post did not fly backward.

The outer leather barely shifted.

Then something inside the layered structure gave a dull crack.

Joe’s expression changed.

Theo removed his hand.

“An Jin.”

Hidden force.

Joe approached the post.

The exterior remained mostly intact.

One internal board had split.

Interesting.

Very interesting.

“The force passes through the outside?”

“Not literally without resistance.”

Theo tapped the wrapping.

“People explain it badly. Think of it as force delivered past the first point of contact instead of spending everything there.”

Joe considered the implications.

Skin Great Completion was extraordinarily resistant to ordinary impact.

Muscle absorbed and controlled force.

Bone supported the whole structure.

But if An Jin transferred part of an attack deeper before dissipating—

His defense remained valuable.

Just not absolute.

Theo watched him understanding.

“Now you see why strong Bone practitioners die when they decide strength means realm.”

Joe looked at him.

“A Bone practitioner can still kill a true Martial Artist.”

“Of course.”

That answer came immediately.

Joe liked Theo more for it.

“A spear through the heart doesn’t ask politely what realm you reached. A stronger man can crush a weaker man’s skull. Surprise works. Poison works. Falling off a cliff works.”

Theo waved one hand.

“Cultivation changes odds. It doesn’t rewrite reality.”

Joe nodded.

Theo continued.

“Theoretically, a Bone practitioner with extremely exceptional strength can be very dangerous to a new weak true Martial Artist.”

“How dangerous?”

Theo looked at him suspiciously again.

“You ask that like you have someone in mind.”

“No.”

Mostly true.

Joe had a category in mind.

Not a person.

Theo sighed.

“If the Bone practitioner lands first with enough force, the fight may end before An Jin matters.”

Exactly.

“But?”

“But if he thinks, I can lift more, therefore I can trade blows, he’s an idiot.”

Theo tapped his own chest.

“A true Martial Artist only needs one good opening to put hidden force where your hard Skin and strong Bones don’t help as much as you expect.”

Joe understood.

Mutual danger.

Not equality.

If Joe struck cleanly with two tons of controlled strength and everything his perfected Foundations could add to that delivery, a newly advanced true Martial Artist could die very quickly.

But if Joe allowed that person to land An Jin carelessly, his repeated tempering would not make him immune.

His Perfect Health would help recovery.

Perfect Body would help distribute damage.

Neither justified getting hit.

Joe smiled faintly.

That was much more interesting than simple numbers.

----------

Bone VIII began the following week.

Joe approached it differently.

Not because An Jin had anything to do with Bone Tempering.

Because Theo’s explanation reminded him that raw capacity and combat effectiveness were different things.

The eighth tempering refined structures that already felt nearly flawless.

Nearly.

Blood Energy still found differences.

A fraction of imbalance through the pelvis under rotation.

Small asymmetries in how force passed from spine into shoulder.

Regions around the joints where repeated loading revealed what ordinary movement could not.

Joe welcomed every flaw.

Flaws meant progress remained possible.

Bone VIII consumed more medicine than VII.

His savings fell again.

This time Joe barely cared.

The purchase was useful.

The reserve existed for useful things.

He still kept enough untouched for the Root test and travel, but the five-gold line had stopped feeling sacred.

That was healthier.

Money was strength stored in another form.

It was meant to move when needed.

----------

Theodere’s lesson also changed the way Joe watched Renford.

They crossed paths once at the medicine workshop when Renford came to review a family shipment.

Before, Joe had noticed the true Martial Artist’s balance.

Now he noticed something else.

Restraint.

Renford rarely moved with visible force.

He did not need to.

The body beneath those movements had crossed a threshold Joe’s had not.

Joe wondered how many organs Renford had tempered.

He did not ask.

There were questions one could reasonably ask a business partner’s relative.

That was not one.

Still, Joe’s internal calculation changed.

Could he kill Renford?

Possibly.

If Joe attacked seriously, first, at close range, without warning, his raw strength might make the answer unpleasantly simple.

Could Renford hurt him?

Absolutely.

That prevented arrogance.

Good.

Joe preferred confidence with boundaries.

-------------

Simon noticed none of this.

He had more immediate concerns.

“They want me at another meeting.”

Joe looked up from dinner.

“Who?”

“Guard quartermaster, Black-family steward, two caravan people.”

Mira smiled.

“You’re becoming important.”

Simon looked horrified.

“I don’t want to be important. Important people have meetings.”

Joe said, “You wanted promotion.”

“I wanted better pay.”

“Those are connected.”

“That feels dishonest.”

Mira laughed.

Simon pointed toward Joe.

“This is his fault somehow.”

Joe continued eating.

Simon had begun receiving exactly the kind of responsibility Edwin predicted.

Not command.

Translation.

The guard understood rules.

The family understood relationships.

Merchants understood schedules and profit.

Simon understood enough of all three to stop conversations from becoming arguments.

That usefulness was accumulating.

Slowly.

More honestly than a sudden promotion would have.

Joe approved.

-----------

Bret approved of none of it.

Joe saw him less frequently at the compound.

More frequently near the southern taverns.

That pattern was not difficult to understand.

One cold evening, Joe used Disguise and entered a different drinking house two streets from Bret’s usual place.

He found Bret there anyway.

Alone at first.

Then the broad warehouse man arrived.

Joe chose a table near the wall.

Bret had already been drinking.

“My father barely talks to me.”

The warehouse man sat.

“Maybe stop giving him reasons.”

Bret laughed bitterly.

“Now you’re him too?”

“No. I’m sober.”

Bret drank again.

“Vale gets everything.”

Joe continued eating.

House.

Marriage.

Guard respect.

Black-family connection.

The things Bret listed were revealing because none had once belonged to him.

Simon had not taken them.

Bret experienced another person’s progress as theft.

“He was nobody.”

“So?”

“So, people like that don’t just become somebody.”

The warehouse man stared.

“You do understand that’s how becoming somebody works?”

Joe nearly smiled.

Bret did not.

“He thinks he’s untouchable.”

“He barely talks to you.”

“That makes it worse.”

There it was.

Joe slowed his eating.

Bret did not want an apology.

He did not want compensation.

He did not even seem to want Simon to acknowledge him anymore.

He wanted the hierarchy restored.

Simon beneath him.

Anything else felt wrong.

That was harder to solve.

The broad man drank half his cup.

“Your father told you to stop. I told you to stop. The red-cord boys don’t want another run at him. What exactly are you planning?”

Bret looked into his drink.

For several seconds he said nothing.

Then:

“I’ll figure something out.”

The warehouse man swore quietly.

“That’s what I’m afraid of.”

Joe agreed.

----------

Bone VIII completed before the first Deepwinter winds reached Blackwood.

Joe gave the body nine days to settle.

Then returned to the warehouse.

Two thousand kilograms rose with less effort than before.

He added weight.

Two thousand one hundred.

Then two thousand two hundred.

His muscles tightened.

Bones carried.

Feet remained stable.

Two thousand three hundred kilograms rose slowly and cleanly.

Joe held it.

Then lowered it.

Enough.

The exact maximum did not matter.

Bone IX remained.

And beyond Bone waited a realm whose average entrant might possess less raw strength than Joe already did.

That no longer confused him.

Numbers described capacity.

They did not describe everything a body could do.

Joe flexed one hand.

If he struck first, he was terrifying.

If he became careless because of that, a true Martial Artist could still teach him the difference between strength and realm.

He intended not to learn that lesson through injury.

Outside the warehouse, Deepwinter wind moved through Blackwood’s empty streets.

Bone IX was next.

So was whatever Bret eventually decided “figuring something out” meant.

Joe suspected one would arrive before the other.