"Switch!" Iraltiphos commanded, as he blocked Ken's blows. Ken made the shift perfectly, channeling his spirit energy into opposite portions of his body according to the blows he decided to throw. He was sweating as though he were out running in 100 degree weather for hours. The test was as bizzarre and as difficult as it was first described to him and he had already failed twice. This was his third and final shot at passing. He had lost track of how much time had passed since he started his last attempt. Every moment felt three times as long as normal. Every muscle in his body burned intensely and his spirit energy was quickly depleting.

 "Stop!" Iraltiphos commanded. However, Ken kept delivering blows, still adhering to the rules of the test. Iraltiphos repeated himself, but it didn’t seem like Ken was listening. He lost in concentration. If the word wasn’t ‘switch,’ he didn’t hear it. This time Iraltiphos grabbed Ken’s fist as it hurled toward him and brought him close. “The test is over. You can stop now,” he said, looking him dead in the eyes. Ken snapped out of it and his entire body relaxed. When his arm was released, he fell straight to the dojo floor like cinderblocks, having only enough strength left to support himself on all fours. He breathed heavily and couldn’t speak.

“You will return in two days,” Iraltiphos said, which sounded more like a prophecy than a suggestion.

“Wh-what do you mean?” Ken asked in between breaths.

“You did well. We will begin training in two days.”

Ken was too exhausted to show his excitement. He had been staring at the floor the entire time, watching the sweat slowly drip and accumulate. “Jesus,” he managed to croak.

“Indeed,” Iraltiphos said apathetically. “Keep in mind that you haven’t seen the last of what we’ve been doing. It’s only a test now because you’re a weakling. In time it’ll serve as a warm-up. Your energy isn’t much different than your muscles. If you want to strengthen it, you need to put it to work, bring it as close to depletion as possible without killing yourself and then allowing it to replenish. This is just one of the exercises we will be doing.”

“Wait, I thought you said this was meant to keep your opponent guessing. Like they won’t know where to expect a blow.”

“No, that’s retarded,” Iraltiphos said, finally showing some emotion and laughing, even if it was at the expense of Ken’s gullibility. “It’s just funny to see what some people believe when it’s said with enough conviction.”

Ken grinned and began to laugh hard, exhausting the rest of his strength and collapsing.

Two years went by in the blink of an eye and everyday was just as difficult as the last. He had learned more in those years than he had learned in his entire life. In fact, he was confident that he had learned more than most fighters’ entire lives. At the same time, he truly began to realize how weak he was, especially in comparison to his master. Now that he had learned to detect other spiritual presences and energy, he caught a glimpse of his master’s power. Only a glimpse because his full power is always suppressed, something Ken also learned to do.

“In situations where you don’t want to draw attention to yourself, you’ll need to be able to hide from people who can also detect spirit energy,” Iraltiphos said when he first taught it to him.

“Well, I’m hoping I won’t need to run from your teachings,” Ken retorted.

“It’s not just for running. The more powerful you become, the more energy you use. Suppressing your energy conserves it when you’re not using it,” Iraltiphos said, pausing for a moment. “It’s also handy when you want to make yourself appear weaker than you really are.” Ken thought about it and grinned, already thinking of ways he could screw around with people. “But you’re already weak, so you may not have much use for it.”

“Fuck off.”

Ken never felt stronger in his life, but the fact that he was training with someone so much more powerful than he made him want to never stop. He could see himself training with him for many more years. He thought about all his past fights in MMA tournaments, all the mistakes he made and realized how distant they were. After all he had learned it was inconceivable that he would go back. He would beat his opponents so easily it would look like the fights were rigged. His opponent’s wouldn’t even understand how they lost. It would almost be unfair. The thought of where he would be several years down the line excited him immensely.

In the two years, although he learned a lot about his master, he still felt like he didn’t know much about him at all. He felt that they certainly got closer emotionally, but Iraltiphos seldom talked about himself and his past experiences. It always seemed like he was keeping something from him that he wanted to tell him. At times, his master would approach him and look as though something were clearly on his mind, his eyes slowly turning into darker colors. Instead of saying what was on his mind, he’d poke fun at him. Ken learned to play along with it.

“So, what kind of name is Iraltiphos? You from medieval times, or something?” Ken once asked while taking a short break from training.

“It is an ancient name from a language that no longer exists. It once meant something that deeply resonated with an entire civilization.”

“What does it mean?”

“It’s supposed to be the philosophy of the people that spoke the language. The first part, Iral, means I think. The second part, tiphos, means you’re incredibly nosey. C’mon, break is over,” Iraltiphos said, walking toward the center of the dojo.

Ken shook his head and laughed, still unsure if anything he had said was true.

“With your spirit energy, couldn’t you do any kind of magic you want? Why are you just a fighter?” Ken once asked.

“I hate magic,” Iraltiphos replied, which was the most information Ken obtained from him in a while. “Magic is too disconnected from the spirit. It’s artificial to me. Manipulating your own spirit energy establishes a connection with yourself that magic never can. Its simplicity makes our potential infinite.”

“Infinite? What about poetry? You’re basically only limited by your imagination.”

When Ken said this, Iraltiphos looked much grimmer than he had ever seen him. “How can a poet ever hope to bring their writing to life without having a connection to themselves?” Iraltiphos asked, clearly not expecting him to answer. “Less is more,” he said. “Power—true power comes from the self. Nothing else.”