What are limits? That is the concept postulated by Eon Bankō, legendary ō-sensei and creator of the Juoku Tournament in the now twilight years of his life. Yet, the old wolf never have a shimmering thought on the lingering question would shine onto...
Nothing short of greatness; vaster than anything any man or woman is thought capable of achieving.
Or can they?
Glee, glory grit—how can you numerically rationalize and limit intangible qualities like so? A calculator?
A way of deduction: the fist. Would a fist be enough? Or are all martialists destined to be confined to their past footfalls and dents of the knuckles they leave on their opponent?
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Shirtless, in the dead of winter, Jason stood deep-legged; strong-earthed but at the ready.
Labored exhales came out as visible puffs; he could barely shake or feel his hands from the cold and he could hardly move his fingers.
A jab shout out like lightning harpooned the thin air, then a cross, then he assumed an L-step pivot, then he put his left arm up in hypothetical defense, and then he started to beat the air until his bruised fists were no longer visible when he punched, an audible "HUSS!!" escaping his maw every time, with every punch and every weave, until a 360-degree circle of stepping both clockwise and counterclockwise was made in the snow from his footfalls.
Jason beat the air as if it truly were his opponent, sweat rolling down his face and his back drenched in it; his labored breaths still escaping in puffs, his legs aching and shaking like hell.
How long had he been doing this...?
"Don't stop!" an internal voice of discipline and courage called out.
The canid hybrid continued to move and throw more and more punches and weaves, the snow under him now all melted as he continued to create a wider and wider circle; he continued for longer than his mind should have ever allowed; his arms and legs trembled with exhaustion, stinging with pain, acid coursing through them, harboring life-long conditioning in their force until it started to get lighter and he could suddenly see more of the dawn sky.
The sun was finally rising over the cold winter horizon.
"HUSS! HUSS-HUSS!"
Jason gradually felt more in sensation then saw himself come to a slow with a low exhale, looking up at the pinking, bleeding sky that were once void and dull at the beginning of his training and breathing heavily; his eyes still narrowed with determination and his gold-furred palms still clenched toward the red dot so steadfast on making itself known in the newborn horizon, sweat that instantly froze prior now melting snow dripping from his body.
Topped with a breathy exhale, he stood shaky yet still. A sharp, controlled inhale of the frosty air that tormented his bare chest with constant breezes had his mind clear again, almost back to where he once was before he started. He sat back down flat on his rear with a thud into the snowy slush, clearly not bothering to be subtle at all. The snow numbed and ensnarled every inch of his hide that wasn't covered in his minimalistic shorts and running shoes. His thighs were burning and freezing at the same time. It was dull and sharp sensations at the same time.
However, all of Jason's attention was grabbed from him once his stare focused and he recognized a familiar, dark shape revving coming from behind him down a mountain he pretended to not care and double check.
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Using the freezing tops of white as leverage, Jason platformer and propelled himself with tensing thighs; he pretended to only hear the faint engine when it descended down a cleared road and turned around fully, sluggishly jogging with his feet implanted in the snow until the distance closed enough for the vivid shape of a familiar jeep whilst intaking another deep gale of frosty gusts.
It wouldn't take much longer for his winces to subside, replaced by the rest of an engine, opening of a car door, and jingling of keys.
"That was longer than usual!"
Jason called out to the exiting figure, hiding his recent struggle in his maw as he fell back to the frosty earth.
"That's a good thing."
Distinctly familiar, the actually averring response could not have been from anyone else but—
"Whatever you say, old man."
Jason replied to the voice of a notably maturer octave, subconsciously mirroring its British-Japanese accent.
Rey was an older coywolf of a man who, frankly, aged not at all dissimilarly to fine wine; his fur of various greys and auburns was recently trimmed to further his professional exterior. Yet, he wore the exact same apparel as his son: only shorts and running shoes. Snow had already trickled onto his lax shoulders that were eerily calm in temperatures that couldn't have been even ten degrees above negative numbers.
He fixed his glasses, walking over and lending a hand to Jason to get up.
Instead, Jason winced in a laugh clearly hiding a strong brewery of discomfort, skipping onto his burning, freezing feet and cocking a lead uppercut with a retaliatory twist of his hips and shining shot of his fist that the cold ravaged in sense of touch; it was a challenge to even ball his fist.
Maybe that was why Rey was able to sway himself back and reply with a measured hook that was turned from a balled fist into an open-palmed slap atop the boy's golden-furred head.
"Slow," the older nonchalantly criticized.
Jason moved his lips to the side of his cheek, replying to that invigorating sting with a slightly wild cross, to which Rey slapped out of the way and took no time to counterpunch with a jab that wasn't so playful anymore.
Determined as he was, Jason knew that emotions alone don't win fights. Actions do. And actions are refined by technique, which was why his next move was defensive instead of offensive, slipping underneath and past his old man's jab with clear intention to work around his opponent; his mind gushed with a stream of immediate, potential counters.
Rey threw an intentionally telegraphed cross with a satisfied smirk behind it, letting Jason weave to the side with a diagonal rotation of his shoulders as if he were trying to make them touch his feet.
The boy was quick to feint a jab at his father's snout, using the feint to go downstairs with a cross that hit fair.
Or, at least, would have hit fair.
Rey adopted a squarer stance compared to the bladed boxing they were just enacting on a moment ago; he slid to the side of the cross. Jason looked shocked for a moment—he has to remember this was the same man that taught him how to move the way he does now. Unlike his father, however, his hands were high in tight guard while his senior had his hands comfortably, lowly orbiting his pectorals.
