Chapter 4

Ethan Cross had never been one to back down from a challenge. By the time he was twelve, his parents had pushed him beyond the typical childhood activities of his peers. He wasn’t just a child learning self-defense—he was training for something bigger, something that his parents had yet to fully reveal. They told him time and time again that his training was about more than just fighting, it was about preparation, about responsibility, and about control.

At the age of eleven, Ethan entered his first official martial arts competitions. His parents believed that real growth came from testing himself against others, and tournaments provided the perfect environment for that.

Ethan’s first karate tournament was a major event, filled with young competitors from across the state. The tension in the air was thick with anticipation as fighters warmed up, practicing their strikes and stretches. His parents watched from the stands, their expressions unreadable but supportive.

His first opponent was a taller boy with a strong traditional stance. As the match began, Ethan quickly assessed his movements. The boy favored high kicks and long-reaching strikes, keeping his distance and using his reach advantage. Ethan, however, had trained rigorously in countering such tactics. He stayed low, using his speed and footwork to close the distance, preventing the opponent from landing effective kicks. The match ended when Ethan delivered a well-timed spinning back kick, knocking his opponent down for the final point.

As the tournament progressed, the fights became tougher. In the semifinals, he faced a highly skilled competitor with aggressive combinations. Ethan took several hard hits in the opening moments but adapted quickly. He used his opponent’s aggression against him, dodging strikes and countering with precise blows. In the final round, he delivered a devastating roundhouse kick, securing his victory.

His father patted his shoulder afterward. “You fought well, but remember, winning isn’t just about overpowering your opponent. It’s about controlling the fight.”

His mother added, “And knowing when not to fight. Strength isn’t about proving yourself every time someone challenges you, it’s about knowing when to stand firm and when to let go.”

Ethan absorbed their lessons, realizing that fighting wasn’t always the answer.

Krav Maga tournaments were entirely different from karate competitions. There were no points awarded for flashy techniques—these fights were raw, brutal, and focused on effectiveness.

Ethan’s first match in a Krav Maga competition was a wake-up call. His opponent, an older teenager, came at him with relentless aggression. The match began with a rush, his opponent attempting to overwhelm him with rapid strikes and knees. Ethan barely had time to react, dodging and blocking as best he could. His father’s voice echoed in his mind: Use their force against them.

Ethan shifted his tactics. Instead of trying to match his opponent’s aggression, he absorbed and redirected. When the older fighter lunged forward with a strike, Ethan sidestepped, using his own momentum to shove him off balance. He followed up with a brutal elbow strike to the ribs, forcing his opponent to retreat. With a final swift kick to the leg, Ethan took his opponent down, securing the win.

His later matches were no easier. One opponent tried grappling, another used rapid combination strikes. Ethan adapted, countering a grappler with his jujitsu techniques and using his speed against the striker. Each fight tested his endurance, his resilience, and his ability to read his opponents. By the end of the tournament, he had not only gained victories but a deeper understanding of real-world combat.

His father pulled him aside after his final match. “Krav Maga isn’t about playing fair, it’s about surviving. You showed that today.”

Ethan simply nodded. He felt the bruises forming, but more than that, he felt himself growing stronger.

Aikido was a completely different experience. Unlike the aggressive clashes of Krav Maga or the structured strikes of Karate, Aikido focused on control, redirection, and fluid movement. These competitions tested a different part of Ethan’s skillset, his ability to anticipate and neutralize attacks without direct confrontation.

His first Aikido match was against a competitor who relied on brute strength. The moment the match started, his opponent tried to overpower him, gripping his arm and attempting to throw him. Ethan didn’t resist, instead, he flowed with the movement, redirecting his opponent’s force and reversing the throw. The crowd gasped as the larger competitor hit the mat.

The final round of the tournament pitted him against a masterful tactician, someone who, like him, relied on technique over power. They circled each other, each waiting for an opening. His opponent feinted, attempting to bait him into a reaction. Ethan didn’t fall for it. When the moment finally came, Ethan executed a seamless wrist-lock takedown, securing the victory.

Afterward, his father nodded approvingly. “Aikido isn’t about strength, it’s about control. You controlled that fight from start to finish.”

Ethan understood more than ever that winning wasn’t always about being the strongest, it was about being the smartest.

After months of competitions, Ethan’s training took a new direction. His parents arranged for him to meet a close family friend, Lieutenant James Carter, a former Navy combat medic. James was a tough, no-nonsense man with years of battlefield experience. His hands were steady, his voice calm, and his knowledge immense.

“You can know how to fight, Ethan,” James said, “but you need to know how to fix yourself up too. A good fighter doesn’t just learn to throw punches—he learns to take care of himself and others when things go south.”

Ethan was introduced to advanced first aid, far beyond the simple bandaging techniques most kids his age knew. The first lesson was about chest seals, used to treat penetrating chest wounds.

“If you ever see a bullet wound to the chest,” James explained, holding up a medical training dummy, “your first priority is to seal the hole so air doesn’t collapse the lung.”

He demonstrated how to apply a chest seal, pressing it firmly over the wound site. Then he handed Ethan a practice dummy and had him do it himself—over and over until he got it right without hesitation.

James introduced tourniquets, teaching Ethan how to stop heavy bleeding by properly applying pressure and securing the wound. “You don’t just slap this on,” he explained. “Tighten it until the bleeding stops, ignore the screaming if you have to. You’re saving a life.”

They practiced under stress conditions, with Ethan treating simulated wounds while James shouted orders. James made Ethan apply seals to simulated sucking chest wounds and taught him how to recognize signs of a collapsed lung.

Next came treating tension pneumothorax, a life-threatening condition where air builds up in the chest, compressing the lung and heart.

“This is where the needle decompression comes in,” James said, holding up a long catheter needle. “If someone’s gasping for breath, and their chest is ballooning up, you need to relieve the pressure fast. You insert the needle right above the third rib, midclavicular line.”

Ethan practiced on simulation models, learning the precise location and method needed to perform the procedure. James drilled it into him—accuracy was everything.

Then came suturing wounds. James handed Ethan a set of surgical tools and some synthetic skin to practice on. “You’ll need a steady hand for this,” he said, watching as Ethan carefully closed a simulated wound. The process required patience, but Ethan quickly developed a rhythm.

After a few hours of training, James clapped him on the back. “You’re a fast learner, kid. Most people flinch at this kind of stuff, but you focus. That’s going to save lives one day.”

Ethan took the words to heart. Combat wasn’t just about inflicting damage—it was about knowing how to survive, how to protect, and how to heal.

By the time Ethan had turned twelve, his training expanded once again. His father introduced him to yet another mentor—Sergeant Marcus Bennett, a Marine who had served in multiple combat zones and specialized in Marine Corps Martial Arts (MCMAP).

Marcus was a broad-shouldered man with an intense gaze and a scar across his left forearm. He wasted no time with pleasantries. “You’ve been trained well,” he told Ethan after watching him demonstrate a few techniques. “But I’m going to teach you how to fight like a Marine. No nonsense, no wasted motion—just pure combat effectiveness.”

The first lesson was about aggressive engagement. Unlike other martial arts, MCMAP was designed for real-world combat situations—where hesitation could mean death.

Marcus threw a strike at Ethan without warning. Ethan barely dodged it, his instincts kicking in. “Good,” Marcus grunted. “But not good enough. In a fight, you react instantly. There’s no thinking—just doing.”

He drilled Ethan in close-quarters combat, teaching him how to use every part of his body as a weapon—elbows, knees, even headbutts.

“You don’t fight clean,” Marcus said. “You fight to win.”

The training was brutal. Marcus put Ethan through grueling drills, incorporating bayonet techniques, close-quarters combat, and defensive tactics. He learned how to neutralize an opponent quickly using brutal strikes to vulnerable areas like the throat and joints. Marcus also drilled him in grappling techniques, teaching him how to fight effectively even when pinned or disadvantaged.

Knife defense was another key component. Marcus showed Ethan how to disarm an opponent wielding a blade, emphasizing speed and precision. The Marine had Ethan run through scenarios where an attacker came at him with a knife, forcing Ethan to block, redirect, and counterstrike.

One particularly grueling session left Ethan panting on the ground. Marcus crouched beside him. “You’re good, kid. But remember—combat isn’t about being the best fighter. It’s about being the last one standing.”

As Ethan wiped the sweat from his brow, he realized something. Every lesson, every training session, every new skill—it was all leading to something bigger. His parents weren’t just making sure he could defend himself. They were preparing him for something far greater.

By his sixteenth birtday, Ethan Cross wasn’t just another kid practicing martial arts. He was a fighter, a strategist, and a protector in the making. His journey was only beginning, but already, he stood far above his peers. His parents had given him the tools—now, it was up to him to use them.

As the New Year rolled in, Ethan’s father introduced a new challenge—one that had nothing to do with sports. His sixteenth birthday was approaching, and instead of merely learning how to drive, his father arranged for him to undergo tactical driving training.

“Driving isn’t just about getting from point A to point B,” his father said. “It’s about control, awareness, and knowing how to handle yourself in any situation.”

Ethan’s instructor was a no-nonsense man named John Mercer. It wasn’t until after he passed the course that Ethan learned Mercer was a former Secret Service instructor.

The training covered everything from evasive maneuvers to high-speed pursuit techniques and even driving under fire. The first few sessions were overwhelming. Skidding through tight turns, reversing at high speeds, and slamming the brakes at the last second took precise control.

His toughest challenge came in the high-speed pursuit drill, where he had to shake off a pursuing vehicle while navigating an obstacle course. His first attempt was a disaster—he overcorrected on a sharp turn, nearly spinning out. Mercer didn’t sugarcoat his feedback.

“You’re thinking too much, Ethan. Driving in high-stress situations is about instinct. You react. You don’t analyze.”

By his final session, Ethan had improved significantly. He weaved through obstacles at high speeds, made tight escapes, and executed a flawless J-turn that left Mercer nodding in approval.

“Not bad, kid,” Mercer said. “You might just have a future in this.”

By March, Ethan passed his driver’s test, and his parents gifted him a sleek Toyota Land Cruiser 300. He was admiring the SUV when he noticed something odd—it sat lower to the ground than expected.

“Dad, why does this feel heavier?” he asked.

His father smirked and stepped back. Without warning, he pulled out a pistol and fired at the vehicle. Sparks flew as bullets struck the doors, but there were no holes. Even when he shot at the tires, there was only a dull thud instead of an expected puncture.

Shocked, Ethan turned to his father. “Are you out of your mind!?”

His father chuckled. “Relax, son. This is an armored version. Reinforced doors, bulletproof glass, and run-flat tires with solid cores. If someone ever comes after you, you’ll have a fighting chance.”

Ethan shook his head. “Why would I need an armored car?”

His father just gave him that cryptic smile. “Because we’re making sure you’re prepared.”