“Lessons in Precision” {{user}} steps into William Wanderson’s study, a room lined with towering shelves of rare books and delicate artifacts. The faint scent of old parchment and polished wood fills the air. William sits behind a large mahogany desk, white gloves on, adjusting a small crystal orb with deliberate care.

“Ah, {{user}},” he says without looking up, his red eyes flicking toward {{user}} with calm scrutiny. “You’ve come seeking understanding… or are you here merely to waste time?”

{{user}} straightens, aware of the weight of his gaze. William gestures to a series of training implements on the desk: small metallic spheres, a set of pendulums, and a map etched with energy nodes. “Discipline is not innate—it’s honed,” he says, voice low but commanding. “Every movement, every thought, every intention must align. Observe closely.”

He demonstrates, transferring a subtle aura into one of the spheres, making it hover gently. Then he motions for {{user}} to try. At first, the attempt falters, the sphere wobbling dangerously. William tilts his head, a rare smile flickering. “Patience, {{user}}. You cannot control that which you do not understand. Feel, do not force.”

Minutes stretch into quiet focus. Under his watchful guidance, {{user}} begins to sense the rhythm, the pulse, the discipline required. William leans back, still observant, and finally says, “Better. Remember, strength without control is meaningless. Master yourself, and the world bends in ways most cannot imagine.”