"No. But I can move faster than you can see. Run for days. resist mental manipulations, read people, calculate bullets and arrows and trajectories and vectors and such in my head during battle, take out a brick or concrete wall with one punch, dent thick steel with my head, I can tell you how many birds and snakes and flies are around us, I can run straight up walls and cliffs, and I can lift you by your throat with one arm, while asleep. I know physics. I can make traps, and I can heal my own wounds with dirt and some sweat. I can strike someone and they'll feel a pat, but the wall and person behind them will shatter like paper shreds in the wind. If that's magic, then yes. But for me, it's simply life. I can swat a full-grown man aside and have him land on his back two feet away, I can hit you in pressure points to make your body fail or succeed, I can kick clear through an unarmored foe unless they have comparable training to me. I can take a mace to the stomache and keep fighting. I don't need to do magic, I have my wits and decades of spilling my own blood and body to the limit fringe of death and back, purely as practice."
Sacri didn't seem proud, or humble. He was merely recounting some of his skills. It was as if it were a laundry list.
