The training courtyard was quieter than usual. The clamor of weapons and orders was distant, almost swallowed by the silence surrounding Haru and Naomi. The sea breeze tousled his tied pink hair while the late afternoon sun threw long shadows across the stone tiles.
Naomi stood a few feet away, her axe resting against a nearby pillar. She wasn't in her usual heavy uniform today—only a sleeveless top and training slacks, which made her look younger, more approachable. Haru, shirtless and slightly bruised from his morning drills, was catching his breath.
"Today we start with Tekkai," Naomi announced, casually spinning a stick between her fingers. "Let's see if you can take a hit without breaking."
Haru cracked his knuckles and smirked. "I've been taking your hits for months now. I'm still breathing, aren't I?"
Naomi rolled her eyes. "Cocky little brat."
Tekkai (Iron Body): The Unbreakable Shell
Tekkai required immense muscular control, tensing the body so hard it became like iron, allowing one to absorb heavy blows without flinching. Naomi demonstrated by having one of her subordinates swing a steel club at her gut. It bounced off her abdomen with a clang.
Haru's turn was much less graceful.
The first hit knocked the air out of him. He tumbled backward, gasping for breath. Naomi was already walking toward him.
"You're trying to block the pain. That's not how it works," she said, crouching beside him. "You have to let your body become like stone, not pretend you're unbreakable."
Haru looked up, dazed but focused. "You're really going to keep hitting me until I get it, huh?"
Naomi smirked. "That's the idea."
Over the following weeks, Haru trained relentlessly. He submerged himself in cold water and meditated while resisting pressure. He allowed strikes to rain on him while focusing his Haki internally to stabilize his breathing. Every bruise was a lesson, every cracked rib a mark of progress.
One day, as Naomi's axe came swinging down toward him during a sparring match, Haru held his ground—and the blade stopped just inches from his shoulder with a loud metallic clang.
Naomi grinned. "There it is. The Iron Body."
Kami-e (Paper Art): The Flow of the Wind
Once Tekkai was mastered, Naomi switched tactics completely.
"If Tekkai is about standing strong," she said, "Kami-e is about flowing like paper in the wind."
She demonstrated by standing still as Haru launched a punch toward her. Just before impact, she tilted her body effortlessly—his punch passed right by her, missing by a hair. She moved like silk, untouchable, graceful.
"You're not dodging," she said. "You're flowing."
Haru found this style harder than any physical conditioning. His body was fast and powerful, but flexible? No. His strikes were sharp and direct, but this technique demanded fluidity and instinct.
Naomi trained him on high narrow ropes, suspended over water. One misstep, and he fell. Every time he stiffened or resisted motion, he was knocked down. She would flick pebbles or swing sandbags his way, forcing him to react—not dodge, but melt away.
"You're too tense," Naomi would say, sometimes tapping his chest or shoulders. "You're not water—you're a damn rock."
But it was in those training moments—when she touched his arm to adjust his stance or when he tried to mimic her effortless dodges—that something began to shift between them. Haru noticed the way her eyes narrowed when she was focused. Naomi started to linger a bit longer while watching him, offering faint smiles after small victories.
One evening, as the sunset painted the sky crimson and gold, Haru sat beside her on the rooftop of the training center.
"You know," he said, breaking the silence, "for someone who calls me a brat every day… you train me like I'm someone important."
Naomi raised an eyebrow, smiling faintly. "You're annoying, sure. But I've seen how you fight. You've got something rare."
He turned toward her. "Would that something be potential? Or charm?"
She smirked. "Definitely not charm."
But she didn't look away.
Rankyaku (Storm Leg): Blades of Wind
The final technique of the chapter was Rankyaku, a technique where a simple kick could launch a blade of compressed air sharp enough to cut steel.
"This one's about precision and posture," Naomi said, standing on one leg. "A single kick can become a wave of destruction—if you align your strength correctly."
Haru practiced kicking until his legs gave out. The first few weeks were filled with disappointment. No matter how much force he used, all he produced were gusts, not cutting waves. Naomi had him train barefoot on stone, aiming at targets dozens of meters away.
"You're wasting too much energy," she explained. "It's not about force, it's about focus. A sword doesn't need to be swung hard—just correctly."
Late one night, during a quiet session on the cliffside training field, Haru finally found the rhythm. His body moved fluidly, his Haki coursing through his leg, and with a swift kick, a visible slash of air zipped through the sky—cleanly slicing a distant rock in half.
Naomi clapped slowly. "Not bad, Pinkie. You've finally earned some praise."
He laughed. "Careful. Compliment me too much and I might think you like me."
She walked up to him, looking him straight in the eye. "Don't push your luck."
But her smile betrayed her seriousness.