Chapter 40: "Welcome to the Pain Trials – Beginner Division"
In which we all get assigned slightly terrifying teachers and pray not to explode.
You know that moment when you show up at summer camp expecting fun games and snacks, but instead you get boot camp and possibly mild psychological trauma?
That was pretty much how everyone looked when Genryūsai Tendō gave us the deadline.
"One week," he said, stroking his beard with the calm dignity of a man who clearly wasn't going to be the one suffering. "Train with us for one week. If the masters agree that you are suited to walk the path of a Ki warrior, you may remain. If not, you will return to your ordinary lives."
The Red Dawn members looked at one another. Nobody said anything, but their collective expression clearly translated to:
We are absolutely not going back to ordinary lives after finding out superpowers are real.
Then the assignments began.
Tōma Igarashi was handed over to Seijūrō Amahara, and honestly, it made sense. Tōma already had a strong background in judo and had been talking about improving his grappling ever since we arrived. Seijūrō, meanwhile, was basically what happened when somebody combined a philosopher, a physician, and a human torture device into one deceptively polite martial-arts master.
"I will rebuild your fundamentals from the ground up," Seijūrō said pleasantly.
Too pleasantly.
Tōma bowed. "Thank you, Sensei."
Poor guy had no idea what he was signing up for. Judging by the equipment I had already seen around Seijūrō's training rooms, there were probably going to be balance drills, joint-conditioning exercises, moving platforms, and enough unpleasant clicking noises to make every bone in Tōma's body develop anxiety.
Shōgo Kitsukawa and Hermes were placed under Genzō Aratake.
That pairing made even more sense.
Shōgo looked thrilled because Genzō had exactly the kind of walking final opponent presence that made him want to fight immediately. Hermes looked considerably less enthusiastic, probably because he understood that money, expensive clothing, and clever tricks were not particularly effective defenses against a fist the size of a small boulder.
Genzō looked them over once.
"I'll take them."
Shōgo grinned.
Hermes adjusted his sunglasses.
I silently wished them luck.
Reina Tachibana was assigned to Master Liang Zhou, the elderly Chinese martial artist who somehow managed to radiate both grandfatherly warmth and the unsettling feeling that he knew seventeen different ways to switch off your nervous system with one finger.
Liang nodded approvingly as he studied her stance.
"You have a fighter's spirit. I will turn that spirit into an art."
Reina grinned. "Just make sure it hits harder than what I already know."
"Of course."
Something about his smile made me suspect she was going to regret saying that.
Haruki and Kenta were also placed under Seijūrō for their foundational conditioning, because apparently the quiet doctor had enough time, equipment, and sadistic creativity to train half the population of the city simultaneously. Ryōhei would be working with him as well, although his first priority wasn't ordinary training. Seijūrō wanted to examine the old damage in his arm before deciding how far it could safely be repaired.
That left Hana, who immediately found herself standing in front of Tsukiko Amane.
Hana looked up at the silent weapons master.
Tsukiko looked down at Hana.
Airi stood beside them, presumably to make sure the introductory lesson remained an introductory lesson rather than a lesson in emergency medicine.
Hana smiled nervously.
Tsukiko nodded once.
I had no idea what that meant, but apparently they understood each other.
As for me?
I was already Ryūseikan's shared problem.
Every master planned to train me eventually.
Today, Seijūrō had decided that Prasert Chaiya and I were going to discover exactly how much punishment my improved body could tolerate.
I was beginning to suspect joining Ryūseikan might have been a mistake.
A glorious mistake.
But still a mistake.
Picture this: it's a perfectly nice morning. Birds are chirping, sunlight is falling across the training courtyard, and Ryūseikan smells slightly less like sweat than usual. A reasonable person might look around and think it was going to be a pleasant day.
Then Seijūrō walks in looking like he's about to perform surgery on your soul and hands you a training suit.
"Today's attire," he said. "Ten tonnes."
I stared at him.
Then at the suit.
Then back at him.
"Ten."
"Yes."
"Tonnes."
"Yes."
I looked down at the thing in my hands.
Ten tonnes.
Let me put that into perspective. That was heavier than several cars put together, a collection of very unhappy elephants, or the accumulated emotional weight of every bad decision I had made since arriving on Earth.
"I hope it breathes well," I muttered.
I put it on.
My feet immediately cracked the ground.
Right.
Great start.
With spiritual enhancement running through my body, I could move. Barely. Every step felt like somebody had attached a small building to my shoulders and then asked me to perform footwork drills, but I was still upright.
That counted as progress.
Then came part two.
Prasert Chaiya.
Ryūseikan's Muay Thai monster.
A gigantic man with the personality of an excited child and legs that looked capable of kicking trees into retirement.
"Prasert trains with Ren today!" he announced happily.
Apparently, training translated to:
Hit Ren repeatedly until his muscles reconsider their career choices.
Seijūrō stood nearby with his clipboard.
"Today we are concentrating on controlled muscular trauma and recovery. Your body needs repeated stress followed by healing so the tissue develops stronger."
Translation:
I was about to become educational flooring.
The first kick was supposedly playful.
BOOM.
I flew across the courtyard and hit a wall.
The third wall today.
Don't ask about the first two.
They were now important parts of Ryūseikan history.
I pushed myself upright, breathing hard as spiritual energy flared around my limbs.
"Again!"
Prasert smiled.
That might have been another mistake.
SMASH.
WHAM.
CRACK.
The last sound was the floor.
Mostly.
I'll give Prasert credit: he was holding back.
Apparently, this was beginner mode.
That knowledge was not comforting.
Still, every time I was hit, I could feel the body responding. Muscles tightened faster. My balance corrected itself sooner. Movements that had felt impossible beneath the weighted suit slowly became less impossible.
Not easy.
Just less impossible.
Seijūrō watched from the side, writing notes with disturbing enthusiasm.
"Excellent. Another forty-six strikes should be sufficient for this stage."
I turned toward him.
"FORTY-SIX?!"
Prasert kicked me again.
WHAM.
Seijūrō looked at the clipboard.
"Forty-five."
I hated mathematicians.
By the end of it, I had been used as a mop, a wrecking ball, and, briefly, something remarkably similar to a stone being skipped across water.
But you know what?
I was standing.
Barely.
I was breathing.
Mostly.
The suit was intact.
More importantly, so was I.
And for the first time, beneath the exhaustion and the ache running through practically every muscle in Kaito's body, I felt the faintest flicker of something new.
Ki.
Not much.
Barely more than a spark.
But it was there.
I grinned through a face that probably wasn't pointing in exactly the correct direction anymore.
"I think I'm getting the hang of this."
Prasert gave me an enthusiastic thumbs-up.
"Ren strong!"
Seijūrō continued writing.
"Excellent. Next we can repeat the exercise underwater."
I slowly looked at him.
I took it back.
This dojo was absolutely a villain origin story.
Okay, real talk?
I wasn't expecting to use Fivefold Ascension during training that day.
But after getting slammed into the training mats for what felt like the fiftieth time—and that estimate might actually have been conservative—I decided it was time to take things up a notch.
Radiant light flashed around my arm.
The Fivefold Ascension gauntlet formed over it, white-gold plates locking into place while the luminous core gleamed brightly.
The First Ascension activated.
Power surged through me.
Twofold.
Seijūrō looked up from his notes.
His expression changed only slightly, but from him that practically counted as shouting.
"A Soul Armament."
I glanced over.
"You know what this is?"
"Continue."
That was not an answer.
Of course it wasn't.
Seijūrō studied the gauntlet for another moment before looking down at the seals woven into the weighted suit.
"If he is increasing his output, then the training load should increase proportionally."
Wait.
What?
The seals on my ten-ton training suit began glowing.
Ten tonnes.
Twelve.
Fifteen.
The weight kept climbing.
By the time the Third Ascension activated, Fivefold Ascension had doubled my power three times.
Twofold.
Fourfold.
Eightfold.
I felt like I was carrying a small mountain.
But I could move.
And I was ready.
My spirit cloak flared around me, blue-white energy rolling over my body as additional tendrils formed behind my shoulders. The ground cracked beneath my feet under the combination of my power and the training suit.
Prasert's eyes lit up.
"Prasert gets serious now!"
Oh no.
He charged.
Imagine a train.
Now imagine the train is made of muscle, knows Muay Thai, and is genuinely excited to hit you.
That was Prasert.
I met him halfway.
The cloak shifted around my body as spiritual claws formed over my hands. I slashed.
He blocked.
His forearms might as well have been steel beams wrapped in friendliness.
I pivoted and drove an elbow toward his solar plexus.
He deflected it.
I kicked.
He caught my leg.
Then he spun me so fast the entire courtyard briefly became one long blur.
I twisted in midair, planted one palm toward the ground, and formed a Death Spiral Bomb.
The rotating sphere slammed toward his foot.
BOOM!
A shockwave ripped across the courtyard.
Prasert shifted backward.
Not injured.
More like somebody had stepped unexpectedly onto something sharp.
I was already moving.
Straight punches followed.
Then kicks.
Karate flowed into Taekwondo, then into a sudden grappling transition as I dropped low, rolled behind him, and locked onto one leg to destroy his balance.
Prasert flipped me instead.
I hit the ground hard enough to become briefly acquainted with several ancestors.
Then I got up.
Another Ascension surged through the gauntlet.
The spirit cloak expanded into several tendrils behind me, each responding like an additional limb.
Prasert charged again.
Fists blurred.
I blocked low, shifted my weight, and drove a knee upward. A clawed slash followed toward his shoulder.
WHAM.
He didn't move.
I did.
Specifically backward.
Very far backward.
I don't know exactly how long we kept going, but the body was adapting. I could feel it with every exchange. Every time I was knocked down and forced myself back upright, my movements became cleaner. Every Ascension made my strikes heavier, and every correction from Seijūrō made the next attempt better.
I wasn't winning.
Obviously.
But that wasn't really the point.
Every second I stayed upright, every attack I survived, every technique I adjusted after Prasert smashed through it—
I was improving.
When Seijūrō finally called the session, I dropped onto my knees, breathing hard with both arms hanging loosely at my sides.
Prasert walked over and patted my head with one enormous hand like I was some puppy that had successfully learned a trick.
"Prasert proud. Ren strong."
Seijūrō was already filling another page of notes.
"Fascinating. The rate of physical adaptation is considerably higher than expected."
I looked up at Prasert through sweat and exhaustion.
"Next time…"
I grinned.
"…I'm throwing you."
Prasert looked delighted.
That probably wasn't a good sign.
Reina
Reina Tachibana had prepared herself for many things when she agreed to train under Master Liang Zhou, legendary Chinese martial artist, physician, and occasional walking source of terrible ideas.
She had expected pain.
She had expected humiliation.
She had not expected therapy before throwing punches.
They stood in one of Ryūseikan's shaded courtyards, long shadows crossing the stone while birds chirped overhead like this was a perfectly normal morning rather than the beginning of Reina's attempt to push herself beyond ordinary human limits.
Liang stood in front of her with both hands behind his back.
For once, his expression was serious.
"So," he began, "you admire Airi."
Reina nodded. "She's strong. Really strong. I want to reach that level."
"Why?"
Reina blinked.
"To prove I can, I guess. I've spent most of my life hearing what girls are supposed to be capable of."
Liang raised one finger.
"That is the surface. Why do you fight, Reina Tachibana? Truly?"
She frowned.
This wasn't what she had expected.
She had prepared herself for squats.
Not soul-searching.
"Before…" she said after a moment, "I probably didn't have a good answer. Pride, maybe. Anger. Refusing to let anybody look down on me."
She took a breath.
"But now I know better. Weak people don't always get to live peacefully just because they deserve to. If I want the people I care about to be safe, I need enough strength to protect them. And not just myself. I want to be strong enough to help the people who believe in me."
Liang's expression softened briefly.
Then his usual smile returned.
"Excellent answer!"
Reina's eyes narrowed.
"Why do I suddenly feel threatened?"
"Because now we begin training."
There it was.
Without warning, Liang produced a brush and began drawing precise characters across the training bands wrapped around Reina's arms and legs.
"Hey—what are you doing?"
"Weighting seals," Liang answered cheerfully. "Very efficient."
The markings activated.
Reina stood.
Or tried to.
Her knees almost folded beneath her.
It felt as though somebody had replaced her limbs with concrete.
"You know," she groaned, "I don't remember agreeing to gravity torture."
Liang stepped backward with his hands tucked behind him, looking extremely pleased with himself.
"Excellent. Now perform a roundhouse kick."
Reina tried.
Her leg rose approximately enough to insult the concept of a kick.
Liang laughed.
She immediately decided she was going to land one on him before the week ended.
The sparring began.
Or, more accurately, Liang began violating Reina's understanding of how martial arts were supposed to work while she moved around with all the elegance of a brick inside a washing machine.
"Chinese martial arts are not merely about striking," Liang explained.
One finger touched Reina's arm.
Suddenly, the entire limb went numb.
Reina stared.
"What—?!"
"A minor nerve disruption."
He tapped her again.
Feeling returned instantly.
"Useful technique."
Reina flexed her fingers.
"…You are the worst kind of genius."
Liang looked delighted.
By the end of the spar, Reina was sweating heavily and breathing hard.
"Lie down," Liang said.
Then he produced several needles.
Reina stared at them.
"Acupuncture?"
"Of course."
"Are they safe?"
"Completely."
Liang paused.
"Provided I do not sneeze."
Reina looked at him.
He smiled.
She reconsidered every life choice that had brought her here.
Fortunately, he didn't sneeze.
What followed instead felt like small electrical currents racing through every muscle in her body. Her limbs twitched as the needles stimulated her internal pathways.
"There," Liang said when he finished. "This should improve the response of your energy pathways during training."
Reina groaned.
"Wonderful."
"And this point aids digestion."
She opened one eye.
"So I'll fight better and digest lunch better."
"Exactly."
"At least this place is efficient."
Shōgo and Hermes
Of all the places to die gloriously, Shōgo thought Ryūseikan wasn't so bad.
He stood with his back near the stone wall of the training courtyard, sweat running down his face while every instinct in his body screamed at him to either run or attack.
Nobody had punched him.
Nobody had kicked him.
Nobody had even touched him.
The problem was Genzō Aratake.
More specifically, the enormous pressure pouring from the man standing ten feet away.
It wasn't simply intimidation. Genzō had focused his Ki and killing intent directly toward them until every primitive survival instinct in their bodies understood one message:
Predator.
Beside Shōgo, Hermes looked considerably less composed. His expensive training jacket was soaked with sweat, and most of his usual sarcastic confidence had disappeared beneath the invisible weight pressing against his lungs.
"This…" Hermes managed, bracing both hands against his knees, "…cannot possibly satisfy any recognized safety standard."
"You're not wrong," Shōgo muttered.
Genzō stood with his arms crossed.
"You kids finished complaining?"
Hermes slowly raised his head.
"…Are we allowed to say no?"
"No."
"Thought so."
Genzō hadn't bothered with a gentle introduction.
"You want to learn Ki?" he had told them. "Then learn what it feels like to stand in front of something stronger than you. Your body adapts because it wants to survive. You either improve or you break."
Which was why their first exercise consisted of standing beneath his killing intent.
Not the kind that made somebody uncomfortable.
The kind that forced the body to decide whether it wanted to fight or flee.
Shōgo adapted exactly the way everyone should have expected.
After several minutes, the grin came back.
His eyes gleamed.
"This…"
Genzō watched him.
"This is what I've been looking for."
Hermes, meanwhile, was concentrating on breathing like an accountant trying to meditate while somebody pointed a cannon at him.
"This was not included in our agreement."
Nobody cared.
Eventually, Genzō reduced the pressure from certain death to merely large predator considering whether you're edible.
"All right," he said. "Muscle. Money. Come here."
Hermes stared.
"Those are our names now?"
"Yes."
Shōgo charged first.
Of course he did.
He came forward behind a heavy combination of punches and kicks, mixing karate fundamentals with the brutal street-fighting instincts that had earned him his reputation.
Genzō barely moved.
He slipped past attacks by inches, turned aside punches with lazy movements, and treated Shōgo's combinations like an adult playing with an overeager dog.
"You've got instincts," Genzō said as he caught one kick and dumped Shōgo onto the ground. "But you're rough."
Shōgo rolled back to his feet.
"Then teach me."
Genzō smirked.
"You earn teaching. Get up again."
Shōgo's grin widened.
Hermes adjusted his gloves and approached much more carefully.
"I suppose I'll try thinking."
He angled toward Genzō's blind side.
One second, Hermes was upright.
The next, he was staring at the sky.
He blinked.
"How?"
"Decent footwork," Genzō said. "Too hesitant."
"I prefer the term calculated caution."
"Hesitation with better marketing."
Hermes groaned.
"Get up."
Despite the intimidation, Genzō never actually allowed either of them to suffer serious harm.
When Shōgo overcommitted and almost rolled his ankle, Genzō caught him before the joint twisted and shoved him back into the correct stance. When Hermes took a strike to the ribs that emptied his lungs, Genzō stopped immediately and made sure his breathing recovered before continuing.
He was rough.
Loud.
Terrifying.
But there was something almost gentle beneath it.
"If I didn't care whether you learned," Genzō said after correcting Shōgo's stance for the fifth time, "I'd let you keep making the same mistakes. I push because I expect you to fix them."
Hermes was bent forward, breathing heavily.
"You are possibly the worst motivational speaker I have ever met."
Genzō raised an eyebrow.
"…And somehow a very good teacher."
Shōgo grinned through a swelling cheek.
"Best day of my life."
Genzō gave them a crooked smile.
"Good. Twenty more rounds before lunch."
Hermes went pale.
"We're going to die."
Shōgo laughed.
"It's awesome."
Haruki, Tōma, and Kenta
If anyone ever tells you Ryūseikan is merely a dojo, kindly laugh in their face and offer them an ice pack.
It wasn't a dojo.
It was a physics-defying training laboratory disguised as an old Japanese estate.
And its chief researcher was Seijūrō Amahara.
Physician.
Philosopher.
Martial-arts master.
And possibly the reason several international treaties should include regulations on exercise equipment.
Haruki, Tōma, and Kenta were discovering that firsthand.
Seijūrō smiled pleasantly.
"Let us begin with a light warm-up."
The light warm-up involved strapping all three of them into a huge mechanical training system combining resistance cables, moving platforms, weights, pulleys, and enough adjustment controls to make Hermes jealous.
Haruki stared at it.
"This is the warm-up?"
"Yes."
Kenta pointed toward one rotating component.
"Why is that spinning?"
"Balance training."
"What happens if I fall?"
"You learn not to fall."
Tōma looked toward Haruki.
"We're going to regret this."
Haruki nodded.
"Respectfully."
Halfway through the exercise, Seijūrō opened a wooden box containing several herbal supplements.
"These will assist recovery and stimulate your energy pathways."
Haruki looked suspicious.
"Medicine?"
"Essentially."
Kenta sniffed one.
His face immediately twisted.
"This smells like moss that has given up on life."
"Eat it."
Kenta looked horrified.
Tōma swallowed his first.
His expression became very still.
Haruki watched him.
"Well?"
Tōma's eyes watered.
"Don't ask."
They ate them.
Ten minutes later, Kenta had attempted to fake an ankle injury, Haruki had genuinely considered running, and Tōma had temporarily excused himself behind a tree to reconsider the herbal supplement.
Kenta and Haruki made it approximately ten feet.
Seijūrō caught both by the backs of their shirts.
"Running is excellent cardiovascular exercise," he said pleasantly. "Unfortunately, this is not running time."
Kenta stared at him.
"How are you that fast?"
Seijūrō smiled.
"Martial arts."
"That explains nothing."
Tōma returned looking pale but determined.
He clenched his fists.
He was surviving this.
Even if it killed him.
Preferably not literally.
When all three looked approximately five minutes away from abandoning martial arts and opening a quiet bookstore instead, Seijūrō decided they needed motivation.
"Watch."
He raised one hand.
Ki gathered around it.
Heat distorted the air.
Then flames erupted across his palm.
Haruki's mouth fell open.
Kenta stopped complaining.
Tōma simply stared.
Seijūrō swept his hand.
A wave of flame crossed the training field and consumed an entire row of bamboo targets.
Then he walked toward a massive metal training statue.
He placed one finger underneath it.
And lifted.
One finger.
No visible effort.
All three boys remained silent for several seconds.
"That," Seijūrō said calmly, "is what disciplined Ki can accomplish when body, technique, and mind develop together."
Haruki slowly pointed.
"That isn't motivation."
Seijūrō raised an eyebrow.
"That's showing off."
"I find the two concepts compatible."
Kenta nodded slowly.
"…Okay. That was cool."
Tōma wiped sweat from his face.
"I'll keep going."
Then he pointed at the supplement box.
"Just don't make me eat another one of those."
Seijūrō smiled.
"No promises."
Several hours later, after weighted running, resistance drills, push-ups beneath controlled pressure, and stretching exercises that made all three boys discover joints they hadn't previously known existed, the group finally collapsed.
Tōma had developed a slight twitch.
Haruki was mumbling something about choosing a peaceful academic career.
Kenta had attempted to bribe a bird to carry a message requesting rescue.
"Excellent," Seijūrō said.
Three exhausted heads rose.
"Time for recovery."
The recovery involved wooden barrels filled with a steaming green medicinal mixture smelling strongly of pine, herbs, and something nobody wanted identified.
Haruki stared.
"Oh no."
Kenta backed away.
"We're going to be cooked."
Tōma had already accepted his fate.
"Tell everyone I died with dignity."
"You have displayed very little dignity today," Seijūrō observed.
"Then lie."
They were placed into the barrels.
Seijūrō adjusted the temperature beneath them.
"The medicinal compounds will assist muscular recovery."
Haruki immediately gripped the sides.
"This is hot!"
"Correct."
"Very hot!"
"Also correct."
Kenta stared at him in betrayal.
"You said recovery!"
"It is."
The three screamed together.
Ryōhei
While Haruki, Tōma, and Kenta collectively questioned every decision they had ever made from inside their medicinal barrels, a quieter and far more delicate procedure was taking place nearby.
If you could call deliberately resetting an old arm injury delicate.
Ryōhei sat on a padded mat, his damaged arm resting in front of him while Seijūrō examined the old fracture.
"You understand what this involves?" the master asked.
Ryōhei swallowed.
"I think so."
"You suffered improper healing around the original break. If I simply strengthen what exists, the structural weakness remains."
"So you have to break it again."
"Correct."
Ryōhei nodded.
Then hesitated.
"You've done this before?"
Seijūrō gave him a reassuring smile.
"Of course."
That sounded much better than the alternative.
Seijūrō placed his fingers around the old fracture.
Ki gathered faintly around his hand.
"Breathe deeply."
Ryōhei inhaled.
"Wait—"
SNAP.
His scream echoed across the compound.
Somewhere inside one of the barrels, Haruki slowly raised his head.
"Better him than me."
Seijūrō ignored the commentary.
With the damaged bone properly realigned, he began working Ki into the limb with careful, controlled pressure. The energy moved through the damaged tissue while he stabilized the fracture and guided the healing process.
"This will restore the proper structure," Seijūrō explained calmly. "The bone will heal correctly this time. Afterward, we strengthen the supporting tissue gradually."
Ryōhei gritted his teeth.
"Gradually sounds good."
Seijūrō handed him a small vial of dark herbal medicine.
Ryōhei sniffed it.
"It smells like glue and sadness."
"Drink it."
He drank it.
After ten deeply unpleasant minutes of recovery—which mostly involved Ryōhei lying facedown and reconsidering his trust in extremely polite doctors—Seijūrō returned carrying a training harness.
It covered the upper torso, with resistance cords running down both arms and across the back.
"Try a punch."
Ryōhei stood.
He punched.
The harness resisted immediately.
His fist moved forward with the speed of somebody trying to punch through thick mud.
"What is this?"
"Resistance."
"I noticed."
"One hundred kilograms on each arm."
Ryōhei stared.
"Each?"
"Yes."
"And this is the starting point?"
"Yes."
Seijūrō was already making notes.
"The resistance will increase as your recovery progresses. Your nerves, muscles, tendons, and bones need to rebuild together."
Ryōhei looked at the harness.
Then at Seijūrō.
"Why do I feel like a science experiment?"
"Because you are."
Ryōhei blinked.
Seijūrō smiled.
"A willing one."
Right.
Of course.
"Now."
He pointed toward a reinforced training target.
"Punch."
Ryōhei sighed.
Then started.
Hana
To be completely honest, Hana hadn't expected her journey into supernatural martial arts to begin with a tray of weapons.
Tsukiko Amane knelt in front of her and indicated the different tools one by one.
"Daggers. Throwing blades. Needles."
Hana stared.
"…Are these real?"
Tsukiko nodded.
"Sharp."
Airi immediately stepped in before Hana could touch anything.
"We're starting with these."
She replaced them with wooden training knives.
Hana looked disappointed.
"Training versions?"
"Training versions."
"Lame."
Airi smiled.
"You can call them lame after you can hit the target."
Challenge accepted.
Their training took place in a quiet bamboo grove behind the dojo, where the wind whispered through the leaves and every tree seemed to have acquired a target.
Tsukiko moved almost silently.
One moment, the throwing blades were in her hands.
The next, they were buried perfectly in the center of several targets.
Even the ones positioned behind her.
Hana stared.
"Whoa."
Tsukiko looked toward her.
"You're like a Ninja sniper."
A tiny pause.
Tsukiko nodded once.
"Control. Breath. Focus."
Not much of a speech.
Still got the point across.
Airi stepped beside Hana and gently corrected her stance.
"You're smaller than most of the others, but that doesn't have to be a disadvantage. Throwing weapons rely more on technique and accuracy than raw strength."
Hana nodded seriously.
Then threw.
The wooden knife bounced off the target.
Ricocheted into a branch.
And knocked an acorn out of a squirrel's paws.
The squirrel stared at her.
Hana stared back.
"…Oops."
After several unsuccessful throws and one increasingly offended squirrel, they stopped for a short break.
Tsukiko handed Hana a small bottle.
"Drink."
Hana sniffed it.
"It smells like pickles and fire."
"It's a training tonic," Airi explained. "It helps with recovery."
Hana eyed it suspiciously.
"You drink this?"
Airi nodded.
"I started serious martial-arts training when I was very young."
"How young?"
"About eight."
Hana stared.
"You're just casually saying that?"
Tsukiko nodded toward Airi.
"Very talented."
Airi smiled.
Tsukiko added, "Annoying."
"I'm still annoying."
Tsukiko considered that.
Then nodded.
Hana laughed.
After the break came weighted training bands.
Tsukiko fastened them around Hana's wrists and ankles. Nothing extreme, just enough resistance that every normal movement now required additional effort.
"Adjust," Tsukiko said.
Hana flexed her arms.
"Then throw."
Hana looked at her.
"You're really good at saying short scary sentences."
Tsukiko's expression remained completely serious.
Airi had to look away to hide a smile.
Hana kept training.
Her shoulders started aching.
Her fingers became sore.
Her arms shook every time she raised another wooden knife.
At some point, she declared eternal war against one particular target that seemed personally committed to avoiding everything she threw.
But each time she improved, even slightly, Airi smiled and encouraged her.
Tsukiko would simply nod.
Somehow, that tiny nod started feeling more valuable than applause.
By the end of the session, Hana planted three consecutive throws into the target.
She stared.
Airi smiled.
"Nice."
Tsukiko inspected the grouping.
"Acceptable."
Hana threw both arms into the air.
"Legendary!"
Then she collapsed dramatically onto the grass.
For day one?
She'd take it.