By now, my body knows the way to the alley better than my brain does.
Turn left at the market where the fish smell like regret, cut past the stall with the screaming vegetables, slip between the two brick buildings that lean toward each other like they're gossiping.
Drop the bag in the corner. Kick off the boots. Bare feet on cold stone.
Kain doesn't even look surprised anymore when I show up.
"Warm up," he says.
I move.
Footwork first. Forward, back, side to side. Hands up. No bouncing, no lazy steps. Shadowboxing after: jab, cross, low kick, pivot. Repeat. Breathe.
Air scrapes my throat a little. It's been a long day at the workshop. My shoulders already have that dull ache that says, you could stop, but you won't.
Bruk leans on the wall, chewing on something that might be gum or might be his own patience.
"Loosen your shoulders," he says. "You're moving like a broom handle."
"I feel like a broom handle," I say.
"Less complaining, more fixing," Kain adds.
I force my shoulders down, keep my guard up.
After a bit, Kain raises a hand.
"Enough dancing," he says. "We're turning it up today."
"Up how?" I ask. "Gently up? Or 'I regret my life choices' up?"
He ignores that.
"We've done straight lines," he says. "Forward, back. Guard, basic counters. That's good. For idiots who only know how to go straight."
"Lucky me," I say.
"Real people don't always come at you straight," he goes on. "They circle. They cut angles. They try to trap you. If you only know how to back up, you run out of street. Then you hit a wall. Then you hit the floor. Then you stop hitting anything."
"Nice progression," I say.
He steps closer.
"Today we work angles and clinch," he says. "How not to stay where the punch lands. How not to let someone grab you and ragdoll you."
My ribs remember that older boy in the side street. My head remembers the wall.
"Good theme," I say. "I'm a fan already."
"Stance," he says.
I plant my feet. Left forward, right back. Knees soft. Hands up.
"Right now," he says, "you deal with punches by blocking them. That's fine. But you're small. Blocking only takes you so far. You want to not be there when the big ones come."
"So I disappear," I say.
"Sideways," he says. "Not into the ether."
He steps into range, slow.
"Light jab," he says. "Don't block. Angle out."
He snaps a jab at my face, slower than usual. I shift my front foot out and pivot, turning my body a quarter turn so I'm off his center line.
It's clumsy. He could still tag me if he wanted.
"Again," he says.
We do it over and over.
Jab comes. Front foot steps out, back foot drags, body turns, head off the line.
Sometimes I move too far. Sometimes not enough. Sometimes my feet get tangled.
"Shorter steps," he says. "You're not running a marathon. Just enough to slide off the track."
He adds a cross.
"Same rule," he says. "Angle out. Don't just lean. Move your feet."
The cross comes. I start to lean instead of step. His glove-less knuckles tap my cheek.
"Feet," he repeats.
"This is bullying," I say.
"It's teaching," he says. "Bullying is when you don't get better after."
We keep going. Left, right. Different angles. Sometimes he steps in as he punches, crowding me. I have to pivot and slide past him instead of backing straight up.
Half the time I land almost behind him, shoulder-to-shoulder.
"See that?" he says once. "You end here, what can you do?"
"In theory?" I say. "Hit you in the kidney and run."
"Correct," he says. "In training? You just reset. We're not sending you to prison yet."
He smirks. I try not to.
My legs start to feel like they're full of hot sand. Each step takes more effort than it should. My brain starts to lag behind my feet.
That's when he changes it.
"No warning," he says. "Same deal, but I mix levels. You angle or you taste the floor."
"Cool," I say weakly.
He comes in faster.
Jab to the head. I angle out. Cross to the body. I half-block, half-step. He throws a hook. I don't move enough.
His knuckles tap the side of my head. Not hard. Enough to buzz.
"Feet," he says again.
"I heard you," I mutter.
I focus.
Shoulder twitch. Step. Turn. Guard. Breathe.
Something begins to click.
Not perfectly. Not clean. But more often, when his fist travels through the space where I was, I'm not there anymore.
I'm a little to the side. A little off. Just enough.
Kain POV:
He's getting it. Not fast. Not slow. Just… there.
Most people hate angles. Too much thinking. Straight lines are easy: punch, block, push, pull. To step off, you have to override the part of your brain that screams "move back, get away."
The kid's scared, but he still steps sideways when I tell him to. That's rare.
He's awkward, sure. But when it works, it really works. I feel him slide past my shoulder, end up where my blind spot would be if I let him do it in a real fight.
He files those moments away. I can see it. Every success, every failure, stamped in his head like little notes.
He's not strong enough yet. Not big enough. But his relationship with space is changing. That's the part that matters.
If he keeps this up, one day some idiot will swing at where he was and eat a fist from where he is.
That'll be a good day.
Ryu POV:
We break only when my steps start getting sloppy.
"Rest a minute," Kain says.
I lean against the wall, hands on my knees, breathing like I'm trying to suck air out of stone.
Sweat runs into my eyes. My shirt sticks to my back. My feet ache from gripping uneven stone.
Bruk tosses me the battered water bottle.
"Drink," he says. "You look like you're about to ascend."
"Tempting," I say. "Less running angles in the afterlife, I hope."
"Depends where you're going," he says.
I take a long swallow. The water's warm, vaguely metallic, and the best thing I've tasted all week.
"Done?" Kain asks.
"No," I say. "Yes. Maybe. Go."
He steps in again.
"New game," he says. "You angle out, you touch back."
"Touch how?" I ask.
"Light counter," he says. "Body, shoulder, arm. I don't care. Make contact. Show me you're not just fleeing."
"So dodge and cheeky slap," I say. "Got it."
Jab. I step off, hand flicks out, taps his ribs. Feels like hitting a post.
"More structure," he says. "Not that fly-swatting nonsense."
We go again.
Angle, counter. Angle the other way, short hook to the body. Slip, tap to the shoulder.
Most of them don't land right. Too far. Too weak. Wrong timing.
One or two feel… right. Weight under them, balance good, contact solid.
Those stick.
After what feels like an hour but is probably less, he stops.
"You're not completely hopeless," he says.
"I'm putting that on my grave," I say.
He smirks.
"Now," he says, "clinch."
I groan. Loudly.
"We saw how it went when someone grabbed you last time," he says. "Wall, skull, almost robbery. Your answer was knee and panic. Not the worst, but not enough."
"I thought the knee was pretty good," I say.
"It was," he says. "You want options."
He steps close. Very close. His hands come up, but not in a punching guard this time. More like he's about to grab my shoulders.
"Rule one," he says. "Don't let people inside for free. If they get this close, you frame."
"Frame?" I ask.
He places his palm on my chest, arm bent, forearm between us like a bar.
"This is a frame," he says. "You keep space with bone, not just willpower. Other hand guards your head or fights for control."
He moves my arms where he wants them. One forearm across his collarbone, other hand near my own chin.
"This feel weird?" he asks.
"Yes," I say. "Everything about my life feels weird."
"Good," he says. "Get used to it."
We drill it.
He steps in like he's going to clinch, and I have to put the frame up before he can smother me.
Sometimes I'm late. Sometimes my forearm ends up too low and he crowds me anyway.
"Higher," he says. "You're not hugging me. You're stopping me from living in your ribs."
We add head position.
"If you let me put my head wherever I want," he says, "I'll move you like furniture."
He shows me: his forehead under my jaw, pushing my head back. My spine curves awkwardly.
"Bad," he says. "Now you."
I press my forehead against the side of his head instead, off-center, trying to keep my neck straight.
"Better," he says.
It's like playing chess with bones.
We go from static frames to short movements. He grabs the back of my neck; I peel his hand off. He reaches for my shirt; I smack his grip away and re-frame. He hooks an arm behind my back; I twist and drop my level so he can't lift me.
Half the time I mess it up and end up stuck.
"Don't freeze," he says whenever that happens. "If you can't win the position, change the position. Move your feet."
I start stepping more.
Small circles. Short shuffles. Using the same angle work from earlier, but at grappling distance. If he starts to drag me one way, I step around. If he pulls, I drop weight. If he pushes, I yield then push back.
At some point, I realize I'm… playing.
Not in the fun, childish way. In the sense that I'm making choices instead of just surviving.
It's addicting.
It's also exhausting.
My arms burn from constant pressure. My neck aches from fighting head position. My fingers feel like they've been arguing with rocks.
We end with a few gentle knees.
"From here," he says, holding me in a loose clinch with my frame decent, "this is one of your few real weapons against bigger guys."
He taps my thigh.
"You drive this into soft targets," he says. "Inside of the leg. Stomach. If the rules allow, higher. In the street, there are no rules. But in training, we keep it below the belt for now."
"Discrimination," I say weakly.
"Control," he says. "Now, slow knee. Don't try to break me. Just find the path."
I lift my knee, aiming for the inside of his thigh.
"Not bad," he says. "Again. And keep your hands where they were. You dropped your frame."
We go until my legs join the riot my arms started.
Finally, he steps back.
"Enough," he says.
I just stand there for a second, feeling my heartbeat everywhere at once.
"Can someone carry me home," I ask, "or is that not included in the package?"
"Walking is part of recovery," Bruk says. "If you can't walk, you overdid it."
"Good to know where the line is," I say.
Bruk POV:
He looks like hell. Sweat, shaky legs, arms hanging heavy. But his eyes… those are clearer than the first day.
There's something dangerous about kids who enjoy this kind of tired. The ones who feel pain, really feel it, and still come back because they saw themselves get a little better inside it.
He's not laughing. This isn't fun for him. It's… necessary.
I've trained grown men with less grit.
He's nine.
If he doesn't break, he'll be a problem one day. For someone. Maybe for everyone.
I just hope, when that happens, he remembers who taught him not to stand still and die.
Ryu POV:
I grab my bag, pull my boots back on with fingers that don't quite want to work.
"Same schedule?" I ask, voice hoarse.
"Same," Kain says. "Three times a week. On days you're not here, you practice angles in your room. Shadow clinch. Don't just lie there waiting to be enlightened."
"I'll whisper sweet nothings to my floorboards," I say.
"Stretch," he adds. "Neck, shoulders, legs. You skip that, you'll regret it tomorrow."
"I already regret everything," I say.
He gives me a small, sharp smile.
"Good," he says. "Means you're paying attention."
The walk back is a blur.
My legs feel like someone stole half the bones and replaced them with jelly. My arms are heavy and buzzy. My neck clicks when I turn it.
I get to my room, shut the door, and almost drop straight to the floor.
I don't.
I stretch first. Ugly, slow, stiff stretches. Calves, thighs, hips, back, shoulders. Gentle neck rolls. My body protests, then settles a little.
Then I collapse on the bed and stare at the ceiling stain.
It hasn't changed.
I have.
I run through everything in my head:
Step off the line. Pivot. Short counter. Frame. Head position. Don't let them live in your ribs. Move your feet in close, not just far away.
It's not perfect. It's not enough.
But it's more structure. More tools. More pieces of a puzzle I'll need later, when things get really bad.
Nen, Hunters, exams, all of that is still far away.
Right now, the goal is simpler:
If someone grabs me tomorrow, I want them to realize, just a little too late, that I'm not such an easy thing to hold.