By the third time I hit the ground, I stop trying to keep my dignity and start trying to keep my lungs.
The day starts normal.
Wake up. Ribs stiff, shin angry, shoulders already sore from yesterday's jab marathon. I do a lighter version of my usual morning training: fewer push-ups, more stretching, careful twists so I don't pull something and show up useless.
Work at Haim's is the same too: oil, noise, half-broken machines and full-strength curses.
But the whole time, there's a quiet drumbeat in the back of my head.
First real lesson. Don't screw it up. Don't look stupid. Try not to die.
Haim catches me zoning out once.
"You counting angels?" he asks.
"Counting bruises in advance," I say.
"Don't do it near sharp edges," he says. "You'll add more."
By the time my shift ends, my arms are tired and my brain is buzzing. I wash my hands, splash water on my face, tell Haim I'm heading out.
He grunts. "Don't come back tomorrow with a broken nose. It's bad for business."
"I'll try to get kicked somewhere less visible," I say.
He waves me away.
The alley is different now that I belong in it.
Still narrow. Still stained. Still smells like sweat and spilled cheap alcohol from the bar.
But this time, when I walk in, Kain doesn't look at me like an intruder. Just like another idiot who volunteered for pain.
"Drop the bag," he says.
I set it down where the wall meets the crates, out of the way.
Bruk is already there, leaning against the wall again, arms crossed. He looks at me like he's mentally taking my measurements.
"Shoes off," Kain adds.
I blink. "Why?"
"You wanna learn how to move or you want to practice tripping on your own boots?" he says.
Fair point.
I unlace my boots, put them neatly by the bag. The ground is rough and cold under my feet. Bits of grit dig into my soles.
"Hands up," Kain says. "Show me your stance again."
I plant my feet, left forward, right back. Knees soft. Hands up. Chin down. I feel less ridiculous doing it now.
He circles once, then nods.
"Good enough to break," he says.
"Comforting," I mutter.
"Relax your shoulders," Bruk says. "You're not trying to strangle your own neck."
I exhale and let my shoulders drop a little, guard still up.
"Lesson one," Kain says. "You will fall. Everyone falls. If you don't learn how, the ground hits harder than the fist."
He gestures to a clear patch of floor.
"Lie down," he says.
I blink again. "What?"
"On your back," he says. "Do it on purpose before it happens by accident."
I lie down. Cold soaks into my spine.
"Now," he says. "Tuck your chin. You want to keep the back of your head off the stone. Spread your arms out a bit. When you hit the ground, you slap with them. Not straight. Bent. You're trying to spread the impact, not break your wrists."
"So I'm supposed to hit myself," I say.
"You're supposed to let the floor hit you less," he says. "Sit up."
I do.
"Now roll back," he says. "Tuck your chin. Slap."
I roll back.
I forget the arm part until the last second. My back hits hard. Breath leaves my lungs in a short, stupid "oof." My arms slap weakly after.
"Again," Kain says.
We repeat.
Sit up. Roll back. Tuck chin. Slap.
The slap gets louder. The pain spreads instead of focusing in one spot. It still sucks, but less sharply.
After maybe ten, the breath doesn't leave me every time.
"Good," he says. "Now from crouch."
We step it up. From standing to crouch, then drop backward and break the fall. I mess up my timing and smack my elbow once. It screams at me.
"Bend, don't lock," Bruk reminds me.
We go sideways. Falling to the right, then left. Shoulder, arm, hip, leg taking the hit in sequence instead of all at once.
My body hates it. My brain hates it more.
Everything in me wants to twist, curl, throw hands out in front like a child. I have to fight those instincts with new ones.
Bruk POV:
Kid learns fast. Not clean. Not easy. But fast.
First few falls, he panics. I see it in the way his eyes go wide just before he hits the ground. That little flash of this is gonna hurt.
Then he starts adjusting. Chin lower. Arms not flailing like a caught bird. He doesn't complain. Not once. No "this hurts," no "I'm tired." Just that stubborn set to his jaw that I've seen on men twice his age.
He's scared. He's not stupid enough not to be. But scared and moving is different from scared and frozen.
I've seen both. One kind dies faster.
Kain's pushing him, but not past the edge. That's good. We're not trying to break a toy. We're seeing what he's made of.
So far? Not glass.
Ryu POV:
By the time Kain lets me stand without immediately throwing myself back at the ground, I'm sweating enough that my hair sticks to my forehead.
My back throbs. My arms sting from repeated slaps. My hips feel like they've had a long argument with a cartwheel.
"Why are we starting with this?" I ask, breathing hard. "Shouldn't I be learning how to punch more people?"
"You learned how to hit the air yesterday," Kain says. "Now you learn how to hit the ground. Then we see about people."
"That's backwards," I say.
"That's surviving," he says. "Most kids think fights are about who hits harder. Real fights are about who can take hits and not fold."
He steps closer.
"Put your hands up," he says.
I do.
He reaches out and taps my forehead with two fingers. Not hard. Just enough to push my head back a little.
"Now imagine that was a real shot," he says. "You go down. You hit the floor wrong. You crack your skull. Who cares how strong your punch was then?"
"Fair," I say.
He nods toward the clearer space again.
"Now we add something," he says. "I nudge you. You don't know which way. You don't flail. You feel it and fall right. Ready?"
"No," I say. "Do it anyway."
He snorts.
We go.
He pushes my chest lightly. My weight shifts. I force myself to turn it into a backward fall, tucking my chin, slapping the ground.
Not elegant. But functional.
He corrects me. "Your arm was late. Again."
Side shove. I twist, fall to the right, slap.
"That's better."
We repeat. Over and over.
At some point, my brain stops screaming we're dying and starts going okay, this pattern, we know this pattern.
Doesn't mean it doesn't hurt. It just becomes a familiar kind of hurt.
"Enough," Bruk says at last.
I lie there for a second, chest heaving, arms pinned out to the side like a crushed insect.
"I hate falling," I say to the sky.
"You'll hate the alternative more," Kain says.
He offers a hand.
I take it, let him haul me up.
My legs wobble.
"Water," Bruk says, tossing me a battered bottle.
I drink. It tastes faintly of metal and old leather. I don't care.
"Next," Kain says, "we see if you can keep your guard up when someone actually touches you."
"I thought the ground touching me was enough," I say.
"That was the ground teaching you humility," he says. "This is us teaching you not to panic."
They have me take my stance again, hands up.
"No punches," Kain says. "No kicks. You don't hit us. You don't dodge. You stay put. We're just going to touch."
"This sounds like a scam," I say.
Bruk steps in first. He taps my guard with open hands. Forearms. Shoulders. Light contact, but quick, everywhere at once.
My instinct is to jerk away. I fight it. I keep my feet where they are, knees bent, core tight.
"Breathe," he says. "In. Out. Don't hold it. Your body locks, you're done."
I exhale slowly.
He taps my ribs. My elbow wants to drop to protect them. I keep it where it should be.
"Good," he says. "Your head's loud, but your body listens."
"Always this motivational?" I ask.
"Wait till we start hitting," Kain says.
Bruk backs off. Kain steps in.
He doesn't tap. He presses.
A palm to the shoulder, testing my balance. A shove to the guard just enough to move it, see if I overreact. A hand pushing gently at my hip, checking if my stance is real or just decoration.
"Too narrow," he says. "Open your feet."
I widen them a bit.
"Too wide," he says. "You're not a tree. Again."
We adjust. Micro-movements. Ankles, knees, hips.
He steps to the side and bumps my shoulder. I sway, but don't topple.
"Better," he says. "Now, light hits."
"Define light," I say.
He punches my forearm.
It's not full force, but it's not a tap either. Pain flares.
I hiss between my teeth.
"Hands stay up," he says.
He hits the other arm. Same force. Same pain.
"You're trying to get me to drop them," I say.
"Yes," he says. "That's what your enemy will do. We do it where we can stop. They won't."
He adds a light shot to my stomach. I tense, absorb it. It still sucks.
"Too stiff," Bruk says. "You're either jelly or stone. Find the middle."
I adjust. Try to engage my core without locking everything.
Kain keeps going. Forearms, shoulders, stomach. No head. No joints.
It's not about hurting me. It's about teaching my body that being hit isn't the end of the world.
It feels like the end of the world anyway.
"Enough," Bruk says after a while.
I let my arms drop, slow, like I'm lowering heavy gates.
Every muscle in my upper body screams.
I don't know how long we've been at it. My sense of time is somewhere back on the ground with my dignity.
Kain POV:
He didn't cry. Didn't flinch much after the first few hits. Didn't whine.
That matters more than talent at his age. I've seen sharp kids solve footwork puzzles and then run the first time a fist actually connects.
This one? He feels every shot. You can see it in the way his jaw tightens, the way his eyes narrow for half a second. But he holds. Breathes. Adjusts.
Too serious. Too focused. Kids his age are supposed to have room in their heads for games, crushes, stupid dreams. His is full of lists and fear he calls planning.
He says he wants to survive.
If he keeps showing up like this, he just might.
Ryu POV:
We finish with footwork. Because of course we do.
"Last thing," Kain says. "Move. Hands up. Forward, back, side. No crossing your feet. No bouncing like a clown. Just clean steps."
We do lines. From one end of the alley to the other. Small, controlled steps, never letting my guard drop.
My legs hate me. My feet hate me. My arms, already half-dead from the guard drill, feel like lead beams strapped to my shoulders.
But somewhere under the complaints, there's a tiny, stubborn bit of satisfaction.
This isn't random anymore.
This is building something.
"Enough," Bruk says finally. "If you keep going, he won't be able to work tomorrow. His boss will come yell at us."
"And I'll let you deal with him," I say.
Kain chuckles once.
"Get your boots on," he says. "Stretch when you get home. Long, slow. You wake up tomorrow and don't move, you'll feel worse."
"Sleep is for the weak," I say.
"Sleep is when you grow," he says. "Even idiots need that."
I pull my boots on, wincing as I bend.
"Same time next session?" I ask.
"Three days a week," Kain says. "Unless you're sick or dying. And if you're dying, you better have a note."
"From who?" I ask. "The Reaper?"
"From your landlord," he says. "Death's too busy."
I pick up my bag. My hands shake a little. I hope they don't see.
"Thanks," I say. It sounds too small for what this is.
Kain shrugs. "You're the one doing the work."
Bruk adds, "Try not to pick fights for fun. Training doesn't make you immortal."
"Hell of a sales pitch," I say.
They wave me off.
The walk back to my room feels longer than usual.
Every step reminds me of something we did in that alley. My back twinges when I straighten. My arms complain when I adjust the bag. My legs protest every time I take a stair.
But my head feels clearer.
Before, fights were chaos. Instinct. Panic. flailing.
Now there's the start of a framework.
Fall this way. Stand like this. Hands here. Breathe like that. Take the hit, don't crumble.
It's still not enough.
But it's more than I had yesterday.
I unlock my door, drop the bag, and almost drop myself next to it. I force my body through a few slow stretches just like Kain said. Hips, back, shoulders, neck.
The pain sharpens, then dulls.
I lie on the bed and stare at the ceiling stain.
It's the same shape as always.
I'm not.
I'm nine. I pay rent. I work. I train with men who've seen more violence than I can imagine. My hands hurt from learning how not to die stupidly.
Hunters are still far away. Nen is still a theory I don't touch.
But every fall, every punch absorbed, every step in that alley is a brick.
One day, I'll need all of it.
For now, it's enough that I can hit the ground and get back up on purpose.