While Jin was practicing alone at the dojo, imagining he had an opponent, he overheard some chatter from others nearby. As the training session was about to start, the students casually gathered in a large circle at the center of the dojo, buzzing with anticipation. Then, the first bell sounded—a deep chime that echoed throughout the room and eased the atmosphere.
Suddenly, in walked Sensei Makoto, a tall guy dressed in dark indigo robes. He had this calm, mysterious vibe about him, and his face didn't give away much. The wooden shinken—a practice sword—he had at his side was definitely not just for show. People liked to gossip that he once took down a cybernetic attacker with just a folded fan, which really says a lot about his skills.
"Seiretsu!" he called, his commanding voice reverberating through the dojo.
In an instant, the students sprang into action, forming impeccable rows with a discipline that had been ingrained through rigorous training. The sound of bare feet shuffling across tatami mats created a wave of synchronized movement, each student finding their designated position with military precision.
With his bare feet firmly planted on the mat, Jin stood defiantly at the edge of the sparring area. The woven straw fibers pressed against his soles, grounding him in the tradition of countless warriors who had stood here before. Although he could feel the weight of curious gazes lingering on him, he had long mastered the art of enduring such mocking gazes.
"Attention! Jin Tsurugi," the sensei announced, invoking a name that carried significant weight in these hallowed halls—though not always the kind of renown Jin desired.
"Is that… him?" a soft voice questioned from the back, barely rising above the thick silence that had enveloped the dojo.
Mina, a fellow student, strained her ears and leaned in closer, intrigued. Her dark hair was tied back in a practical ponytail, but several strands had escaped to frame her face as she craned her neck for a better view.
Lucien, adjusting his glasses, activated his neural interface, releasing streams of information that danced across his enhanced vision. "Tsurugi Jin," he murmured, his fingers subtly moving through the air as he manipulated the holographic display only he could see. "His mother came from Japanese nobility. As for his father—well, that remains shrouded in mystery. Rumor has it he disappeared when Jin was just seven years old."
Mina's eyes widened in realization, her hand instinctively covering her mouth. "You mean the Tsurugi family?"
Lucien nodded, his brow furrowed as he continued to sift through the details. "Lady Reika Tsurugi—the former heiress of the Tsurugi Zaibatsu. One of Japan's oldest and most secretive noble houses, with origins tracing back to the samurai lineage. She was once expected to take the helm of the family business, which was composed of arms development, AI philosophy, and the martial tradition. But she chose love over her obligation."
The weight of this news was really something else. Even though everyone had heard the story, it was still one of those things people avoided talking about openly. Lady Reika, with her smarts and looks, represented that perfect mix of old-school traditions and new age ideas, making her a strong contender to lead her clan.
"He doesn't exactly seem imposing," Arjun remarked, his voice devoid of disdain, revealing only genuine curiosity about Jin. His athletic build and confident stance suggested he was no stranger to the dojo himself.
Jin smoothly stepped onto the shiny mat, moving like he was in sync with some invisible dance. His bare feet made no sound against the tatami, each step perfectly placed as if following an ancient pattern. His shinai felt almost light in his hand, the bamboo perfectly balanced and ready. With a look of pure focus in his dark eyes, he gave a respectful bow that packed years of tradition into one simple gesture.
Arjun leaned closer to Mina, lowering his voice to a near whisper, as if sharing a secret. "What's your impression of him?"
Mina, her head tilted thoughtfully, scrutinized Jin with a penetrating gaze that suggested she was weighing her words carefully. "He seems… weak," she replied slowly, her uncertainty hinted at by the slight wavering in her tone. This hesitation might have indicated that she wasn't completely convinced by her own assessment.
Jin noticed a quick exchange between Arjun and Mina as they shared their thoughts, but it didn't faze him at all. He glanced to the side for a second, taking in their hushed conversations and the way they were sizing him up, then he shut his eyes once more, taking deep, steady breaths to maintain his chill. He had dealt with way harsher critiques from people whose opinions he actually cared about—definitely way beyond the trivial chatter from high school kids.
Still, the whispers kept going.
"Do you think those rumors about him are accurate?"
"Is it true that he hasn't lost a single sparring match?"
"We'll find out soon enough, won't we?"
In the dojo, a new figure stood out, taller than Jin and sporting broad shoulders that exuded confidence. He moved like a seasoned student who had never faced a loss. The dream's fog made it tough for Jin to see his face clearly, but he could definitely feel the guy's arrogance.
This new opponent was Park Jimin, a Korean exchange student, who adjusted his stance as if getting ready for a showdown. Jimin wasn't just any student; he was really good at Haidong Gumdo and had some impressive accolades under his belt, including a scholarship from the well-known Samsang program. He was Jin's senior and had a ton of tournament wins to prove it. In his grip was a shinai, expertly crafted from ebony wood, its dark surface gleaming under the dojo's lights.
"Are you ready to be humbled?" Jimin asked, a slight smirk playing on his lips as he eyed Jin. His stance was wide, leaving openings that would be obvious to any experienced practitioner—a sign of his overconfidence.
Jin simply returned a polite bow, his shinai positioned perfectly in chudan stance, choosing to rise above the provocation rather than respond to the insult. His posture was relaxed yet ready, the bamboo sword held at the perfect height to defend or attack as needed.
"Please teach me, Park-senpai," he replied with a sincerity that had inexplicably irritated many of his tormentors in the past.
At that moment, Sensei Makoto raised his hand, signaling for silence in the dojo. The ambient sounds faded, leaving only the soft hum of the climate control systems and the distant buzz of Neo Tokyo beyond the dojo's walls. The scent of sandalwood incense seemed to intensify, creating an atmosphere of sacred tradition.
"Hajime!" the sensei announced, marking the start of the match.
Feeling super confident, Jimin charged at Jin. He threw his strikes with a crazy mix of power and accuracy that showed off years of practice, his sword slicing through the air in a way that clearly aimed to break through Jin's defenses without much effort. His movements were aggressive, telegraphing his intentions clearly as he committed fully to each attack.
But Jin was already ahead of him. He didn't retreat or block directly. Instead, he flowed to the side like water around a stone, his movements so smooth and economical it appeared as if he were barely moving at all. The way he moved his shinai synced perfectly with his body, creating a slight arc that not only deflected Jimin's aggressive approach but also redirected the force harmlessly away.
The sound of bamboo hitting protective gear rang out through the quiet dojo, leaving everyone momentarily speechless. The sharp crack of impact echoed off the walls, a sound that spoke of perfect timing and technique.
That was a point for Jin.
In response, Jin gently tapped Jimin's wrist, barely any contact at all. But it was enough. Just like that, Jimin's grip weakened, his fingers going momentarily numb from the precise strike to a pressure point. His shinai hit the floor with a clatter, the sound seeming unnaturally loud in the sudden silence. Shock washed over Jimin's face as he looked down at his hand, then back at Jin, who had already reset himself into a ready stance, as if nothing remarkable had happened.
"Yame," Sensei Makoto called, though it was clear that the match had already concluded.
The students surrounding the dojo exchanged whispers of gratitude and awe for what they had just witnessed. Several students were leaning forward, their eyes wide with disbelief at the effortless display of skill. Jimin, taking a step back, found his once unshakeable confidence beginning to waver, having just tasted the bitter sting of defeat. His face flushed with embarrassment as he retrieved his shinai from the floor, unable to meet Jin's calm gaze.
The silence that followed was thick with unspoken questions and newfound respect. Jin remained standing calmly in the center of the dojo, his breathing steady and controlled, as if the intense exchange had been nothing more than a simple exercise rather than a demonstration of martial mastery.