Chapter 13: Kicks, Belts, and Ball-Endangering Stretches
(In which Ren discovers flexibility, yellow belts, and the dangers of overcommitting to a split)
Let me just start by saying:
When you're a teenage Ninja who grew up with Ballom, Master of Death, chained inside your soul, you sort of learn to ignore weird things. Mysterious voices when you're angry? Probably Ballom. Shadows moving when they shouldn't? Definitely Ballom.
But this?
This was new.
I was halfway through practicing a Hadouken—yes, that Hadouken, don't judge me—when suddenly I heard a voice inside my head.
But it wasn't Ballom.
Ballom sounded like death had learned how to talk and was permanently disappointed that the universe was still alive.
This voice was different.
Deep. Calm. Regal.
Like some ancient king sitting on a throne and deciding whether you were worth another five minutes of his time.
"I will observe for now and see where this leads. Do not disappoint me."
...
I stopped.
Most people would probably panic at this point. Call a magician. Find a priest. Start throwing purification charms around the room.
Me?
I shrugged and went back to practicing Chun-Li's Spinning Bird Kick.
Priorities, people.
That couldn't have been real, I thought, waving the whole thing away like a mosquito with an ego.
I mean, come on. I already had one ancient creature tied to my existence.
What were the odds Kaito had one too?
My soul wasn't some kind of supernatural apartment complex.
Right?
...
Okay.
Considering my life lately, maybe I shouldn't ask questions like that.
Anyway, I got back to business, which currently involved kicking imaginary enemies while copying combinations from Street Fighter and King of Fighters.
Who says Ninjas can't learn from video games?
I was trying to copy Ryu's jumping kick into a spinning uppercut and chain it into a ground sweep like I'd been born inside an arcade.
Right behind me, Haruki—our group's resident totally normal martial-arts nerd who somehow got dragged into my insanity—was staring at me with the kind of eyes people usually reserved for legendary heroes.
Or puppies doing backflips.
"Kaito, that was so cool!" he said. "How long have you been training?"
Oh.
Right.
I was still pretending to be Kaito.
Long story short: soul swap, different universe, mysterious Soul Armament, ancient celestial lion apparently living somewhere inside this body.
Moving on.
I gave him my best confident grin and finished with one dramatic kick.
"This? This is the easy stuff," I said, brushing imaginary dust off my shoulder like I hadn't nearly destroyed my hip trying Chun-Li's move. "Wait until I get stronger. Then I'll show you the really awesome stuff."
His eyes widened.
Like I'd just promised him access to the Veiled Moon Sect's secret technique vault.
Normally, people didn't get impressed by my fighting skills.
Back at the Veiled Moon Sect, I was surrounded by people who had trained since childhood. Assassins. Cultivators. Instructors. Disciples with specialized teachers and inherited Arts.
Me?
I had talent, stubbornness, Ballom, and an impressive ability to survive decisions that should've killed me.
So yeah.
Having somebody look at me like I was some kind of martial-arts superhero?
It felt awesome.
----------------------
Let it be known:
I, Ren Kisaragi, currently soul-swapped with Kaito Hoshino, wielder of the mysterious Fivefold Ascension, had found a new obsession.
No, not noodles.
Or powerful Arts.
Or even girls, though Kaito's body seemed to have some suspicious opinions about that last one.
This time?
Grappling.
Yes.
Grappling.
Judo. Wrestling. Locks. Holds. Throws.
The wonderful art of making another human being discover that the floor is much closer than they remembered.
"Let's try something new," I said, dropping onto the bed like a wise Sage preparing to reveal ancient knowledge. "Grappling. You don't like hurting people much, right?"
Haruki blinked at me, phone still in his hand.
"Huh?"
Not my greatest introduction.
But I was improvising.
Honestly, I was surprised by how quickly Kaito's body was improving.
Not supernatural improvement.
Just actual results.
Better stamina. Stronger muscles. Better balance.
All the running, conditioning, dojo training, and food were finally doing something.
I flexed one arm.
Not bad.
Still nowhere near my real body, obviously.
But definitely less noodle.
Maybe Kaito wasn't completely hopeless, I thought.
I'd been reading a Judo manual earlier, and something about grappling just clicked.
No huge attacks.
No Ki blasts.
No destroyed buildings.
Just leverage, timing, balance, anatomy, and control.
Very Ninja.
Very useful.
If I'd focused more on capture techniques back home, I probably could've solved a few fights without smashing people through things.
That would've saved some walls.
And trees.
Mostly walls.
Haruki suddenly perked up.
"Kaito, I found a video with some good beginner grappling techniques!"
I moved beside him immediately.
"Show me."
He pulled up the video.
Throws.
Locks.
Escapes.
Basic ground positions.
I grinned.
"Haruki, why don't you learn with me?"
He paused.
"Eh… I don't really like getting hurt. I'm okay watching."
I gave him a look.
"Your choice. But I'll tell you something."
"What?"
"It feels really good knowing you have the power to protect yourself."
And I meant it.
There was something special about understanding exactly how your body worked. Knowing where to place your weight. How to break someone's balance. How to control someone stronger without needing to seriously injure them.
Power didn't always have to mean destruction.
Sometimes it meant having enough control that you didn't need to destroy anything.
I sat beside Haruki as we watched an old Judo tournament.
Throws.
Locks.
Holds.
Counters.
The works.
Haruki glanced sideways at me and chuckled.
"You're weird, Kaito. Sometimes you talk like you came from some fantasy world where everyone spends their lives training and fighting."
I grinned.
"Maybe I did."
Because, well…
He wasn't wrong.
One Week
That's how long it had been since Ren Kisaragi—Ninja extraordinaire, noodle aficionado, and now part-time high schooler named Kaito—crash-landed into this weird, magic-filled world.
And somehow, in four days, he'd become a leaner, sharper, and sore-all-over version of Kaito Hoshino.
He stretched his leg up high, balanced perfectly on one foot.
"Okay," he muttered. "Let's go for the split again."
He lowered.
He lowered some more.
Then—
"ACK! Nope, nope—NOPE!"
Ren nearly fell face-first as he grabbed his groin protectively.
"Still not happening. Sorry, future flexibility. Not today."
Progress was great and all, but not at the cost of the family jewels.
Despite the near-split disasters, his training was intense. He had built a schedule tighter than one of Master Jin's mission plans and followed it like it was his Ninja code.
Wake up.
Stretch until his limbs cried.
Eat like a starving lion.
Train until his sweat had sweat.
Eat again.
Punch training pads, punch the air, punch Haruki's practice dummy.
Sleep like a rock—with dreams of becoming the fastest person alive.
It wasn't exactly glamorous, but it worked. Kaito's body, once a little soft around the edges, was already tighter and better coordinated. His movements were sharper. His speed was improving. He still wasn't Daichi-sensei fast—because who was?—but he was definitely faster than your average pervy teenager.
And he could now throw a high kick without toppling over like a baby giraffe.
Progress!
At the dojo, Ren was making waves.
He'd earned his yellow belt in three days flat.
THREE.
Even Haruki—sweet, nervous Haruki—had gasped loud enough to make a passing grandmother turn around.
Daigo Shinomiya had started watching him less like a teacher and more like a hawk trying to figure out what strange animal had wandered into his dojo. He tested Ren's patience, making him repeat the same movement again and again until most beginners would've collapsed from sheer boredom.
But Ren wasn't "most beginners."
He'd spent years doing low-rank missions.
Cleaning.
Tracking animals.
Running messages.
Repeating basic techniques until instructors finally stopped yelling at him.
Doing one movement ten thousand times?
Child's play.
At the park, he'd been seen throwing punches into the air while muttering, "Dempsey Roll… weave, slip, counter…" like a Hajime no Ippo fanboy. His kicks were inspired by Chun-Li and Cammy, while his footwork was slowly becoming a weird mixture of Ninja movement and boxing.
Speed is everything, Ren reminded himself, sweat glistening as he shadowboxed.
Master Jin taught me that. Daichi proved it. And Kyo...
Well.
Kyo had made him feel like a slow turtle with a hangover.
He wasn't going to be just strong.
He was going to be fast and strong.
Faster than the assassins of the Veiled Moon Sect.
Faster than Kyo.
Someday, maybe even faster than Master Jin.
He wanted to move once and have his enemy already lying on the ground wondering:
Wait, was that a person or the Reaper?
Even Haruki wasn't safe from Ren's energy.
"Come on, you don't need to fight," Ren told him, pushing a pair of dumbbells into his hands. "But you do need to be able to carry your groceries without wheezing."
Haruki groaned but accepted them.
"Fine, but if I get muscular, I'm still not entering any tournaments."
"Deal," Ren grinned. "But at least you'll have abs in your school ID photo."
And so, on the fourth night, Ren sat on his bed, sore but satisfied. Haruki was beside him, already snoring softly after doing ten whole push-ups—which was apparently a record.
I'm getting stronger, Ren thought.
And faster.
He considered that for a moment.
And maybe even... wiser?
Ren stared thoughtfully into the distance.
Then tried the split again.
"AAAAA—NOPE."