Chapter 36: "Congrats, You're Now an Unpaid Punching Bag!"
In which Ren inherits the greatest gift a master can give: a boot to a better dojo.
You ever have one of those moments where you realize your teacher might actually be a certified maniac?
Yeah. I had one of those.
It started with me casually punching the life out of a training bag at Shinomiya Dojo, the thud-thud-thud of my fists echoing like music through the gym. Shōgo was lifting weights like a beast, and Haruki was practicing stances with Hana cheering him on with a water bottle and motivational death threats.
Everything was peaceful. Calm. Normal.
Then Master Daigo Shinomiya stepped into the gym with that glint in his eyes.
The crazy glint.
"Kaito," he said, all serious and intense like some overdramatic martial-arts rival. "We're going dojo hunting today."
I stopped mid-punch. The bag swung back and hit me in the face.
I blinked.
"I'm sorry, we're what now?"
"Dojo hunting," he repeated, like that was a phrase normal people used. "You and me, we're going to visit another dojo. Challenge them. Fight their strongest students. Possibly leave on stretchers."
I blinked again.
"That… doesn't sound like a great Tuesday."
"It's the only way to get stronger," Daigo declared, pumping one fist. "No more training wheels. You're not just a big fish in a small pond anymore—you're a shark, and it's time we let you swim with the whales."
"Do sharks swim with whales?" I asked.
"Metaphor," he replied, waving one hand. "Besides, you've gotten taller, stronger, and somehow cooler in only a few weeks. If I don't throw you to the wolves now, I'm a bad teacher."
"And what happens if the wolves eat me?"
"Then I avenge you," he said seriously.
"Oh good. That's comforting."
You know that feeling when you step into a place and instantly think, Yep, this is where I die?
That was me at the gates of Ryūseikan.
We'd just pulled up in Master Daigo's suspiciously loud car, which coughed and sputtered like it had survived one illegal race too many. The street was quiet, the breeze was gentle, and I really should've taken that as a warning.
"Kaito," Daigo said in the most dramatic tone imaginable, "this place is known as one of the pinnacles of martial arts. It is where legends live. Where monsters are forged. Where men become demigods… or pancakes."
"…So we're here to challenge them?" I asked, hoping he would say no, or we're only visiting, or maybe we accidentally took the wrong turn.
"To take their name and surpass it," he declared, puffing his chest out. "Shinomiya Dojo shall rise!"
Great.
He was in one of those moods again.
I followed him through an old wooden gate bearing the name RYŪSEIKAN in bold carved characters. The entire compound looked ancient without being neglected: polished wood, stone paths, broad training halls, and an atmosphere that somehow managed to whisper you are not worthy before I had even taken ten steps inside.
Before I could get a proper look around, a girl with pale-gold hair and sharp amber eyes stepped from the entrance and blocked our path.
"That'll be three thousand yen per challenger," she said.
I blinked.
"Wait, we have to pay to get beaten up?"
"It's for repairs," she replied calmly. "And medical expenses."
A pause.
"Mostly yours."
Honestly?
Fair.
"Airi Tendō," Daigo said, apparently recognizing her.
She gave him a polite nod that somehow managed to contain absolutely no respect for his survival instincts.
Now, I'm used to strong people. Heck, I am a strong person.
But when I laid eyes on the man Daigo wanted to fight—Genzō Aratake—my fight-or-flight instinct tried to activate both options simultaneously.
The guy was enormous.
Not simply tall.
Not simply muscular.
I mean pick-up-a-motorcycle-and-use-it-as-training equipment huge.
He was sitting casually on the dojo steps drinking from a sake bottle like he had nothing better to do, as though he didn't radiate the unmistakable feeling that punching him would qualify as self-harm.
I watched carefully.
The loose shoulders.
Relaxed breathing.
The way his weight sat perfectly centered despite appearing almost lazy.
That wasn't carelessness.
That was confidence.
"I'll take him," Daigo muttered, practically vibrating.
"Master," I whispered, "I just want to remind you that you have responsibilities. Students. A dojo. People who would probably notice if you became two-dimensional."
Daigo was already walking forward like the hero of some old martial-arts epic marching toward his final battle.
Genzō stood, stretched his shoulders, and looked him over.
"One punch," he said. "Let's make this quick."
I would like to say Master Daigo lasted more than a few seconds.
I would like to.
But I try not to lie.
BOOM.
One punch.
Daigo flew.
I mean airborne, ragdoll, human-firework levels of airborne.
He crashed through the branches of a nearby tree before landing in a pile of leaves, splinters, and what remained of his pride.
I stood there blinking like a goldfish.
Master Daigo groaned.
The tree slowly leaned sideways.
Then fell.
Somewhere among the branches, a bird abandoned the property.
"My name is Kaito Hoshino," I said, bowing politely even though my brain was screaming WHAT ARE YOU DOING?! "And I wish to test myself… so please go easy on me."
Yeah.
Right.
Like that was going to happen.
Standing across from me was Genzō Aratake, Ryūseikan's infamous street-fighting master and an all-around walking mountain whose fists looked like they had been forged specifically to make poor life choices educational.
He was tall, deeply tanned, and built like a bulldozer wearing human skin. His short dark-violet hair was swept backward, and a long scar crossing the bridge of his nose basically screamed:
I have survived things you are not qualified to ask about.
"Hm. Interesting," Genzō said with a smirk, rolling his neck until it cracked. "You've got guts, boy. Let's see whether you've got skill."
And just like that, the match began.
He didn't attack first.
Which was honestly more terrifying than if he had.
He simply stood there, completely relaxed, giving me the first move like I was somebody important.
How thoughtful.
"Thank you," I muttered, because Miki was raising me right even when I happened to be an interdimensional Ninja using somebody else's face.
I settled into stance.
Veiled Moon close combat?
Possible.
Taekwondo?
Maybe too obvious.
Death Spiral Bomb?
Absolutely not unless I wanted Ryūseikan to become Ryūseikan Memorial Crater.
My brain ran through every possible combination like somebody desperately searching through a fighting-game move list while the opponent waited patiently to destroy them.
Just move.
So I did.
I rushed forward looking like I was going for a straight right or maybe a high spinning kick toward his temple, but at the last possible moment I dropped my center of gravity and swept low.
Fast.
Clean.
Shin.
Contact.
I hit him!
Well…
Sort of.
My foot connected with his leg like a pebble politely introducing itself to a mountain.
His stance didn't shift.
He didn't stumble.
The man didn't even blink.
And then came the punch.
From above.
Like a meteor.
Like divine judgment had finally found my address.
I looked up just in time to see Genzō's fist descending toward my face.
It was almost beautiful.
In a well, this is how I die kind of way.
But instead of cracking my skull open, the fist stopped.
One inch from my forehead.
No explosion.
No dramatic wind.
No flashy supernatural aura.
Just perfect stillness.
And power.
I looked at the fist.
Then at Genzō.
Then back at the fist.
"Thank you for your time," I said, standing upright like my legs weren't currently reconsidering whether they wanted to continue supporting me.
Genzō raised an eyebrow.
Then chuckled.
"You didn't flinch."
"I definitely flinched internally."
"Still got more spine than most."
I nodded, swallowing what remained of my terror while pretending I was cool.
"Training. Meditation. Internal screaming."
Truthfully?
I had no chance.
None.
But I'd stood my ground, made an attempt, landed a hit—technically—and stared down a martial-arts monster without running for the gate.
I didn't win.
But I'd earned a little respect.
"Kaito," Daigo said sometime later, standing in front of me with the strange dignity of a man who had recently been launched into a tree. "I've taught you everything I can. It's time for you to move on to a higher level."
I blinked.
Wait.
What?
Master Daigo had always been the loud, tough, borderline-deranged karate teacher who considered bruises measurable proof of personal development.
But now?
There was sincerity in his voice.
Actual emotion.
Who replaced my teacher with somebody responsible?
"Master Genzō," Daigo said, bowing deeply toward the human bulldozer with the terrifying fists. "Please accept this boy as a disciple of Ryūseikan. He has the talent…and the heart to become far greater than anything I can teach him."
Genzō blinked, sake bottle halfway to his mouth.
"…Did I walk into somebody's dramatic martial-arts comic?"
He wasn't the only one wondering.
Because right then, the rest of the Ryūseikan masters began appearing one after another until I suddenly found myself surrounded by enough concentrated danger to qualify the entire property as a natural disaster zone.
First came Seijūrō Amahara, a tall, calm man dressed in traditional clothing whose lean frame hid the kind of strength only experienced fighters could recognize. His specialty was jujutsu, throwing arts, body mechanics, and a truly disturbing amount of knowledge about exactly how the human skeleton was supposed to move—and how it wasn't.
Beside him walked Master Liang Zhou, an elderly Chinese martial artist with a long silver braid, amused eyes, and the general expression of someone who knew every pressure point in my body and several embarrassing facts about everyone in the room.
Then there was Tsukiko Amane, a quiet young woman carrying several unusual weapons as casually as other people carried handbags. She didn't say anything.
She didn't need to.
The fact that Genzō subtly moved out of the path of one of her sheathed blades told me everything necessary.
Next came Prasert Chaiya, Ryūseikan's Muay Thai master—a gigantic Thai fighter with a smile so cheerful it seemed to belong to an entirely different person than the body capable of kicking concrete apart.
And then?
Everyone else seemed slightly less important simply because he appeared.
Genryūsai Tendō.
The Elder of Ryūseikan.
He was an old man with flowing white hair and beard, but nobody with functioning survival instincts would have mistaken age for weakness. His posture was perfectly upright, his breathing impossibly quiet, and something about the way everyone unconsciously gave him space made the answer obvious.
Strongest person here.
Maybe by a lot.
I straightened.
Suddenly pretending to be Kaito Hoshino: Surprisingly Competent High-School Student felt considerably harder.
"I'm willing to give everything I have to learning your martial arts," I said. "Please accept me as a disciple of Ryūseikan. If I don't show the right attitude or commitment, kick me out within a week."
Their collective smiles could have decorated horror posters.
Seijūrō folded his arms.
"Anything?"
"Anything that doesn't involve hurting innocent people or, you know, murder."
Master Liang stroked his beard.
"Very specific restriction."
"I've met unusual teachers."
Somewhere behind me, Daigo coughed.
Genryūsai watched me quietly.
"Why do you seek strength?"
That question took away most of my urge to joke.
"To protect what matters to me."
His eyes sharpened.
"And do you believe strength alone can accomplish that?"
"No."
The answer came easily.
"But without strength, sometimes you can lose everything before the other things even matter. Strength isn't the whole meal."
I paused.
"It's the foundation."
Master Liang nodded sagely.
"Like broth."
I pointed at him.
"Exactly."
"A wise child."
Genzō stared at us.
"You two concern me."
Genryūsai's mouth moved into the smallest hint of a smile.
"Then Ryūseikan will accept you."
I froze.
"For one week."
Ah.
There it was.
"Survive our training and prove your resolve. After that, we will decide whether you belong here."
I released a breath I hadn't realized I was holding.
"Thank you. I won't disappoint you."
Then I remembered someone.
"Let me say goodbye to my old master first."
I walked back toward Daigo.
He looked suspiciously misty-eyed for a man who normally measured student progress in bruises per week.
"Master."
"Kid."
"Thank you."
He blinked.
"I know why you brought me here," I continued. "You realized I was reaching the limit of what Shinomiya Dojo could teach me."
Daigo gave a rough laugh.
"That's the job."
He reached out and ruffled Kaito's hair hard enough to make me swat his hand away.
"A teacher isn't supposed to keep his student underneath him forever. If you become good enough that I can't take you farther, then I did something right."
I grinned.
"Don't get lazy, old man. I'll still visit."
"Old man?!"
"I'll make sure you're still punching things."
"Boy, I will put you through that wall right now."
"You couldn't put Genzō through a tree."
Silence.
Daigo pointed at me.
"That was unnecessary."
"Accurate, though."
"Train hard enough that I can't beat you when you come back."
"That's the plan."
Daigo smiled.
Then he turned and began walking toward his car with the proud posture of a father watching his kid graduate—if graduation normally involved handing your student over to five terrifying martial-arts masters and hoping all the limbs came back attached.
The engine coughed to life.
He drove away.
I turned toward Ryūseikan.
Airi stood by the entrance.
Genzō cracked his knuckles.
Seijūrō had somehow acquired a clipboard.
Tsukiko was sharpening something.
Prasert waved enthusiastically.
Master Liang smiled in a way I deeply distrusted.
And Genryūsai?
The Elder simply stood there waiting.
One week.
Seven days.
Approximately three hundred possible ways to regret my choices.
But hey.
Nothing worth having ever came easily.
And Ryūseikan looked like exactly the sort of place where impossible became Tuesday.
Which meant it was perfect.
Time to become stronger.