Chapter 37: "Welcome to the Dojo of Death (But With Health Insurance!)"
In which the strongest martial artists Ren has met on Earth hold a tea-fueled conference about a certain red-haired newcomer wearing somebody else's face.
While Ren was outside exchanging emotional farewells with Master Daigo—and possibly promising to send him postcards from muscle heaven—the masters of Ryūseikan were having their own little council of war inside.
And by council of war, we mean a casual tea party with enough pressure in the room to make weaker martial artists reconsider entering the building.
"I'm telling you," Genzō Aratake said, taking another drink of sake while leaning against one of the wooden pillars, "that kid's not normal."
"You mean the fact he survived your presence without crying?" Master Liang Zhou asked cheerfully, stroking his long silver braid. "Yes. Extremely suspicious."
"Not just that," Seijūrō Amahara replied. "Watch how he moves. His steps are too light for someone with that amount of muscle development. His balance shifts before his weight does, and he hides his center extremely well. That isn't something you learn from a few weeks of karate."
Tsukiko Amane, who had been silently cleaning one of her blades, finally spoke in her usual soft voice. "He has… spiritual energy."
That got everyone's attention.
"Spiritual energy?" Prasert Chaiya blinked, holding a small bird in one enormous hand as though it were a perfectly normal participant in the conversation. "Prasert thinks that sounds cool!"
"It means the boy has already stepped beyond the ordinary human level in at least one direction," Seijūrō explained. "Whether he has formal magical training is another question."
Genzō grunted. "Doesn't move like a magician."
"No," Seijūrō agreed. "He moves like someone who has spent years fighting."
Master Liang's smile widened.
"Yet according to Shinomiya, the boy only began serious martial-arts training recently."
Another silence.
Genzō looked toward the courtyard.
"That's what I mean."
Seijūrō adjusted his glasses. "His instincts during our first exchange were unusually developed. He disguised his real attack, changed levels correctly, and never once lost track of your hands even though he knew he was completely outmatched."
"So either he's a ridiculous prodigy," Genzō said, "or somebody trained him before Daigo ever met him."
At the far end of the room, Genryūsai Tendō finally opened his eyes.
The Elder sat peacefully beside the garden with a cup of tea in his hands, radiating the kind of effortless presence that somehow made everyone else seem louder simply by comparison.
"Then we will discover the answer through training."
Liang grinned. "We're still putting him through the traditional welcoming program?"
Seijūrō was already sketching something on a sheet of paper.
"Of course."
Genzō looked over his shoulder.
"What are you drawing?"
"An obstacle course."
"That has spikes."
"Training spikes."
"There is no such thing as a training spike."
Seijūrō continued drawing.
Prasert clapped enthusiastically. "New disciple means new hugs!"
Genzō pointed his sake bottle at him.
"Do not hug the kid hard enough to kill him."
Prasert looked genuinely offended.
"Prasert knows restraint!"
Everyone stared at him.
"…Sometimes."
You see, Ryūseikan wasn't just any dojo.
It was the dojo.
The kind of place that made other martial-arts schools wake up in cold sweats after somebody mentioned its name. The kind that charged challengers a fee before letting them fight one of its residents—not because Ryūseikan desperately needed the money, but because years of smashed walls, shattered gates, destroyed training equipment, and injured challengers had apparently convinced the masters that charging in advance was simply good accounting.
After getting flattened by one of the fighters, challengers were usually dragged to Seijūrō's clinic for "structural correction," which was a polite phrase meaning he would put everything back where it belonged while you reconsidered every decision that had brought you there. Those who preferred needles could visit Master Liang, who somehow made being stabbed in dozens of carefully selected points sound relaxing.
The dojo had regular challengers.
It had admirers.
It even had several former opponents who proudly treated surviving one of Genzō's punches like a professional qualification.
But underneath all the absurdity, Ryūseikan stood for something.
Its masters weren't simply powerful people who enjoyed fighting.
They protected people.
For decades, they had quietly dealt with violent martial artists, supernatural criminals, rogue Ki users, monsters, and other threats that ordinary society never knew existed. Their greatest martial rival was an organization known as the Black Heaven Society, a collection of elite fighters who believed martial arts existed for domination rather than protection.
Ryūseikan believed the opposite.
Strength existed to protect life.
Sometimes that philosophy was delivered through wisdom.
Sometimes through compassion.
And sometimes through Genzō punching somebody through a wall until they reconsidered their career.
If Kaito Hoshino, Completely Normal High-School Student, survived his first week?
He wouldn't just become stronger.
He would have access to some of the finest martial-arts teachers on Earth.
Or at minimum, some very impressive scars.
When Ren returned to Ryūseikan, he expected a training session or maybe some kind of warm-up fight. Something reasonable by his standards, like dodging wooden projectiles while blindfolded or carrying heavy stones up a hill.
What he did not expect was Seijūrō Amahara looking at him with the calm expression of a doctor about to perform a routine examination.
"Please remove your outer clothing. Training shorts are sufficient."
Ren blinked.
"…Excuse me?"
"For a medical and physical assessment," Seijūrō explained, already pulling on a white coat and holding a clipboard. "I cannot design an effective training regimen without understanding your musculature, bone structure, flexibility, old injuries, and current conditioning."
Ren stared.
Seijūrō stared back.
"Oh."
Ren sighed.
"Right. Medical."
A few minutes later, Ren stood there in training shorts while Seijūrō circled him like a sculptor examining a particularly suspicious statue. He tested the shoulders, rotated the joints, checked the spine, measured flexibility, pressed along muscle groups, and tapped lightly against several ribs.
Ren resisted the urge to ask whether he was being inspected or appraised for auction.
"You have spiritual energy," Seijūrō said matter-of-factly.
Ren raised an eyebrow.
"Quite a lot of it, actually."
That was slightly less surprising.
Seijūrō placed two fingers against Ren's shoulder and studied him for another moment.
"Your conditioning is also strange."
"Good strange?"
"Interesting strange."
"That is never reassuring when a doctor says it."
Seijūrō ignored him. "Your muscles have developed rapidly, your joints are unusually stable, and your bone density is higher than I would expect from someone of your age and training history."
Ren grinned.
"So I'm a genius?"
"A stubborn teenager."
"Those aren't mutually exclusive."
Seijūrō's mouth twitched.
"Fair."
He wrote something on the clipboard.
"Do you intend to become a magician?"
"Magic is useful," Ren replied. "I definitely plan to keep learning it."
Seijūrō looked up.
"But?"
Ren smiled.
"I still prefer hitting people."
That made Seijūrō visibly pleased.
"Excellent."
Ren paused.
"You're a doctor."
"And?"
"You shouldn't sound that happy about that answer."
"We need more close-combat specialists."
"You almost said lunatics."
"I corrected myself."
Seijūrō handed him a towel.
"Get dressed. You have excellent potential, but potential means very little without discipline. Your spiritual abilities can be developed separately. Here, we will concentrate on martial arts."
"Sounds good."
"And eventually Ki."
Ren's eyes immediately sharpened.
There it was.
The main reason Kuroha had sent him here in the first place.
Seijūrō noticed the reaction.
"You already knew about it."
"A little."
"Good. Then I won't waste time convincing you it exists."
Ren pulled his shirt back on.
Seijūrō tapped the clipboard against one palm.
"You've got the body of a fighter, instincts that don't match your stated training history, and enough spiritual power to make things interesting."
Ren smiled innocently.
"Lucky me."
Seijūrō stared at him for several seconds.
Ren maintained the smile.
Eventually, the master let it go.
"For now."
That last part sounded threatening.
Ren liked him already.
Ren had fought a lot of frightening people.
Master Jin.
Akira.
Daichi.
Kyo.
Various creatures that believed humans were food.
And, technically, the thing sealed inside his own soul.
But Genzō Aratake carried a very specific kind of intimidation.
The man stood shirtless in the courtyard with faded jeans, his scar visible across his nose and his leather jacket hanging nearby. He looked less like a martial-arts teacher and more like someone who had spent twenty years travelling from street fight to street fight until violence itself issued him a professional license.
"All right, kid," Genzō said, rolling one shoulder with a crunch. "Show me what you've got."
Ren smiled.
"No holding back?"
Genzō grinned.
"Hit me with everything you think is safe."
That last word mattered.
Ren was not going to use the Death Spiral Bomb during a dojo evaluation unless Genzō specifically requested that part of the building cease to exist.
But everything else?
Fair game.
"Finally."
Ren let spiritual energy spread across his body, blue-white light wrapping around his limbs as he settled into stance.
Then he moved.
One step.
Second step.
Jump.
A tiny platform of condensed energy appeared beneath his foot.
He kicked off it.
Then another.
Triple jump.
Ren changed direction in midair and came down with the same spiraling diving kick he had been developing from the arcade game Battle Crown—Mira Vale's Meteor Dive, modified to fit his own movement style.
The technique was beautiful.
Fast.
Controlled.
The wind pressure alone cracked the dust beneath Genzō's feet.
Genzō blinked.
Then backhanded Ren across the courtyard.
The world turned sideways.
Then upside down.
Then briefly became a philosophical argument about whether floors were supposed to approach human faces at that speed.
Ren hit a wall.
THUD.
He slid down.
"Owwww."
Genzō walked over with all the urgency of a man checking whether the mail had arrived.
"Not bad."
Ren stared upward.
"Your definition of not bad hurts."
"You've got good instincts. Creative movement too."
Ren began pushing himself upright.
"But?"
"There's always a but."
"Of course."
Genzō crouched slightly.
"You're combining things because they work individually. That's not the same as having a complete fighting style."
Ren's expression sharpened.
Now that interested him.
"Your footwork comes from one place. Your kicks from another. Your strange midair movement from somewhere else. You've figured out how to connect them, but you haven't made them all part of the same foundation yet."
Ren slowly stood.
"So my style is messy."
"Useful mess."
Genzō grinned.
"We'll turn it into dangerous mess."
Ren grinned back.
"Now you're speaking my language."
From the side, Seijūrō called, "Two bruised ribs. Nothing broken."
Ren glanced toward him.
"Only bruised?"
Genzō looked offended.
"I was being gentle."
Ren stared at the crater his body had made in the wall.
"I'm starting to hate that word."
There were few things in life Ren enjoyed more than getting completely demolished in the name of self-improvement.
Pain?
Familiar.
Being thrown around?
Also familiar.
A collection of martial-arts masters looking at him like an unfinished project?
Now that was exciting.
After Genzō finished demonstrating the difference between being able to fight and being able to fight Genzō, Seijūrō stepped into the training area.
"Come with me."
Ren followed.
That was how he discovered the machine.
He stopped in the doorway.
"…What is that?"
Seijūrō looked toward the enormous collection of pulleys, weighted cables, resistance mechanisms, restraints, and metal framework occupying most of the room.
"A conditioning apparatus."
"That is a torture device."
"A matter of perspective."
"It has six different emergency releases."
"That demonstrates responsible design."
Ren narrowed his eyes.
"I respect that answer."
Several minutes later, Ren was secured into the apparatus with each limb attached to separate resistance cables.
Seijūrō adjusted one of the weights.
"Maintain spiritual reinforcement throughout the exercise."
"Okay."
"Not simply around the exterior. Reinforce the muscle groups involved in each movement."
"Got it."
"Maintain posture."
"Yep."
"And breathe."
"I know how breathing works."
"We'll see."
The resistance engaged.
Ren's entire body immediately informed him that Seijūrō was an evil man.
"Coolcoolcool."
Seijūrō watched calmly.
"This is the first setting."
Ren turned his head.
"The first?"
"Yes."
"How many settings?"
Seijūrō smiled.
Ren suddenly understood why Genzō was afraid of the quiet one.
The thing about Ren?
He wasn't normal.
Not even remotely.
Most people would have lasted a few minutes before begging to be released.
Ren grinned.
His arms trembled.
Sweat rolled down his face.
His breathing became heavier.
But the smile stayed.
Because this?
This was training.
Real training.
A body pushed hard enough that every movement mattered. A teacher watching closely enough to correct mistakes before they became habits. No wasted effort. No empty exercises.
And Seijūrō was paying attention to everything.
"Left shoulder."
Ren corrected it.
"Too much tension through the lower back."
Adjusted.
"Your right knee is turning inward."
Fixed.
"Better."
Ren grinned wider.
He loved this place.
Guided by Seijūrō's precise instructions, Ren concentrated.
He tightened the spiritual reinforcement through the working muscles instead of simply surrounding the body with energy.
More control.
More density.
Better distribution.
The resistance remained brutal, but the movement became cleaner.
Seijūrō raised an eyebrow.
"You learn quickly."
"I've had good teachers."
"Apparently."
Ren pushed through another repetition.
Seijūrō studied the way his posture changed.
Interesting.
The boy wasn't merely strong.
He understood correction almost immediately.
Tell him a mistake once and he fixed it.
Tell him why the mistake existed and he integrated the principle.
Seijūrō's smile appeared for only a second.
"He's disciplined," he murmured.
Far more disciplined than he pretended to be.
After nearly an hour of what Ren mentally named Extreme Weightlifting: Why Does Seijūrō Hate Happiness?, he finally received a break.
He did not collapse.
Collapsing would have been undignified.
Instead, he gracefully lowered himself toward the floor before his legs betrayed him and he crumpled like an overcooked noodle.
Seijūrō handed him a rice ball.
Ren stared suspiciously.
"This isn't secretly medicine, is it?"
"Food."
"Just food?"
"Specialized training food."
"There it is."
Ren took a bite.
His eyes widened.
Within minutes, he was sitting cross-legged and eating with the enthusiasm of a starving wolf.
"Mmph—what is in this?"
"High protein content. Fermented soybean paste, seaweed, powdered kelp, mineral supplements, and several traditional herbs."
Ren swallowed.
"Can I have twelve?"
"No."
"Ten?"
"No."
"Five?"
"Finish the first one."
Cruel man.
Once Ren could feel his limbs again and had successfully remembered how standing worked, Seijūrō adjusted his hakama.
"Now we move to practical training."
Ren froze halfway through brushing rice from his shirt.
"Oh no."
"We're starting judo."
Ren relaxed slightly.
"Oh. Okay. I know some judo. I've practiced the basics, watched matches, worked on throws—"
"With Ki."
Ren stopped.
"…Oh."
Seijūrō smiled.
There was something profoundly unsettling about that smile.
The next hour could only be described as elegant brutality.
Ren was thrown.
Flipped.
Swept.
Redirected.
Spun through the air in ways that convinced him several joints had briefly filed complaints with management.
And yet?
He was fascinated.
Because this wasn't ordinary grappling.
Seijūrō barely seemed to use strength. Every shift of his feet, every grip adjustment, every tiny movement happened alongside a subtle current of Ki that changed balance and timing at exactly the correct instant.
"Watch the center," Seijūrō instructed as Ren came flying over his shoulder for approximately the twentieth time. "Not only the physical center. Feel the movement before it becomes visible."
Ren rolled as he landed.
"How?"
"Stop thinking about overpowering me."
"I'm not!"
"You are."
"I'm trying to survive!"
"Same mistake."
Ren stared at him.
Seijūrō extended one hand.
"Again."
Ren took it.
A second later he was airborne.
"DON'T FORCE THE FALL," Seijūrō said calmly.
"YOU'RE INVITING ME TO MY GRAVE!"
But Ren learned.
Quickly.
At first he relied on sight.
Then touch.
Then the tiny shifts in pressure through Seijūrō's grips and stance.
Gradually, something started making sense.
The master wasn't fighting physics.
He was arranging the situation so physics did the work for him.
Ren began changing his own movements.
Less resistance.
Better timing.
Smaller corrections.
Attempt twenty-seven.
Failure.
Thirty.
Failure.
Thirty-three.
Almost.
Thirty-four.
Seijūrō stepped forward.
Ren caught the arm.
Turned.
Dropped his center.
Pulled.
For one perfect instant, everything aligned.
Seijūrō went over his shoulder.
Ren's eyes widened.
THUMP.
The master landed lightly on his feet rather than his back, because apparently gravity had signed a private agreement with him.
But he clapped once.
"Passable."
Ren stared.
"Passable?"
"With effort, you may eventually become competent."
Ren threw both arms into the air.
"I'LL TAKE IT!"
Across the room, Master Liang quietly walked to a chalkboard someone had apparently prepared during training and added another mark.
REN NEAR-DEATH COUNT: 7
Ren pointed.
"I have not nearly died seven times!"
Genzō called from outside.
"You're right."
Ren smiled triumphantly.
"Thank you!"
"Eight."
Liang added another mark.
Traitors.
As the sun dipped lower over Ryūseikan, Ren rolled his aching shoulders and smiled.
He had bruises.
His muscles felt like they had been individually beaten with hammers.
Genzō had introduced him to a wall.
Seijūrō had introduced him to several different interpretations of gravity.
And tomorrow?
There were still four other masters waiting.
Ren looked toward the dojo.
For the first time since arriving on Earth, he had found teachers who could genuinely push this body forward rather than simply help him practice what he already knew.
Teachers with different disciplines.
Different methods.
Different ways of understanding strength.
Ren's grin widened.
He couldn't wait for tomorrow.