Chapter 41: "Love, Peace, and Accidental Eye Contact"
In which Haruki discovers that talking to a pretty girl is more stressful than getting punched by a Ki master.
There are few things in life that make you reconsider all your choices. Sparring with Prasert Chaiya for four hours while wearing a ten-ton suit designed to murder your muscles might be one of them.
Kaito's body felt like a crumpled rice-noodle cup, and my brain was floating somewhere between unconsciousness and a deep desire for pudding.
I was lying flat on my back, limbs spread across the courtyard like a pancake that had lost the will to rise.
"That was… great," I wheezed, twitching slightly. "I can't feel my legs. Or my arms. Or existence."
A soft, rumbling chuckle answered me.
I peeled open one eye and found myself staring up at a mountain disguised as an old man—Genryūsai Tendō, Elder of Ryūseikan and kindly grandfather who looked perfectly capable of throwing a truck across the city if it inconvenienced him.
"Rest," Genryūsai said, his warm voice not quite matching the overwhelming presence surrounding him. "You did well. Very few beginners endure a full warm-up with Prasert."
I blinked.
"That was a warm-up?"
Genryūsai didn't answer.
Which, to be fair, was probably for the best.
The old master sat beside me, folding his arms as the afternoon breeze moved through the courtyard. For a moment, we simply rested in companionable silence while birds chirped from the nearby trees—probably taking bets on how long I would survive Ryūseikan.
Then Genryūsai spoke.
"I sensed the Soul Armament within you."
I looked over. "Fivefold Ascension?"
He nodded. "Yes. And the presence connected to it. Vhalor, the Radiant Sovereign. A powerful ally…but power of that nature should never be treated carelessly."
I slowly pushed myself upright, my body creaking like an old house in a storm.
"He's not a bad guy. Proud, sure. Ridiculously proud, actually. But we talked. We understand each other."
"That is good," Genryūsai said with a grandfatherly nod. "But be cautious. Pride is much like fire. Warm and useful when controlled. Left unchecked, it consumes everything around it."
I looked down at my bandaged hands.
"I get what you mean. But that's not really me. I've always known there are people stronger and smarter than I am."
Genryūsai watched quietly.
"I just want enough strength to protect my people. That's it."
The old master studied me for several moments, his expression unreadable.
Then he smiled.
"Good. Remember that."
I nodded.
I leaned back against the training wall, Vhalor's presence quiet somewhere within Fivefold Ascension.
"That man is wise," Vhalor admitted. "Annoyingly so."
I chuckled under my breath. "Yeah. But he's right. We've got dangerous people ahead of us. Can't let your pride start making decisions."
There was a pause.
"I am not the one who charged Prasert while demanding that he strike harder."
"…Okay, fair."
Okay, so I've fought giant beasts, taken strikes from Prasert that could probably remodel buildings, and trained while wearing ten tonnes of weighted clothing.
But today?
Today I was training with something far more dangerous.
A beautiful, expressionless weapons master who could probably dismantle an armored vehicle with whatever happened to be lying around.
"Follow," Tsukiko Amane said in a voice so quiet that whispering suddenly felt obnoxiously loud.
So, yeah.
Obviously, I followed.
I'm not stupid.
Weaponry 101: How Not to Lose Limbs
After recovering from my latest episode of accidental body demolition—thanks, Prasert—I was finally back in functional condition. Seijūrō had forced enough medicinal food and herbal mixtures into me to rebuild a small army.
Now Tsukiko had brought me to her personal training area.
Or, as I preferred to call it:
The peaceful garden of DEATH.
It was quiet.
Too quiet.
Wooden practice figures stood among the trees, surrounded by weapon racks, moving targets, swinging obstacles, and an archery range that looked significantly more dangerous than any archery range had a right to be.
"You know throwing blades?" Tsukiko asked, watching me with those calm eyes that seemed capable of judging somebody's entire life without blinking.
"Yeah," I said, spinning one carefully around my fingers. "Daggers, throwing knives, needles, smoke tools. That sort of thing."
She watched the spinning blade.
I stopped.
"Probably shouldn't do that here, huh?"
"No."
Fair.
Tsukiko handed me a reinforced baton next. It was longer than the daggers I normally preferred and considerably heavier.
"Not toy," she said.
"Wasn't planning on juggling it."
A practice knife immediately flashed toward my head.
I blocked.
Barely.
My eyes widened.
Tsukiko simply watched me.
Okay.
Lesson learned.
Training with Tsukiko was… strange.
She didn't move like somebody fighting.
She moved like every motion had been decided beforehand, smooth and quiet until suddenly I was blocking a strike I hadn't even noticed beginning.
I tried keeping pace—dodging, parrying, countering, mixing my familiar Veiled Moon footwork into the weapon drills.
She said almost nothing.
But when I finally intercepted one of her attacks cleanly, her gaze softened for half a second.
I was fairly certain that was Tsukiko's equivalent of giving me a standing ovation.
"A weapon," she said while adjusting my grip on the baton, "is not simply metal. It becomes extension. Hand. Arm. Body. Respect weapon, and movement becomes natural."
That made sense.
Back home, weapons had always been part of my fighting style. Daggers especially. A weapon wasn't something separate that you happened to be holding; once combat started, it had to move as naturally as your fingers.
I nodded.
"Got it. Technique and instinct."
Tsukiko nodded once.
That was definitely good job, apprentice in Tsukiko language.
During one of the breaks, I tried getting her to talk more. She was young, beautiful, and somehow stood alongside people like Genzō and Seijūrō without seeming remotely out of place.
It was impressive.
And maybe a little terrifying.
"So… how did you get this strong so young?" I asked between gulps of water.
She blinked.
"Training. Every day. Since small."
"Sounds lonely."
There was a long pause.
"Had Kogane."
She gestured toward a tiny mouse currently balancing a miniature practice blade on its head.
I stared.
"Coolest mouse I've ever met."
Tsukiko still didn't smile.
But I swear one corner of her mouth moved.
Progress.
Conclusion: Blades, Brains, and Barely Surviving
By the end of the session, I was bruised, sore, and dangerously close to naming the baton out of respect.
Training with Tsukiko wasn't simply about getting better at swinging weapons. It was about sharpening your attention, improving every movement, and understanding exactly what the weapon in your hand could do.
She didn't talk much.
She didn't need to.
Every adjustment, every demonstration, every silent correction taught something.
She reminded me of home. Of the Veiled Moon Sect and the kind of training I understood instinctively.
Maybe that was why I felt comfortable around her.
And if she ever actually smiled?
I'd probably pass out.
Haruki
Haruki Fujimoto was not a brave man.
Sure, he was training with martial artists who considered bruises educational and had willingly allowed Seijūrō to strap him into machines that looked suspiciously illegal.
But none of that compared to this.
He was going to talk to Airi Tendō.
The girl was beautiful, powerful, kind, and—for reasons Haruki couldn't quite understand—had not yet decided that his awkwardness was grounds for throwing him over the nearest wall.
Naturally, his brain was producing every possible disaster scenario while he approached with all the grace of a nervous penguin.
Airi was sitting beneath the shade of a cherry tree near the edge of the training courtyard. Her pale-gold hair was tied into a loose ponytail, and several of the dojo cats had gathered around her while she quietly fed them and drank tea.
Haruki cleared his throat.
Then offered possibly the least threatening wave ever performed by a human being.
"Uh… hey, Airi-san."
She looked up.
And smiled.
Oh no.
"Hello, Haruki-kun," she said kindly. "Taking a break?"
Haruki nodded so quickly that he almost injured himself.
"Y-Yeah! Sort of. Seijūrō-sensei said I could stop suffering for a few minutes, so I thought I'd… you know… breathe. Like people do."
Airi giggled.
Giggled.
Haruki's brain stopped functioning.
"You're different from most people who come here," Airi said, taking another sip of tea. "You seem… normal. In a good way."
Haruki blinked.
"Really? I mean, yeah! Completely normal. Average strength, average reflexes, and a rapidly growing collection of bruises."
She laughed again.
"That's why talking to you is relaxing. Everyone here is so focused on fighting and training. Sometimes it's nice to just talk."
Haruki took that compliment and permanently engraved it onto his soul.
After a few moments of comfortable silence, Airi looked toward the training courtyard.
"I didn't always want martial arts to be my entire life. It's simply what I grew up around. Sometimes I wanted to be an ordinary girl. Go to school. Spend time with friends. Eat desserts without somebody reminding me that training starts at sunrise."
Haruki nodded solemnly.
"That actually sounds pretty great."
Airi smiled at him.
"You understand."
Then she added, "That's why I think you're brave."
Haruki nearly forgot how lungs worked.
"W-Wait… me? Brave?"
She nodded.
"You're doing all of this even though it doesn't come naturally to you. You're not like Shōgo or Reina. You struggle more than they do, but you still come back every day."
Her smile softened.
"That takes courage too."
For one shining second, Haruki felt like he could lift a mountain.
Or at minimum continue standing without collapsing from nervousness.
"Thanks, Airi-san," he said, managing a genuine smile. "That… means a lot."
They shared a quiet moment.
Then fate remembered that Haruki was not allowed peace.
A loud crash echoed from the other side of the dojo.
"HARUKI!" Seijūrō's voice carried across the courtyard. "BREAK IS OVER. BACK TO TRAINING!"
Haruki went pale.
"Oh no."
Airi giggled again.
"Good luck."
Haruki hurried away, bruises and all, his heart pounding for reasons that—for once—had absolutely nothing to do with fear.
Tōma
Tōma Igarashi was not known for subtlety.
He was built like a wrestler, spoke like one, and fought like somebody whose solution to complicated problems was usually grab it and throw it.
But beneath all the rough edges, Tōma possessed one quality that mattered more than most people realized.
He cared.
Especially about her.
So as he limped across the training courtyard, still sore from Seijūrō's increasingly creative methods of improving human beings, his eyes kept drifting toward the far side of the yard where Reina Tachibana was training under Master Liang Zhou.
Reina was in the middle of a combination.
Her legs blurred through a sequence of kicks, red hair whipping around with each turn while sweat ran down her face. Master Liang moved around her effortlessly, correcting her stance and occasionally tapping a nerve point whenever she left an opening.
"Too slow," Liang said. "That kick is supposed to hurt somebody, not politely ask them to move."
Reina gritted her teeth and attacked again.
Faster.
Sharper.
Tōma winced from the sidelines.
Not because her technique looked bad.
It looked terrifying.
What bothered him was how hard she was pushing herself.
And how she refused to stop.
Eventually, Liang raised one hand.
"Break. Water. Then footwork again before your legs decide to resign."
Reina dropped onto a bench, grabbed her towel, and started drinking like she'd just crossed a desert.
That was when Tōma casually wandered over while trying extremely hard to look like he had not been watching her entire training session.
"Yo," he said, scratching the back of his neck. "You, uh… survive?"
Reina looked up and smirked.
"Barely. You look worse. What did Seijūrō do this time? Turn you into a human spring?"
"Medicinal barrel."
Tōma stared into the distance.
"It was hot enough that I started wondering whether somebody was preparing soup."
Reina snorted, a genuine laugh escaping her.
"Thanks for checking on me, Tōma."
She smiled.
"That's sweet."
He shrugged.
"You looked like you needed a break. Thought I'd say hi. You know… friend stuff."
Reina blinked.
Then nodded warmly.
"Yeah."
She smiled again.
"You're a good friend."
Something warm settled inside Tōma's chest.
She didn't know it, but that one sentence meant more than she probably realized.
He didn't need to be her hero.
He didn't need to be her rival.
He didn't even need to be the strongest person standing beside her.
He just wanted to be somebody she could depend on.
If that meant cheering from the sidelines, making sure she remembered to drink water, and occasionally helping deal with some idiot who annoyed her?
Yeah.
That was enough.
"All right," Tōma said, stepping backward with a goofy grin. "Go kick Master Liang's butt for me. I'm going back before Seijūrō decides to boil me again."
"Good luck, musclehead," Reina called after him.
Tōma waved without turning around.
For some reason, the next round of torture didn't seem quite as bad anymore.