Mikey's fists pounded the wooden arms of the Mu Ren Zhuang. Each strike sent the post spinning, arms whipping around like traps. He blocked one, ducked another, ate the third square across the ribs.
"—ghh!" He hissed, staggering back into stance, sweat dripping into his eyes. His knuckles burned raw against the hardened wood. Ryosuke circled slowly, hands behind his back, gaze cool and unreadable. Then he gave a single nod.
"That is enough of that."
Mikey collapsed against the post, breathing like a dying engine.
"Thank god…"
Ryosuke beckoned him with two fingers. Wordlessly, Mikey followed, dragging his feet across the mat. They stopped at a towering wall lined with weapons—swords gleaming in their sheathes, rifles mounted neatly, pistols, knives, even staffs.
"Today," Ryosuke said, gesturing to the armory, "we find your weapon of choice."
Mikey blinked, straightening a little.
"Weapon of choice?"
"Yes." Ryosuke nodded. "I have my katana. Amelia has her knife. Luciana her guns. Bobo… well, Bobo has his fists."
Mikey's eyes roamed greedily across the display. Swords, rifles, gleaming steel. His grin spread.
"I'll try a gun first."
Ryosuke plucked a pistol from the rack and handed it over.
"Blanks. Aim for that."
He pointed to a lone can of soup sitting on a bench thirty feet away. Mikey squinted at it.
"Easy. Got this."
He squared his shoulders, shut one eye, and aimed down the iron sights. His tongue poked slightly out the side of his mouth as he squeezed the trigger.
BANG!
Mikey opened his other eye, hopeful. The can sat untouched. A neat puff of dust bloomed five feet to the left.
"…Shit."
Ryosuke's mouth twitched.
"Again."
Mikey snarled under his breath, raised the pistol, steadied his breath.
BANG!
This time the shot hit the far wall, nowhere near the bench.
"Dammit!"
Ryosuke tilted his head, hiding a smirk.
"Perhaps long-range is more your calling."
He pulled a sniper rifle from the rack and tossed it to Mikey. Mikey caught it clumsily, the weapon nearly knocking him backward.
"Whoa—okay. Yeah, no problem. Sniper Mikey. That's me."
He set it against his shoulder, peered through the scope.
"Wind probably dragged it before. Yeah. Wind."
He held his breath. Squeezed.
BANG!
The bullet kicked up dirt eight feet short of the bench.
"Dammit!"
Ryosuke's composure cracked; a short chuckle escaped before he smoothed it over.
"Okay, okay," Mikey groaned, shoving the rifle back. "Let's try a sword."
Ryosuke selected a wooden blade and tossed it at him. Mikey fumbled, caught it, then swung it experimentally. Ryosuke claimed another sword for himself, gripping it casually with one hand.
"Come."
Mikey took a breath, gripped the sword tight, and charged.
"RAH!"
He swung down—
SLAP!
Ryosuke's wooden blade cracked across his wrist, the weapon flying free. Mikey clutched his arm.
"Ow—god!"
"Again," Ryosuke ordered.
Mikey scowled, picked up the sword, marched back to position.
"You're imitating me," Ryosuke said, tone firm. "Using my one-handed grip. I am strong, you are not, use two hands."
Mikey grimaced but obeyed, gripping with both hands.
"Come."
Mikey roared and charged again. His swing cut down—Ryosuke slid aside, parried with a flick. Mikey slashed to the side—blocked effortlessly. He stabbed straight for Ryosuke's chest—Ryosuke's blade hooked and slid along his, twisting his arms upward. Wide open. Ryosuke's wooden sword pressed to Mikey's throat. With a sharp motion, he lifted him by the neck and slammed him flat to the mat.
THUD!
"Gahhh—! Jesus—ahhh…"
Mikey rolled, groaning, clutching his back. Ryosuke loomed above him, eyes thoughtful.
"Stand."
Mikey dragged himself up, wheezing, and retrieved his fallen sword.
"Okay…"
Ryosuke reached out, palm open.
"Give it to me."
Mikey handed it over. The man weighed it once, turning it in his cybernetic grip.
"Swords are not yours. They do not suit you. But I know a weapon that could. Thing is, we do not have them on hand. But they can be made. For now..."
Mikey frowned.
"Then what—"
Ryosuke cut him off by tossing the blade high into the air. The sword spun down. Ryosuke's cybernetic hand snapped open—fingers like steel blades—then chopped through it mid-fall.
CRACK!
The wooden weapon split cleanly in two, halves clattering to the ground. Mikey's eyes widened.
"What the hell—"
Ryosuke stooped, scooped the halves, and tossed them both into Mikey's arms. Ryosuke extended a hand, palm open, sword held loose at his side. His voice was calm, but there was an edge to it.
"Come at me."
Mikey wiped sweat from his brow, sucking in air until his chest ached. His arms trembled around the broken halves of the wooden sword. He exhaled once, sharp, then lunged forward with a roar. He struck down, both halves slicing in parallel arcs. The twin blows came fast, desperate, like a man swinging at ghosts. Ryosuke slipped aside, the strikes carving empty air. His frown deepened. Another swing. Another dodge. Ryosuke began to scan him.
Too wild...
He watched Mikey chase his shadow. Mikey slashed where Ryosuke's body had been a second earlier—
SLAP!
A stinging backhand cracked across Mikey's cheek.
"Gah!"
Before Mikey could recover, a sharp kick buried itself in his stomach.
THUMP!
The impact launched him backward, skidding across the mat until he coughed and doubled over, clutching his midsection. Ryosuke loomed, sword angled casually downward. His face was stern, disappointed.
"Get up."
His tone was not unkind, but merciless.
"You are still trying to imitate me. Don't, you are not me. You are unorthodox so use it and fight your way, not mine. Do not think, act."
Mikey's breaths came ragged, his chest heaving, but something hardened in his eyes. His brow furrowed. He rose, wiping spit from his lip.
"Okay… fine… you wanna go old man... fine."
Ryosuke's head tilted slightly, reading the shift in him.
"Come."
Mikey sprinted forward, a blur of sweat and ragged determination.
Ryosuke set himself, fully expecting another reckless charge. He angled his blade, already moving to intercept. But Mikey slid low, dropping to a crouch so close to the mat his shoulder brushed it. Ryosuke glanced down.
Low?
Mikey's arms crossed into an X, the halves of the broken sword poised. He snapped them outward, a double slash aimed for Ryosuke's stomach. Ryosuke's mouth curved into the faintest smile.
"Good…"
He twisted his wrist, blade flashing. A sharp hop back, and his sword intercepted, pinning the two wooden fragments mid-swing. Mikey strained against him, teeth gritted, but then released—rolling backward, flipping to his feet. Ten feet separated them now, the mat squeaking faintly beneath their bare steps. Ryosuke raised his chin.
"Come on, young Mikey. Find who you are. Show me your style…"
They began to circle, predator and prey, neither sure which was which. Mikey began to take off his heavy jacket. He held it one of his hand. Suddenly, Mikey snapped his arm and hurled one of the wooden halves. It whistled through the air.
THWACK!
Ryosuke batted it aside with the flat of his blade, expression calm—until his eyes flicked to the mat. Mikey was gone. In his place was his jacket, floating the air. Mikey had tossed it too.
"Huh—"
Then he saw movement in his peripheral. Low, fast. Mikey curving around at a sprint, just out of sight until the last second. Ryosuke smirked inwardly.
A distraction… clever. But he knows he cannot close the distance. Not yet. He'll come in wild.
He tightened his stance, ready. Mikey darted low, both arms tight to his sides, hiding the remaining wooden piece. Ryosuke's instincts read the setup instantly.
He'll upward swing with both hands. I'll block—sweep his legs—end it.
Ryosuke's sword came down to intercept, but there was no stick.
"What—?"
Mikey's hands were empty. The broken weapon was tucked into his waistband. Ryosuke's eyes widened an instant too late. Mikey leapt, wrapping himself around Ryosuke's cybernetic arm and sword, legs clamping like a vice. The sudden weight pulled at Ryosuke's balance. Ryosuke growled, lifting his arm and slamming Mikey against the mat.
BAM!
The younger fighter groaned but held tight. Again Ryosuke swung, crashing him into the ground.
BAM!
Still, Mikey clung, gasping through the pain. Ryosuke braced for a third slam. But Mikey shifted, scrabbling upward, his fingers finding Ryosuke's shoulder. With a grunt he swung onto his back, legs hooking around Ryosuke's torso in a tight lock. In one motion, he drew the hidden wooden stick from his waistband and pressed it against Ryosuke's neck, pulling hard. Mikey snarled between clenched teeth.
"Go to sleep, old man!"
For the first time in a while, Ryosuke barked a laugh, genuine and raw, even as the chokehold pressed against his throat.
"Old man?" he rasped, voice strangled but amused.
Ryosuke reached to pry him off, but Mikey's legs locked tighter, his grip stubborn as iron.
"Good!"
Ryosuke coughed out, smiling even as the pressure grew.
"Very good!"
Then his cybernetic leg bent low. With a sudden surge, he launched upward—ten feet into the air, body coiled like a spring. Mikey's eyes went wide, staring down at the mat rushing up beneath them.
"Ah, shit—"
CRASH!
The impact thundered through the dojo, Ryosuke's full weight slamming down on top of Mikey. Air blasted from Mikey's lungs, his hold finally shattering. Ryosuke rolled free, rising smoothly to his feet. He adjusted his grip on the wooden sword, unruffled. Mikey lay groaning on the mat, limbs splayed, chest heaving. Ryosuke looked down at him, his face unreadable, though in his mind…
He learns fast. Unpolished. Unrefined. But dangerous. Very dangerous.Yet very effective.
Mikey coughed, a weak laugh bubbling out between gasps.
"Still… gotcha though… for a second."