The dojo was quieter after the monster incident.
The other disciples had watched us leave that night, but only Garou and I had returned with bruises and blood. They whispered when I entered the training hall the next morning, their voices low but sharp.
"That guy nearly got killed.""Why would Master Bang even take him?""He's just a bookworm pretending to be a fighter."
They weren't wrong. I was weaker. Every step toward the mat made my ribs ache, each breath pulling at the bruises on my chest. But I refused to limp. If I showed weakness, the whispers would never end.
Garou, of course, looked almost untouched. His bandages were minimal, his movements sharp and cocky as always. When someone asked how the fight went, he only smirked. "I could've handled it alone."
My jaw tightened, but I stayed silent.
Bang entered then, the room falling into order immediately. His presence demanded silence not because he shouted, but because he never needed to.
"Yesterday was a lesson," he began, eyes scanning the room. "A monster does not wait for your readiness. It does not care about your excuses. Against such foes, hesitation is death."
His gaze lingered on me, sharp as a blade. "Kaizen. You hesitated. You nearly died."
Heat crawled up my neck. "Yes, Master."
"And yet…" His tone softened just slightly. "You also moved. You flowed. You remembered, even if only for a heartbeat. That is a beginning."
The whispers shifted then, no longer dismissive but uncertain.
Garou's smirk widened.
Training that day was relentless. Bang pushed us harder than ever, drilling us in repetition after repetition. Stances. Strikes. Deflections. By the end, my arms felt like they were made of stone, heavy and unresponsive. Sweat blurred my vision, my shirt soaked through.
When we finally paused, I collapsed against the wall, struggling for breath. Garou sat cross-legged nearby, hardly winded, his eyes closed in meditation or maybe just smug rest.
"You won't catch up at this pace," he said without opening his eyes.
"I'm not trying to catch you," I muttered.
He cracked an eye open, grin sly. "Then what are you trying to do?"
I hesitated. The truth pressed at the back of my tongue.
"I want to learn everything," I said finally. "Every fist, every form, every way of fighting this world has to offer. If it can be done with the body, I want it."
Garou raised a brow. "That's impossible."
"Maybe," I admitted. "But I'd rather die chasing the impossible than stay weak forever."
For once, he didn't have a quick reply.
That evening, while tending to my bruises, I overheard two senior disciples speaking in hushed tones.
"Master Bang was discussing his brother earlier," one said."Bomb?" the other asked. "The Whirlwind Iron Cutting Fist?""Yes. He said Bomb's style is different from ours sharp, slicing, like a blade in a storm. Deadly in its own way."
I froze. Another master. Another path.
The thought dug into my mind like a seed splitting stone. If Bang represented the flowing stream, then Bomb was the storm. To understand both would mean balance softness and sharpness, flow and force.
My heart beat faster just imagining it.
Days turned into weeks. My body slowly hardened under the strain. What once left me crippled in pain now only burned in my muscles. Bruises still came, but I wore them like armor.
The disciples' whispers changed. They still doubted me, but some now offered nods when I passed. A few even asked me to spar not kindly, but not mockingly either.
I lost most of those matches. Sometimes quickly. But I always stood back up.
Bang noticed. He never praised, never indulged, but I caught the flicker of approval in his eyes more often. That was enough.
Garou grew faster than anyone. His instincts were sharper, his aggression honed into something terrifying. He fought with hunger, like the dojo was too small to contain him. Even Bang had to restrain him at times, his blows carrying too much intent.
Watching him was humbling. His talent was undeniable, his future clear. But instead of despair, it ignited something in me. If Garou was a prodigy, then I would be the grinder the one who clawed upward through blood and discipline.
I didn't need to be the strongest right away. I only needed to keep moving.
One night, as I sat alone in the courtyard, Bang approached quietly. His hands were clasped behind his back, his expression unreadable.
"You have questions," he said.
I blinked. "About what?"
"About my brother."
My breath caught. "You knew I overheard?"
Bang chuckled softly. "You are not subtle, Kaizen. Yes, Bomb exists. Yes, his style is powerful. But power is not the same as mastery. Do not mistake collecting techniques for understanding them."
"I don't want to just collect them," I said firmly. "I want to understand them all. To see the limits of the body in every direction."
His eyes narrowed, then softened with something I couldn't place amusement, perhaps, or faint respect.
"Then you have chosen a long road," he said. "Most will call it foolish. Perhaps it is. But if you truly walk it, then seek Bomb. When you are ready."
My fists tightened. "I will."
That night, sleep eluded me.
Visions of fists danced in my mind water flowing, storms cutting, bodies hardening. The world of martial arts was vast, larger than I had dared to dream. And somewhere out there, beyond the walls of this dojo, awaited masters who embodied those arts.
Bang had given me a stream. Bomb offered a storm. And surely, others existed fighters whose fists echoed with fire, steel, thunder.
If I could learn them all, understand them, combine them then maybe, just maybe, I could carve my place in this world of monsters and heroes.
The whispers of doubt faded in my ears. The pain in my ribs dulled. Only the vision remained.
The path was long. The path was impossible.
But it was mine.