Part I – The Dojo Nobody Talks About
The final bell rang, echoing through the halls like a sigh of relief for every exhausted student. Books snapped shut, chairs scraped against the floor, and the tidal wave of chatter filled the air. For Kai, the day had been a blur. His "accidental victory" in the cafeteria was still the talk of the school, and though he'd tried to keep a low profile, the stares that followed him everywhere were impossible to ignore.
"Yo, Kai!" Haru's hand slapped him on the back, nearly making him stumble forward. "Got plans after school?"
Kai adjusted his backpack strap. "Homework. Then maybe I'll sleep early."
"Boring." Haru shook his head dramatically. "I have something way better. You like mysteries?"
"No," Kai said flatly.
"Too bad, because we're going to solve one."
Before Kai could argue, Haru hooked his arm around his neck and started dragging him down the hall. Kai considered resisting, but experience had taught him that Haru's enthusiasm was like a riptide—you either went along or drowned trying to fight it.
"Where exactly are we going?" Kai asked warily.
"You'll see." Haru grinned mischievously, his voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper. "Ever heard of the old dojo behind the gym?"
Kai frowned. "There's no dojo behind the gym. Just the storage sheds."
"That's what they want you to think." Haru's eyes widened dramatically as if he were recounting some urban legend. "The dojo is real. Nobody uses it anymore, though. Rumor says it's haunted by the spirits of failed martial artists."
Kai gave him a look. "Haunted? Seriously?"
"Totally. Some say if you train there at night, you can hear whispers teaching you forbidden techniques."
"That sounds like a bad horror movie."
"Exactly! Which is why we have to check it out."
The sun was dipping low when Haru finally dragged Kai around the back of the gymnasium. The area was mostly deserted, except for the faint sound of basketballs bouncing from the courts nearby. Haru marched with purpose, weaving through weeds and discarded equipment until they reached a section of cracked concrete wall partially hidden by overgrown bushes.
"Ta-da!" Haru pulled aside some vines with a flourish, revealing a weathered wooden door with faded kanji etched into it. The words were nearly illegible, but Kai could still make out one character: "Dojo."
Kai blinked. "Okay, I'll admit… I didn't know this was here."
Haru puffed out his chest. "Told you! Most students don't. They say it got shut down years ago because it was too… intense."
"Too intense?"
"Yup. Some students went in, trained like maniacs, and—bam!—injuries left and right. The school quietly locked it up, and everyone forgot about it. Except me, of course."
"Or maybe it just failed safety inspections," Kai muttered.
Haru ignored him and tugged at the rusty handle. With a groan, the door creaked open, revealing darkness within. A musty smell wafted out, carrying dust, old wood, and something faintly metallic.
Kai hesitated. "Are you sure this isn't trespassing?"
"Do I look like a trespasser?" Haru grinned. "Yes. Yes, I do. Come on."
The dojo inside was like stepping into a forgotten relic of the past. The wooden floorboards creaked under their feet, covered in a thin film of dust. Old training equipment lined the walls: cracked mirrors, punching bags leaking sand, and wooden dummies scarred with years of strikes. Cobwebs clung to the corners, and faded banners hung limply, their once-vivid calligraphy dulled with time.
"This place…" Haru whispered, his voice suddenly hushed with genuine awe. "It's like history is alive."
Kai rubbed the back of his neck. "It's like history needs a broom."
Still, he couldn't deny the strange aura the room carried. Despite its decay, the dojo radiated an atmosphere of discipline and echoes of past effort. He could almost imagine the shouts of students from decades ago, the rhythm of their strikes filling the air.
Haru walked along the wall, running his fingers across the tattered fabric of one banner. "You feel it too, right? Like the walls are whispering?"
"I feel dust clogging my lungs."
"Pessimist."
Kai's eyes wandered across the room until something caught his attention. In the far corner, half-buried under a fallen mat, was a small wooden chest. He crouched down and brushed away the dirt, revealing its carved surface. It wasn't locked—just old, with rusty hinges.
"What's that?" Haru asked, leaning over.
Kai lifted the lid. Inside were notebooks, their covers yellowed and brittle. He carefully opened one, and his eyes widened. It wasn't full of poetic martial musings or ghostly curses. Instead, it was filled with diagrams.
Drawings of human bodies in different stances, annotated with arrows and calculations. Notes about leverage, angles, pressure points—not mystical qi or hidden powers, but raw mechanical analysis of martial movements.
Kai's heartbeat quickened. "This… this is different."
Haru peered over his shoulder. "What is it? Secret death techniques?"
"No." Kai shook his head slowly, flipping through the pages. "It's… logical. Efficient. Whoever wrote this was analyzing martial arts like an engineer. It's almost like… martial mechanics."
"Sounds boring."
Kai ignored him, his mind racing. The diagrams broke down the exact rotation needed to maximize a punch's force. The angle of a kick for minimal wasted energy. Even footwork patterns mapped like geometry problems. It wasn't just fighting—it was engineering combat.
For the first time, Kai felt a spark of genuine interest. This wasn't about honor, tradition, or flashy moves. This was about logic—the language he understood best.
Haru clapped him on the back, breaking his concentration. "Well, congratulations. You've found your ghost whispers. So… does this mean you're actually going to train?"
Kai glanced back at the dusty equipment, then down at the notebook in his hands. A part of him wanted to scoff and walk away. But another part whispered: What if this could work? What if you could create something of your own?
He closed the notebook gently. "Maybe."
"Ha! That's basically a yes." Haru grinned. "Guess we just found your new after-school club."
Kai sighed, tucking the notebook into his bag. The dojo creaked as if agreeing—or warning. Either way, he had just taken his first step into something he didn't fully understand.
Outside, the last rays of sunlight dipped below the horizon, painting the dojo in long, eerie shadows.
And somewhere in those shadows, unseen by either boy, something shifted—perhaps just a loose board, or perhaps the weight of destiny itself.
Part II – Training Misfires
The next afternoon, Kai found himself standing once again at the entrance of the old dojo. The cracked wooden door groaned as he pushed it open, dust rising in the air like a curtain. He hadn't planned to come back so soon, but the notebook he'd taken home had gnawed at his thoughts all night.
The diagrams, the formulas, the logic behind every movement—it was like a blueprint for fighting that spoke directly to his mechanical mind. He couldn't ignore it.
"Why am I even doing this?" Kai muttered under his breath as he stepped inside.
"Because you're secretly excited," came Haru's voice from behind.
Kai jumped. "You followed me?"
"Followed? No. I'm your trusty sidekick. The Robin to your Batman. The peanut butter to your jelly." Haru tossed his bag into the corner and stretched. "Face it, Kai, I knew you'd be back. You can't resist the dojo's call."
Kai rolled his eyes but didn't argue. Instead, he set his bag down, pulling out the old notebook. He flipped it open to a page showing a simple stance—a forward guard position with arrows pointing out how weight should be distributed between the legs.
It looked simple enough.
He mimicked the drawing, planting his feet apart. The floor creaked beneath him. "Okay. Step one: balanced stance. Nothing special."
"Nice," Haru said, nodding like a proud teacher. "Now punch the air. Go on."
Kai exhaled, raised his fist, and threw a punch.
It looked awkward. His shoulders tightened, his back stiffened, and his arm shot forward like a rusted piston. The air barely noticed.
"Beautiful," Haru said, clapping slowly. "You just scared a mosquito to death."
"Shut up," Kai muttered, adjusting his stance. He flipped to the next page, which showed the same punch but broken down with force vectors and rotation angles.
"Shoulders relaxed… rotation from the hip… twist the foot…" he read aloud.
Kai tried again. He twisted his body, rotated his hip, and snapped his fist forward. This time, the movement flowed better—but he miscalculated the angle. His fist shot past the target area and he spun halfway around, nearly losing his balance.
Haru doubled over, laughing. "You look like you're trying to swat flies while breakdancing!"
"Trial and error," Kai said firmly, standing up straighter. His pride smarted, but his curiosity burned stronger.
The training that followed was a series of disasters that would've been comical if not for the bruises forming on Kai's arms.
First, he tried practicing a kick shown in the notes. The diagrams explained the mechanics of leverage: raising the knee, shifting weight, then snapping out the lower leg like a whip. Simple in theory.
In practice, Kai misjudged his balance, swung his leg too high, and toppled sideways into a wooden dummy. The old thing groaned, wobbled… and collapsed entirely with a dramatic crash.
Haru was on the floor, tears in his eyes from laughing. "That dummy didn't stand a chance! Instant knockout!"
Kai groaned, pulling himself out of the wreckage. His shin throbbed. "This is harder than it looks."
"Correction—it's harder than you make it look."
By the end of an hour, the dojo resembled a battlefield of failed experiments. A sandbag had torn open from a badly angled strike, spilling its guts across the floor. One of the mirrors had cracked when Kai stumbled into it. And Haru… well, Haru was having the time of his life providing commentary.
"You've invented a new martial art," Haru declared, hands on his hips. "Slapstick Fu. Very effective against… comedy audiences."
Kai ignored him, flipping to a section of the notebook about footwork. This was different. It wasn't about raw force—it was about efficiency of movement. The author had sketched lines showing paths across the floor, minimizing wasted steps.
Kai followed the lines, tracing them with careful steps. Left, pivot, forward, slide. It felt… smoother. Less energy wasted.
Haru tilted his head. "Huh. That actually looked kinda cool. You didn't trip this time."
Kai smirked faintly. "Progress."
He tried again, this time adding a punch at the end of the footwork. The combination felt sharper, cleaner. But then, as he tried to adjust mid-movement, his foot caught on a loose board.
Crack!
Kai pitched forward and instinctively flung out his arm to catch himself. His palm slammed into the wooden dummy's head—and to his surprise, the entire thing snapped off its base with a loud thunk.
Both boys froze.
"…Did you just… karate chop a dummy's head off?" Haru whispered.
Kai stared at his hand, stunned. "I—I didn't mean to."
Haru's jaw dropped, then split into the biggest grin Kai had ever seen. "Oh. My. God. You're a natural! The dojo spirits have blessed you! Tray Master Kai has evolved into Dummy Destroyer Kai!"
Kai groaned, covering his face with one hand. "It was an accident."
"History will not remember it that way." Haru was already posing dramatically, retelling the event as if it were legend. "'With a single palm strike, he decapitated the dummy! The dojo trembled in awe!'"
Despite himself, Kai chuckled softly. For once, the mistake had worked in his favor.
They spent the rest of the evening sweeping up sand, propping the dummy back together, and laughing over the mishaps. For Kai, though, the experience had been more than comedy. Every failed strike, every awkward movement—it all fed into his mechanical analysis. He scribbled notes in the margins of the notebook, adjusting angles, correcting stances, mapping out what had gone wrong.
Bit by bit, he was shaping something new.
Not traditional martial arts. Not random flailing. Something logical. Something efficient.
Something his.
As the sun dipped below the horizon, casting long shadows across the dojo floor, Kai tightened his fist. His knuckles still ached, but his resolve had sharpened.
"Tomorrow," he murmured. "I'll get it right tomorrow."
Haru, sprawled out on the floor like a lazy cat, cracked an eye open. "You say that like this is the start of some epic training arc."
Kai glanced at the broken dummy, the spilled sand, the cracked mirror. A wry smile tugged at his lips.
"…Maybe it is."
Part III – Whispers in the Halls
The next morning, Kai woke to the dull ache of sore muscles. His arms felt like lead, his legs like stiff boards, and his back complained every time he stretched.
"Note to self," he muttered while dragging himself out of bed, "mechanical analysis does not prevent muscle pain."
Aunt Mei looked up from behind the restaurant counter as Kai shuffled downstairs. She arched an eyebrow. "You're walking like an eighty-year-old man."
"I was… exercising."
She smirked knowingly. "Exercising, huh? Or did you get into a fight already?"
Kai froze. "No. Of course not. Just… training."
Her eyes softened, though her smirk lingered. "Don't push yourself too hard. Skill is built in years, not nights."
Kai nodded quietly, wolfed down a quick breakfast, and headed to school.
The moment he walked through Martial High's gates, he felt it.
The stares. The whispers. The pointed fingers.
Not again.
Kai tried to ignore it, keeping his pace steady, but snippets of conversation kept reaching his ears:
"I heard he punched a dummy's head clean off!"
"No, no, it was a single palm strike that split the wood in half!"
"You're both wrong. Someone said he cracked a mirror just by glaring at it."
"Wait… isn't he the same guy who knocked out that upperclassman with a lunch tray?"
"Yeah! Tray Master Kai—they're calling him Dummy Slayer now!"
Kai's face turned red. Haru. This has Haru written all over it.
Sure enough, Haru was waiting at the classroom door, grinning like he'd just won the lottery. "Behold!" he declared dramatically, arms spread wide. "The legend grows! From humble beginnings, Tray Master Kai ascends to a new title—Dummy Slayer, the terror of wooden practice equipment!"
"Haru," Kai hissed, dragging him into the classroom by the collar, "stop spreading ridiculous rumors!"
"I didn't spread anything," Haru protested, smirk still plastered on his face. "I just… may have colorfully retold a few training highlights. Then people added their own spice. That's how legends are born, my friend."
Kai buried his face in his hands. "This is a nightmare."
But it wasn't just jokes. Underneath the laughter and exaggeration, Kai noticed something else: a shift in how people looked at him.
Some stares were amused, yes. Others were skeptical, waiting to see him fail. But a surprising number carried curiosity… and even respect.
He wasn't just the quiet new kid anymore. He was the one challenging Riku's circle—accidentally or not.
At lunch, when Kai and Haru tried to eat in peace, a group of first-years sat nearby, whispering excitedly.
"Do you think he'll stand up to Riku again?"
"Maybe he'll make his own style or something. He's weird, but… different."
"Different's dangerous."
The attention made Kai's skin prickle. He hadn't meant for any of this. He just wanted to survive high school, not be thrust into its gladiator spotlight.
Still… part of him couldn't deny it. The accidental victories, the training experiments—they were building something. His own path.
That afternoon, whispers reached even further.
Riku's circle.
The three upperclassmen who'd confronted Kai days earlier weren't laughing anymore. In the training hall, Kai caught them watching him from across the room, muttering among themselves. Their eyes were sharp, predatory, no trace of humor left.
"They're planning something," Haru whispered, nudging him.
Kai swallowed hard. "Yeah. I know."
And then there was Riku himself.
Kai saw him in the corridor after last period, surrounded by his usual entourage. Students stepped aside instinctively, parting like water before a ship. Riku's presence was quiet but heavy, his steps measured, his expression unreadable.
When his gaze landed on Kai, the hallway seemed to still.
Riku's lips curved into a faint, cold smile. Not mocking. Not amused. Just… interested.
Kai's heart pounded, but he didn't look away. He held that gaze until Riku finally passed, disappearing into the crowd.
Haru let out a low whistle. "Yup. You're officially on his radar now."
Kai clenched his fists, his sore knuckles aching. So be it. If this path was set the moment I picked up that notebook… then I'll walk it all the way.
That evening, Kai returned to the dojo. The floor was still scarred from yesterday's mishaps, the dummy crudely patched together with tape and string. He stood before it, breathing deeply.
"Yesterday was full of accidents," he murmured. "Today, I'll make it deliberate."
He took his stance, feet planted firmly. Shoulders relaxed. Breath steady.
And then—he slipped on spilled sand and landed flat on his back with a thud.
For a moment, silence. Then Haru, who had been lounging in the doorway with a bag of chips, burst into uncontrollable laughter.
"Legendary start to your training arc!" he cackled. "Behold, the mighty Kai, master of the floor technique!"
Kai groaned, staring at the ceiling. But despite the embarrassment, a grin tugged at the corner of his lips.
Because this was how it began—messy, awkward, painful, and full of laughter. But he was moving forward. Step by step, fall by fall, accident by accident… he was forging something new.
Something that wasn't Riku's.
Something that wasn't anyone else's.
Something that was his.