The bruise on my ribs blooms nicely.
Purple, yellow at the edges, sore when I breathe too deep. Beautiful reminder of how incomplete my "training" is.
I prod it in the morning while the light creeps through the thin curtains of my room. Pain answers.
"Yeah, yeah," I mutter. "I get it. You made your point."
I do my push-ups anyway. Slower, more controlled. I skip the deep twisting stretches so I don't tear anything important. Being stubborn is good. Being stupid is not.
By afternoon, after another long shift at Haim's, I decide I've stalled long enough.
I need more than trial-and-error street fights.
So I go looking for Kain and Bruk.
The alley beside the bar looks the same as always: narrow, stained walls, crates stacked badly, puddles that have never seen clean water.
They're there.
Kain is working the air, moving in a slow, steady rhythm. Jab, cross, low kick, pivot. Sweat darkens his shirt. Bruk leans against the wall, arms crossed, watching him like a trainer, not a friend.
I stand at the entrance a second, adjusting my bag strap, then walk in.
Kain notices first. His eyes flick to me, then back to the air.
"You again," he says.
"Me again," I say.
Bruk pushes off the wall, studying me. His gaze traces the faint discoloration under my eye, the way I carry my bag slightly away from my ribs, the way I favor one leg half a fraction.
"You didn't listen," he says.
"I listened too late," I say. "Lesson learned."
Kain stops, grabs a towel off a crate, wipes his face.
"You get jumped?" he asks.
"Something like that," I say. "It didn't end with me bleeding on the ground, so technically I'm calling it a win."
"You look like you got hit," Bruk says.
"I did," I say. "Several times. Which is why I'm here."
Kain slings the towel over his shoulder.
"You want revenge?" he asks.
"Eventually," I say. "But I'd have to be alive first. So for now, I want training."
They both go quiet.
The alley feels smaller.
"I've been… copying," I say. "Watching the way you move. Trying things in my room. It helped, a little. Kept me from getting flattened. But I ran out of script pretty fast."
Kain's mouth twitches. "Script?"
"Punch one," I say. "I had punch one. After that, nothing."
Bruk snorts.
"So," I say. "I'm here to ask: what are your terms?"
"That's not how this works," Kain says.
"How does it work, then?" I ask. "I wait to get lucky and hope a nice master falls on my head?"
"You're a kid," he says. "You should be at school, not begging for bruises."
"I am at school," I say. "This city is the classroom. Thugs are the curriculum. You two seem like the advanced course."
Bruk actually laughs at that. Just once, short.
Kain looks at him. They exchange one of those silent conversations adults have where they decide things about you without asking.
Kain POV:
The first time I saw the kid, I figured he was another stray with ideas above his station. Too skinny, eyes too sharp, watched everything like he expected it to bite him.
Then he kept coming back. Not to fight. Just passing by, but always slowing when we worked. Feet adjusting, shoulders angling. Copying without even knowing he was copying.
Now he's standing here with fresh bruises and asking for terms like he's buying fish.
He's too young. That's my first thought. Too young to be worrying about guard, timing, how not to die in a corner.
Second thought: if we don't teach him, someone worse will. Or the street will, and the street doesn't care what it breaks.
Bruk's looking at me. I know that look. "Your call."
Idiot kid. Persistent idiot kid.
I sigh.
Ryu POV:
Kain wipes his face again, tossing the towel back on the crate.
"All right," he says.
My chest tightens. "All right" can mean anything from "get lost" to "prepare to suffer."
"You want lessons?" he says. "You pay."
"I don't have much," I say. "But I can spare some."
"Not money," he says. "You run errands. You help move things. You show up when we say. You don't whine. You don't brag. You don't try to use half-remembered tricks to play hero in some alley and then blame us when you get knifed."
"That's a long list," I say. "But it sounds fair."
"That's just the start," Bruk says. "We're not going to turn you into some pit prodigy. We'll give you basics. Real ones. In exchange, you work and you shut up."
"Define basics," I say.
"Footwork," Kain says. "Guard. Balance. How to throw a punch, kick without breaking your own leg. How to fall without cracking your skull. How to get hit without crying."
"That last one might take practice," I say.
"It'll all take practice," he says.
Bruk looks me up and down again.
"First condition," he says. "You don't tell anyone. Not your boss. Not your nun. Not some other kid. You tell people you're helping us carry things, nothing more."
"I can do that," I say.
"Second," Kain says. "If we say 'run,' you run. You don't stand and watch just because you're curious."
"Running is one of my favorite hobbies," I say.
"Third," Bruk adds. "You don't come here if you're too injured to move right. You train tired, not broken. You're no use to anyone if you snap your leg trying to impress us."
"So you do care," I say.
"We care about not wasting time," Kain says. "You die, we've wasted time."
"Very touching," I say. My heart is beating harder than when I fought in that street, but in a good way. Nervous, but wired. This is what I wanted.
Kain jerks his chin at the open space.
"Drop the bag," he says. "Show me how you stand when someone wants to hit you."
I set the bag down against the wall.
I step into the center of the alley, take a breath, and raise my hands the way I've been practicing. Left foot slightly forward, right back. Weight balanced. Hands up, chin down.
It feels less awkward than the first time. More like a jacket I've worn a few days instead of one I just grabbed off someone else's hook.
Kain walks a slow circle around me, watching everything: feet, knees, shoulders, jaw.
"Not terrible," he says. "For someone who learned from thin air."
"He's been watching us," Bruk says.
"Obviously," Kain replies.
He steps in front of me.
"Punch," he says. "Slow."
I jab.
He nods once. "Again."
I jab again. He catches my wrist lightly with one hand, fingers digging in just enough to correct the angle.
"Your elbow's flaring," he says. "Tighten it. You're bleeding power sideways. Again."
I adjust. Jab again.
"Better," he says. "Other hand."
I throw a cross. He taps my back foot with his own.
"Turn it," he says. "Your hips are asleep."
I turn my foot as I punch. The movement feels… cleaner. More connected.
"Good," he says. "Again."
We do that for too long.
Slow punches. Corrections. Step, punch. Step, punch. Adjust the guard. Move the head. Breathe out with each strike.
My shoulders start burning. My legs ache from staying in stance. Sweat slides down my spine.
"Don't straighten up," Bruk says from somewhere behind me. "The second you relax, you give away your balance."
"How long—" I start.
"Don't talk," Kain says. "Hands up."
I keep going.
At some point, they switch me to just moving.
"Walk," Kain says. "Stay in stance. Forward. Back. Side."
It sounds easy. It isn't.
Everything in my body wants to stand normal. Square. Comfortable. This angled stance uses muscles regular walking ignores. My calves complain. My hips protest.
We go forward three slow steps, back three, side to side. Never crossing feet. Never letting them click together.
I lose count of how long.
"Stop," Kain says finally.
I freeze, chest heaving.
He steps close, knocks lightly on my guard with his knuckles.
"You dropped this seven times," he says. "You do that in a real fight and someone rearranges your teeth."
"I like my teeth where they are," I say.
"Then train like it," he says.
He nods at my torso. "Take your shirt off."
I hesitate half a second. Then I peel it off.
Bruises map my ribs. The shin one is visible even above the edge of my boot. Finger-size marks around my shoulder.
Bruk whistles softly.
"How old are you?" he asks.
"Nine," I say.
"Kids your age are supposed to be scraping knees, not ribs," he says.
"I'm just advanced," I say.
Kain shakes his head.
"We'll start with three days a week," he says. "After your shift. One hour. More when your body catches up. You miss a day without a good reason, we stop."
"Good reason is…?" I ask.
"Death," he says.
"Right," I say. "I'll try to avoid that."
He throws me my shirt. I catch it on reflex.
"Go home," he says. "Eat. Sleep. Stretch. Tomorrow we start on how to fall without cracking your head open."
"Looking forward to it," I say.
"I doubt that," Bruk mutters.
I grab my bag, sling it over my shoulder, and step out of the alley.
The city evening hits me: voices, light, noise. My legs shake slightly from holding stance so long. My shoulders feel like someone poured hot sand in them.
I feel… good.
Tired, but wired. Like the first time I managed to run up the slope without stopping, multiplied.
This isn't copying anymore.
It's real training.
Not perfect. Not formal. Not a polished dojo with mats and uniforms.
But it's a start.
As I walk back to my room, I can almost see it: me at twelve, thirteen, older. Moving sharper. Hitting harder. Not losing my script after one punch.
Nen is still somewhere in the future, a word I keep locked in the back of my mind.
For now, I have simpler goals.
Learn to stand.Learn to hit.Learn not to fall apart when someone hits back.
The rest comes later.