… 3 years later (Year: 2004)
My sparring partner moved on to Stage Three 1 year ago.
He had entered Stage Two two years before I did. Older, more physically developed, already accustomed to regulated reinforcement and controlled combat. When he passed, he was sixteen.
It took him four years total to leave Stage Two.
Two before I arrived. Two after.
That was when I started taking the evaluations seriously.
Before that, I hadn't bothered.
Stage Two wasn't a place you rushed through. It wasn't uncommon for people to stay here for years, refining fundamentals until they either advanced—or hit their ceiling. I knew where my own limits were. I came to enjoy pushing my limits, and knowledge in combat, and never found a reason to try the evaluation tests. Someone who placed top 3 in them consistently was my sparring partner so I never needed to find a better sparring partner.
Once he left, that excuse disappeared.
Stage Two's evaluation was straightforward.
Each of the five halls ran a 1v1 tournament. No cursed techniques. Reinforcement capped and monitored. Pure combat skill. The top three earned the right to challenge an instructor.
To pass you needed to land an attack on the instructor that would be considered lethal with real weapons. That was it. My old sparring partner was stuck on this part of the exam for 2 years.
I had reached the top three thirteen times.
And thirteen times, I had failed.
The problem wasn't skill this time.
It was my body.
I was shorter than every instructor I'd faced. My reach was measurably worse. In exchanges where timing and positioning were equal, theirs always won out by centimeters.
'Losing thirteen times because of skill would've been easier to swallow. Losing because of centimeters? That one stung in a very specific way'
That meant I couldn't fight them cleanly.
Matching them wasn't enough. Even outperforming them briefly wasn't enough. To pass, I had to force situations where reach didn't matter—or where it became a liability.
So I stopped trying to fight like them.
Today was my fourteenth challenge.
The instructor across from me carried a long wooden blade, relaxed grip, experienced posture. He wasn't wary. He didn't need to be. We had done this before.
We bowed.
"Begin."
The instructor began the fight by keeping me at range.
Every step I took forward was met by the tip of his wooden blade. Not aggressive. Not flashy. Just precise spacing, abusing reach and timing so I couldn't enter safely.
Two minutes passed like that. As he slowly pushed me into the corner of the evaluation battle ring.
I shifted into Gedan-no-kamae and waited.
Then I thrust.
Straight, clean, obvious.
He attempted to parry-but my thrust was never followed through for it was a feint.
Instead I stepped on his foot.
Just enough to stop him from utilizing his footwork to gain distance on me, moreover his attempt at parrying me meant he was not in a proper stance.
A half-second where his stance wasn't there.
I was already moving.
My blade rose overhead as I stepped in, snapping into Jōdan-no-kamae.
Men-uchi, step, Men-uchi, another step, then a sweeping kesa-giri—my strikes rained down faster than he could think.
He tried to widen his stance, to recover distance, but the pressure didn't let him. Every time he shifted, my blade was already coming down, forcing his guard up and his feet to react late.
No rhythm. No pause.
Just impact after impact.
His sword met mine again and again, but his body never settled into a proper stance. His footing stayed narrow, defensive, reactive—exactly what I needed.
Eventually one of my strikes got through, and my blade stopped inches from his shoulder.
The instructor froze.
Then he raised his hand.
"Enough."
I stepped back immediately.
The fight was over.
"Thank you for the match," I bowed my head to him. "My brother is going to have his evaluation in another hall. Can I go over to watch?"
"Sure, take this card, it's an access card for the third stage, that card allows you to go to any of the halls for stage 1-3 training." The instructor spoke while taking a card out of his pocket. It was a gold card with 2 purple lines running across it.
I pocketed the access card, the weight of it oddly satisfying. Not just a pass—it was proof that all the hours, all the failed attempts, had brought me here.
My thoughts flicked to Tomogui. He was never the type to let me hog all the spotlight; he probably was going to challenge his instructor.
I left the hall quickly, navigating the maze of corridors with the gold card clutched in my hand. Each step echoed slightly, a reminder that the Stage Two halls were far larger than they seemed from the outside.
Finally, I reached the hall where Tomogui was scheduled to fight. Through the open doors, I could see him standing across from his instructor.
I leaned against the doorway, silent, and watched.