Chapter 39: "Welcome to the Pain Olympics – Beginner Division Part 2
In which we all get assigned slightly terrifying teachers and pray not to explode.
Shogo and Loki:
Out of all the places to die gloriously, Shogo thought this wasn't so bad.
He was sweating like a condemned man, back pressed to the stone wall of Ryōzanpaku's training courtyard, every nerve in his body screaming. Not because of a punch, or a kick, or a roundhouse spin-slam to the ribs. No. He was dying from presence. Specifically, the raw, crushing, suffocating Ki Pressure rolling off the man in front of him like a tsunami of gravity.
Sakaki Shio.
A.k.a. the Street Brawling Legend.
A.k.a. the Human Natural Disaster.
A.k.a. the guy who accidentally cracked a mountain once and called it "leg day."
Beside Shogo, Loki was looking more than a little unwell. His designer sports jacket was soaked in sweat, his usual sarcastic cool completely buried under the spiritual equivalent of a freight train parked on his lungs.
"This…" Loki choked out, clutching his knees. "This dojo needs to be reported to OSHA."
"You're not wrong," Shogo muttered, eyes twitching.
Sakaki, standing about ten feet away with his arms crossed and jacket flapping in the breeze, just smirked. "You kids done whining yet?"
"...Are we allowed to say no?" Loki asked.
"Nope."
Sakaki hadn't pulled punches with his introduction.
"You want to unlock Ki? Fine. Then get used to standing on the same ground as a predator. Your body adapts to survive. You either level up or break."
Which was why, instead of warmups or light sparring, he had flooded the courtyard with active killing intent. Not the kind that made you uncomfortable. The kind that made seasoned hitmen sweat bullets.
It wasn't just fear. It was survival training. The only instinct left in your brain was move or die.
Shogo adapted like a true berserker. His grin returned within five minutes, his eyes gleaming with excitement. "This… This is what I've been looking for."
Loki, on the other hand, was trying to regulate his breathing like a yoga instructor possessed by a panicked accountant. "This is not in the contract."
Once the pressure dialed down (from "killer tiger" to "grumpy lion"), Sakaki called them forward.
"Alright, muscle and money. Time to throw some punches."
Shogo launched forward like a missile, using a combination of karate and sheer chaotic enthusiasm. His blows were solid, heavy, and creative. But Sakaki barely moved. He dodged and deflected like a lazy cat swatting flies.
"You've got instinct," Sakaki grunted, catching Shogo's kick midair and flipping him over his shoulder. "But you're not refined."
"Then teach me!" Shogo said from the ground, flipping upright like a gymnast.
"You don't ask to be taught, kid. You earn it. Get up again."
Meanwhile, Loki adjusted his gloves, stepped in with a cautious stance, and aimed for Sakaki's blind spot. "Guess I'll try the tactical approach."
It didn't help.
One second, Loki was there. The next, he was on the ground wondering why the sky looked upside down.
"Good footwork," Sakaki admitted. "But you're hesitant. Hesitation gets you planted."
"I prefer the term 'calculated caution,'" Loki wheezed.
"Uh-huh. Get up. Try again."
Despite his mountain-sized intimidation factor, Sakaki never once truly hurt them.
Even when Shogo overcommitted and nearly twisted his ankle, Sakaki caught him mid-fall and reset his stance with a grumble. When Loki took a punch to the ribs that knocked the wind out of him, Sakaki immediately backed off and helped him breathe.
He was tough. Rough. Almost scary.
But he was also the kindest of the masters in his own strange way.
"Don't think I'm going easy on you," he said at one point. "If I didn't care, I'd let you fall flat. But I see potential. So I push."
Loki, panting, nodded. "You… you are possibly the worst motivational speaker… and the best teacher."
Shogo just grinned through a black eye. "Best day of my life."
Sakaki gave a lopsided smile. "Good. Now let's go again. You've got twenty more rounds before lunch."
"...We're gonna die," Loki muttered.
"Yeah," Shogo laughed. "It's awesome."
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Kenichi:
If anyone ever tells you that Ryōzanpaku is a "dojo," kindly laugh in their face and offer them a complimentary ice pack.
It's not a dojo. It's a physics-defying torture laboratory disguised as an ancient Japanese estate, and its head researcher? Akisame Kōetsuji: philosopher, martial arts master, and part-time evil genius with a mustache sharp enough to cut diamonds.
On this particular day, Ukita, Kenichi, and Koga—the three least genetically blessed of the Akatsuki crew—were learning this the hard way.
Step One: The Machine.
"So," Akisame said pleasantly, "let's begin with a light warm-up."
The "light warm-up" turned out to be strapping each of them to a bizarre, steam-punk monstrosity that looked like someone fused a treadmill, a hydraulic press, and a medieval torture rack.
"This is my Spirito-Muscular Density Equalizer 3.2," Akisame said cheerfully.
"Why does it have rotating blades!?" Koga cried.
"Oh, those are just decorative. Probably."
Ukita, eyes wide with quiet terror, glanced at Kenichi. "We're gonna die, aren't we?"
Kenichi looked at the leather straps being bolted shut. "Yeah. But, like… respectfully."
Step Two: "Medicine."
Halfway through being yeeted by the Equalizer 3.2, Akisame popped open a wooden box labeled with kanji that loosely translated to Hope You Like Internal Fireworks.
"These herbal supplements will stimulate your energy pathways," he explained.
"You mean like… medicine?" Kenichi asked.
"Technically, yes."
Koga sniffed it. "This smells like regret and battery acid."
"Down the hatch, boys!" Akisame smiled, and with a terrifying amount of enthusiasm, the boys were dosed with what could only be described as spicy moss mixed with Red Bull and existential dread.
Step Three: Panic.
Ten minutes later, Koga had attempted to fake an ankle injury (he tripped on purpose), Kenichi had actually tried to limp away, and Ukita had thrown up behind a bonsai tree.
Akisame caught them both before they got ten feet.
"Running builds good cardiovascular endurance," he said warmly. "But unfortunately for you, I'm faster."
"How!?" Koga gasped as he was hauled back by the back of his collar. "You're a philosopher!"
"A judo philosopher," Akisame corrected with a smile. "Big difference."
Ukita, meanwhile, was trying to stay strong. He clenched his fists and thought of Kisara.
For her... I will survive this madness.
Step Four: Motivation... Question Mark?
When the group looked five seconds away from giving up forever, Akisame decided to offer "inspiration."
"Watch carefully," he said.
He inhaled deeply, raised his hand... and it burst into flames.
A flaming hand. Just like that.
Then he swiped it in a wide arc and released a wave of fire across the training field. It evaporated an entire row of bamboo dummies.
Then, with a casual flick of his finger, Akisame pointed toward a ten-meter-tall metallic statue that looked like it weighed as much as a T-Rex after a Thanksgiving feast.
With one pinky finger, he lifted it.
One. Pinky. Finger.
All three boys screamed internally. Possibly externally too.
"That's the power of Ki when your body and mind are trained in unison," Akisame said, very zen, while his hand was still on fire.
Kenichi's jaw dropped. "That's... that's not even martial arts anymore. That's just showing off."
"I call it motivation," Akisame said sagely.
Koga nodded slowly. "Okay, I'll admit, that was cool."
Ukita, with his face still pale from earlier, wiped the sweat off his brow. "I'll… I'll keep going. Just don't feed me that root sludge again."
"No promises," Akisame chuckled.
Soup's On.
After hours of grueling training, weighted sprinting, push-ups under pressure beams, and "mind-body" stretching that felt more like body-breaking, the trio collapsed. Ukita had developed a mild twitch, Kenichi kept mumbling about becoming a librarian instead, and Koga had tried to bribe a passing bird for freedom.
"Excellent," Akisame said, clapping. "Time for the healing stage."
The "healing stage" turned out to be barrels. Literal wooden barrels, filled with glowing green liquid that smelled like pine needles and something that may or may not have once been a frog.
"Oh no," Kenichi whispered.
"We're gonna be cooked alive," Koga groaned.
Ukita had already resigned himself to death. "Tell Kisara I died cool."
Akisame dunked them in, adjusted the heating flames under each barrel, and nodded proudly. "Your muscles will absorb the medicine. And the pain. Don't worry, it's only mildly scalding."
"MILDLY?!" they chorused.
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Ikki:
While Ukita, Kenichi, and Koga were collectively questioning their life choices from inside their wooden stew barrels, a quieter, much more delicate operation was taking place just a few feet away. If you could call "snapping a guy's arm back into place" delicate.
Ikki, the one-armed boxer, sat cross-legged on a wooden mat with a face that screamed I regret nothing—but I might in the next five minutes.
Akisame Koetsuji stood behind him like a very calm executioner. He rolled up his sleeves, adjusted his mustache, and placed a hand gently on Ikki's shoulder.
"You understand what this will entail, yes?" he asked, voice so polite it should've come with a cup of tea.
"I think so," Ikki said, swallowing his nerves. "You're going to break my arm again."
"Correct. But this time, we will mend it as a whole. Reinforced with Ki. Your arm will not only recover—it will become stronger than ever."
"Cool," Ikki nodded. "You've done this before, right?"
Akisame gave him a small smile. "...Ofcourse."
Snap, Crackle, Nope
Before Ikki could reconsider his life, Akisame pressed his fingers along the old fracture. Ki gathered around his fingertips like shimmering heat waves.
"I recommend breathing deeply."
"Wait—!"
SNAP.
Ikki screamed. Somewhere in the background, Kenichi peeked out from his boiling barrel and whispered, "Better him than me."
With the bones now realigned (more like fused together by the will of martial arts gods), Akisame continued. His hands glowed faintly as he guided Ki into the wounded limb. The greenish light pulsed rhythmically, knitting cells together and strengthening the bone at its very core.
"This technique stimulates regrowth," Akisame explained as he worked, as if he were giving a TED Talk and not remolding someone's arm. "Your bone is now one piece. Stronger. Cleaner. But it needs reinforcement."
He handed Ikki a small vial of dark red liquid.
"It smells like glue and sadness," Ikki muttered.
"Drink it."
He drank it.
The Spring Arm of Justice
After ten glorious, excruciating minutes of rest—which consisted of Ikki laying face-down on a bamboo mat and reconsidering his trust in old men with mustaches—Akisame returned.
"I made something for you," the master said, holding up what looked like a torture device straight from a medieval anime.
It was a suit. More specifically, a sleeveless upper-body harness laced with glowing, coiled springs along the arms and back. The moment Ikki moved, those springs would engage and push back.
"Try a punch."
Ikki obeyed.
Whooomph.
It was like trying to punch through pudding... filled with anvils.
"Sweet baby Buddha," Ikki wheezed. "How heavy is this thing?!"
"Only 100 kilograms of resistance. Per arm."
"ONLY?!"
"This is your starting point," Akisame said cheerfully, already scribbling notes into a leather-bound journal titled Human Weaponry Trials – Batch 1.
"The resistance will increase daily. It will help your nerves, bones, and muscles become accustomed to combat. And eventually, to Ki."
Ikki groaned. "Why do I feel like a science experiment?"
"Because you are. But a willing one," Akisame smiled. "Now. Punch that tree until you no longer hate yourself."
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Honoka:
To be completely honest, Honoka hadn't expected her "Ki Awakening Journey" to start with being handed a tray of scalpels.
"These are kunai. These are throwing knives. These are shuriken," said Shigure Kosaka, the quietest and deadliest person Honoka had ever met in her short-but-eventful life.
The young girl blinked up at her. "…Are these toys?"
Shigure's eyes narrowed ever so slightly. "Sharp. Very."
"Cool," Honoka said, and then proceeded to nearly drop one of them on her foot.
Miu Fūrinji quickly stepped in, catching the blade before it could slice any toes. "Maybe we should start with these." She handed Honoka a beginner's set—wooden practice knives. "Training wheels, right?"
"Lame," Honoka muttered, but accepted them anyway.
The training took place in a serene bamboo grove behind the dojo—where the birds chirped, the wind whispered, and every tree now had a bullseye pinned to its trunk.
Shigure moved like a shadow with a ponytail, barely making any noise as she demonstrated the art of precision. Her hands flicked, and a dozen knives flew out and hit the targets dead center. Even the ones behind her.
"Whoa," Honoka whispered. "You're like… a ninja sniper."
Shigure gave a rare nod of approval. "Control. Breath. Focus."
It wasn't much of a speech, but it got the message across.
Miu joined in, gently guiding Honoka's stance as she prepared to throw. "You're small, but that can be an advantage. Ranged weapons don't need brute strength. They need accuracy."
Honoka threw her first knife.
It bounced off the tree and hit a squirrel's acorn stash.
"…Oops."
After several failed attempts and one more traumatized squirrel, the girls took a break.
"Drink this," Shigure said, handing Honoka a small bottle filled with a glowing blue liquid.
"It smells like pickles and fire," Honoka said, eyeing it suspiciously.
"It's a stimulation tonic," Miu explained. "It boosts your growth rate and energy recovery. All of us drink it during training."
"Even you?"
Miu smiled. "I started using Ki when I was eight."
"…You're just casually saying that?"
Shigure nodded. "She was annoying. Very talented."
"I'm still annoying," Miu said cheerfully, which got a shrug of agreement from the sword master.
Then came the next challenge: weighted clothing.
Shigure tightened small bands around Honoka's arms and legs—nothing too heavy, just enough to add resistance to her movement. "Adjust. Then throw."
"You're really good at saying short scary sentences," Honoka muttered.
Honoka trained hard. Her arms shook every time she threw another wooden knife. Her fingers ached. Her back hurt. And she may or may not have declared eternal war on one particularly smug-looking target that refused to be hit.
But every time she improved—even just a little—Miu would smile and give her a thumbs up. And Shigure would give a silent nod that might've actually meant she was impressed.
By the end of the day, Honoka managed to land three direct hits on the target.
"Nice," Miu said.
"Acceptable," Shigure offered.
"Legendary," Honoka declared, collapsing onto the grass with a dramatic sigh.