Two things happen the week after I watch Kain and Bruk spar:
My stance in the mirror looks slightly less pathetic.
I get reminded that copying a stance isn't the same as knowing what you're doing.
I start small.
In my room at night, I stand in front of the cracked window, barefoot on creaking floorboards, trying to mimic what I saw.
Feet shoulder-width apart. Back heel not flat, weight on the balls of my feet. Hands up, one slightly ahead of the other. Chin tucked instead of proudly exposed like an idiot.
It feels weird at first.
My body wants to square up, plant both feet flat like I'm holding a sack, not facing a punch. I force it into that slight angle I saw on Kain: less target, more mobility.
I throw slow jabs at the air. Turn the shoulder. Guard hand comes back to my cheek. Elbows in so I'm not a walking skeleton ready to be snapped.
It's clumsy. But less clumsy than before.
I practice pivots. Tiny steps. No big lunges.
Left foot turns. Right follows. Hands stay up.
My arms burn. Legs too. Different muscle groups than push-ups and squats.
Good. New pain means new progress.
Three days later, the city decides to test all that.
I'm running a delivery for Haim. Not a big one. Just a repaired valve in a wrapped bundle, plus an envelope with a small invoice inside.
Client's near the edge of the lower market, close to where the stalls start to thin out and the buildings get more desperate.
The market is loud: people shouting, bargaining, swearing. Carts squeak. Kids weave between legs. Someone's frying something that might be meat.
I keep my bag close, valve tucked under my arm. I move with purpose. People who know where they're going get bothered less.
The client is a water vendor with a storage shed behind his stall. I knock, hand over the valve, get a quick grunt of satisfaction and a couple of coins in return.
"One for the repair, one for the kid," he says. "Workshop does good work."
"I'll tell him," I say.
I slide the coins into my pocket next to the envelope with the invoice receipt. That's when I make the mistake.
I decide to shortcut.
Instead of going back through the busy market, I cut down a side street between two stalled buildings. It's one I've used before. Narrow. Less noise. Faster.
Halfway down, my brain finally coughs up a memory: Avoid quiet path when carrying money.
Helpful. Late.
There's a figure at the far end. Leaning against the wall, half-shadowed, like a bad cliché.
He pushes off the wall as I approach.
Older than me, obviously. Maybe thirteen. Long-limbed, cheap jacket, the kind of skinny that comes from bad food and too much moving. His eyes flick to my bag, then my hands, then my pockets.
"Hey," he says.
"Hi," I say. I don't stop walking.
He steps sideways, blocking more of the path.
"You from Haim's?" he asks.
"That's an oddly specific guess," I say.
"Seen you go in there," he says. "Seen you come out. With packages. With envelopes."
His tone is casual. His body isn't. His weight shifts forward. Toes pointed at me. One hand loose, the other half-hidden behind his leg.
All right, my brain says. There it is. Problem.
I slow, but don't freeze. My heart rate picks up, but my thoughts don't scatter this time. Not completely.
Calm voice: "Need something?"
"Yeah," he says. "I need work. But since I don't have it, I'll take money."
So direct. I almost respect it.
"That's unfortunate," I say. "Because I have both and I don't want to share."
He smiles, sharp and humorless.
"You can hand it over," he says. "Or I can take it, and you go home with a story and some bruises. Your choice."
I hate that he's not wrong.
Up close, I can see the faint scar on his knuckles. He's hit things before. Probably people. Definitely walls.
I could try talking my way out. Maybe point out that robbing someone connected to a known workshop is bad business. But his eyes have that hungry edge that doesn't listen well.
I ease my foot back a little. Subtle. I let my shoulders angle, same way I practiced in my room. Hands come up, not in a cartoon boxing pose, but closer. Guard up, elbows in.
His eyes flicker down for a second. He notices.
"You fight?" he asks, more curious than threatened.
"Badly," I say. "Working on that."
He laughs once.
"Good," he says. "I could use the warm-up."
He moves first.
At least he's honest about it.
He steps in with a shove aimed at my chest, trying to slam me into the wall. It's not a real strike, just a setup to unbalance me.
Old me would've eaten it full-on and pinballed off the bricks.
New me has watched men who know what they're doing and spent nights shadowboxing in a box.
I pivot.
Left foot turns. Right foot slides. I'm not there when his hands expect me.
His shove hits my shoulder instead of my center. I ride the impact, letting it skim past instead of resisting directly.
His eyes widen, just a fraction.
I use that second.
Sharp breath. Weight forward. Jab to his face.
It's not a knockout punch. I'm nine. My arms are strong, but he's taller, older, heavier. Still, my fist connects with his cheekbone.
His head snaps sideways. Not much. Enough.
He grunts, stumbles half a step.
Satisfaction flares in my chest. I almost smile.
Hey, my brain says. This stuff actually works—
Then the script runs out.
Because that's as far as my stolen, self-taught repertoire goes. Pivot. Guard. Jab.
What I do not have is the next ten moves. Combos. Follow-ups. Clinch work. What to do if someone doesn't just fall down and stay there like in my old cartoons.
He recovers fast.
His return punch is not wild. It's aimed.
He drives a hook toward my ribs.
I get my elbow down in time so it doesn't land clean, but it still feels like getting hit with a hammer. Pain blooms along my side. Air rushes out of my lungs.
Now my body wants to fold. Instinct screams: curl up, protect, make yourself small.
If I do, I'm dead.
So I force my legs to move instead.
Short step back. Guard up. Chin tucked.
He presses forward.
We trade space. He swings again—straight to my face this time. I see the shoulder twitch, the elbow rise.
I tilt my head, raise my guard. His fist slams into my forearms instead of my nose. The impact shudders down my arms. My fingers tingle.
He curses under his breath.
"You're annoying," he says.
"I try," I say. It comes out slightly wheezy.
He kicks at my shin.
That, I don't anticipate.
My leg takes the full hit. Pain spikes from ankle to knee. I stumble, weight shifting wrong. My back foot hits a loose stone and slides.
Bad.
He grabs the front of my shirt and slams me into the wall.
My skull bounces off brick. Stars pop at the edges of my vision. The valve in my bag digs into my side.
He yanks my shirt up with one hand, the other already going toward my pocket.
Reflex drowns thought.
I bring my knee up as hard as I can.
I'm not tall enough to hit his groin, but I don't need to. My kneecap smashes into his thigh instead, just above the knee. Where the big nerve cluster lives.
His leg buckles. His grip loosens. He swears properly this time.
I twist sideways, tearing my shirt out of his hand, and shove my shoulder into his chest.
He's heavier. I don't move him far. But it's enough to break the grip completely.
We stagger apart.
He's limping slightly now, teeth bared.
I'm panting, ribs screaming, shin throbbing, head ringing. My arms feel like they've been slamming into iron bars.
We stare at each other.
I could keep going.
He could keep going.
But we both hear it at the same time: footsteps, louder voices at the end of the street. Two people turning in, arguing about prices, dragging a cart.
Witnesses.
He flicks his eyes their way, then back to me.
"Not worth it," he mutters.
He spits on the ground, gives me a glare that promises "later, maybe," and limps off through a side gap between buildings, vanishing into the city's cracks.
I let myself sag against the wall for exactly three seconds.
Then I push off, straighten, adjust the bag, and walk.
Not run. Not stagger.
Walk.
I don't stop until I'm two streets away, in a slightly busier area with enough people that random beatdowns are less likely.
I slide into an alcove by a closed shop and do a quick inventory.
Head: tender. Minor bump. No blood.Ribs: bruised. Pain on breathing, but no sharp stab. Probably not broken.Shin: on fire. Definitely going to be an ugly color tomorrow.Hands: scraped knuckles, nothing serious.Money: still in pocket.Valve: still in bag. Untouched.
Objectively, I got off light.
Subjectively, everything hurts and my pride feels like someone dropped it in the canal.
I replay it in my head.
Pivot: good. Jab: decent. Guard: decent. Reaction to kicks: garbage. Clinch: nonexistent. Situational awareness: late but functional.
You didn't freeze, I tell myself. That's something. You also almost got folded because you ran out of moves after one punch.
Knowing how to stand and throw a jab bought me a few seconds.
It did not win the fight.
It barely kept me from losing it badly.
The idea of doing that against someone older, stronger, or actually trained is… stupid.
Hunters deal with people like that. And worse. With weapons. With abilities. With Nen.
I'm struggling with one half-trained teenager in a side street.
Good reality check.
Back at my room, I peel off my shirt and wince at the purple blooming along my ribs. The bruise on my shin looks like it's trying to qualify as modern art.
I splash cold water on my face and breathe through the sting.
Then I sit on the floor, notebook in my lap.
Under the "FIGHTING" section, I add:
– Stance & guard: helped.– First straight punch: landed.– Zero experience dealing with kicks and grabs.– Panic still there under control.– Outcome: survived, kept money, took damage.
Then, below that:
Conclusion:Watching is not enough.Need structured practice.Need someone to show me what happens after the first punch.Need to learn how to get up after being thrown.Need to learn when to run.
I tap the pencil against the page.
I can't afford real dojo fees. I can't walk up to fighters and say, "Teach me," without sounding like an idiot or a cop.
But I also can't keep pretending that I'll somehow pick this up by osmosis.
I close the notebook and lie back on the bed carefully, ribs protesting.
The ceiling stain is still there. Same shape. Same cracks.
Different me.
Before today, "I need training" was an abstract idea. A line in a list.
Now it's tactile. It's in the ache when I breathe and the memory of a fist slamming into my guard.
I stare at the ceiling and think of Kain and Bruk.
Their calm. Their balance. The way they reset after each exchange like they weren't constantly one mistake away from getting hurt.
Tomorrow, I'll go by that alley again.
Not to stare like a stray dog this time.
To ask.
Not for charity. For terms.
Because if I keep walking around with only half a script in my head, this city will finish the story for me. And I doubt I'll like the ending.