Ryu – 11 years and 8 months
The old man draws on the floor.
A long white line from the door inward. Then a second line crossing it, short, like a "T." Chalk dust floats in the air for a moment before settling into the cracks between the boards.
"Stand there," he says, tapping the center with the chalk.
Ryu steps onto the mark. The wood feels cool under his feet. He can still smell the street on himself: dust, oil, other people's sweat.
The old man straightens with a faint grunt. His joints creak more than the floor does.
"Show me," he says. "What he did. What you did. Don't dramatize it."
Ryu exhales slowly.
He adjusts his stance. Imagines Pit Lane: the door behind him, the three guys, the bag heavy on his arm.
"He stepped in from here," Ryu says, nodding at the chalk line. "Weight forward, hand reaching—"
"Don't explain," the old man interrupts. "Do."
Ryu shuts his mouth.
He lets his right arm hang as if it's holding the bag. He takes a half-step back into where his body remembers being. Then he sees it again: the hand coming at his shoulder.
His feet move.
Small step to the right along the cross-line. Torso turning just enough. Left foot tapping forward and out, right hand lifting to where the shoulder shove would have landed.
He doesn't move fast. Just clean.
The old man watches every joint.
"And the break?" he asks.
Ryu taps lightly at an invisible shin with his toes, then gives a short, practiced push at an invisible shoulder.
His balance stays under him. No overreach. No big twist.
He resets, weight back in the middle.
He can feel his own pulse in his fingers.
The old man squints, frowning. It's his default expression, but it sharpens now.
"That's what you did?" he asks.
"Pretty close," Ryu says. "He didn't fall. Just stumbled a step."
"Good," the old man says. "If he'd fallen, we'd be having a different conversation."
He tosses the chalk onto the counter with a soft clack and steps into the chalk lines facing Ryu.
"Again," he says. "This time, I'm him."
He reaches out without warning, hand going for Ryu's shoulder.
Ryu's breath catches for half a second, but his feet move before his brain finishes swearing. Step out along the line. Torso turns. The grab slides past where his shoulder was.
He feels the opening.
Tap at the shin. Short push at the shoulder.
The old man's foot slides half a length. He doesn't let it turn into a full stumble. His weight catches smoothly.
He nods once.
"Better than the idiot outside Ragos," he says. "He didn't know his own center. I do."
"Flex," Ryu says.
The old man ignores that.
"You did three things right," he says. "You didn't panic. You didn't back straight up. You didn't try to punch first."
He holds up a finger for each.
"You picked the right problem," he goes on. "Not his hand. His balance."
He lets his hand drop.
"Most kids your age swing wild," he says. "That gets them lucky once and dead the second time. You didn't swing. You used the floor instead. That's Hongan-ryu."
Something in Ryu's chest unknots a little at that.
"That almost sounded like a compliment," he says.
"Don't get used to it," the old man says. "Now we make sure it wasn't luck."
He steps closer, just inside arm's reach.
"New drill," he says. "I grab. Front, side, shoulder, shirt. You don't leave the lines. You don't hit. You only break my balance. If you panic and flail, we start over."
"Love this," Ryu mutters, flexing his fingers.
"I'm sure you do," the old man says.
He moves.
Hand at the collar. Ryu steps sideways, pulling slightly with the grip while nudging the old man's hip with his elbow. There's the small shift as the man's weight adjusts.
"Half," the old man says. "Not enough to matter. Again."
Grab at the upper arm. Ryu lets the grip pull him a little, then rotates his center a fraction and nudges the foot that just took weight.
The old man's back foot slides this time. He recovers instantly, but the slip is real.
"Better," he says. "You're starting to feel when I'm committed."
His grip changes each time. Sleeve, shoulder, back of the neck. No pattern. Ryu's legs burn from the constant small adjustments, but he stays inside the chalk, breath controlled.
After a while, sweat is running down his temple. His shirt clings to his back. His lungs work harder, but his head stays clear.
The old man finally lets go and steps back, rolling his shoulders.
"You're not just memorizing drills anymore," he says. "Your body is starting to read weight. That's what I wanted."
He walks to the counter, grabs a rag, wipes his hands, then tosses the rag aside.
"Go see your alley teachers tonight," he says. "Use your head. I want to see how Hongan-ryu looks against someone who actually tries to hit you."
"You gonna watch?" Ryu asks.
"If I wanted to see adults swinging badly, I'd go back to the tower," the old man says. "I'll ask you tomorrow. Don't lie."
Ryu snorts.
"I don't lie," he says. "I just edit."
"Get out," the old man says, but there's a faint, ghostlike hint of amusement in his eyes.
The alley is cooler than the streets. The sun sits lower, turning the top of the buildings dull gold and leaving the ground in shadow.
Kain and Bruk are already there.
Kain leans against the wall, arms folded, one foot braced behind him. Short dark hair, tired eyes, jaw like someone carved it out of stone and forgot to file the edges.
Bruk sits on an overturned crate, rolling his shoulders, back straight despite the casual pose. Broader shoulders, thicker arms, slower speech. Less slow thinking than people assume.
"You're late," Kain says as Ryu steps in.
"Old man decided today was 'free torture upgrade' day," Ryu says. "Time got blurry."
Bruk snorts.
"You look less dead than your last torture upgrade," he says. "Progress."
Ryu drops his small bag at the edge of the wall and starts stretching his wrists and neck.
"Any news?" he asks.
Kain shrugs.
"Same gangs. Same people yelling. Same idiots in the pit thinking they're the main act in their own story," he says. "Heard about your little dance at Pit Lane, though."
Ryu pauses mid-stretch.
"Already?" he asks.
Bruk taps his temple with two fingers.
"Word travels fast," he says. "Ragos doesn't like people loitering by his door. He likes kids who don't fall over when pushed."
"He shouldn't like me too much," Ryu says. "I'm still small."
"Small and hard to shove is more useful than big and stupid," Kain says. "But don't get excited. You're still in 'annoying child' tier."
"Reassuring," Ryu says.
Kain pushes off the wall and rolls his neck until it crackles.
"Warm-up's over," he says. "We're doing rounds. Bruk first. Then me."
Bruk stands, shaking out his arms.
"Hands only," he says. "Half power. You try your new balance nonsense. We try to bully you. Fair?"
"As fair as this alley gets," Ryu says.
They move to the middle. Ground uneven. A couple of small stones. Wall close enough to be a problem if he's dumb.
Bruk lifts his guard, shoulders high but not stiff.
"Ready?" he asks.
"Not really," Ryu says.
"Good," Bruk says, and steps in.
Bruk's punches are heavy even when he's holding back. Ryu feels the first one through his forearms like someone thumped a plank against him.
He doesn't stay still.
He lets the hit push him a little, then steps along an angle instead of directly back, like the tape in the shop taught him. His center stays under him. He never lets his feet cross.
Bruk keeps coming. Short hooks, straight shots to the chest, enough pressure that Ryu can't just run away.
Ryu's breathing picks up. Sweat beads on his forehead. But his head stays clear enough to see small things:
The way Bruk's shoulders bunch right before a body shot.The tiny drop in his elbow before a hook.Where his weight lands after each step.
Ryu doesn't trade. He blocks, parries, steps. He uses the side line more now, not just back and forth.
Twice, he catches a moment where Bruk over-commits and his center drifts.
Twice, Ryu taps his leg or shoulder to "break," just like in the shop.
He doesn't follow through with real hits. Not yet.
After a few minutes, Bruk steps back and blows out a breath.
"Enough," he says. "Switch. I'm bored."
He's sweating too. Not much. But more than before.
Kain steps up, rubbing his jaw like he's already annoyed.
"My turn," he says.
His stance is lighter. Less planted, more quick.
"Same rules?" Ryu asks.
"Same for me," Kain says. "Different for you. You can throw back this time. Light. I want to see where your head's at."
"Dangerous sentence," Ryu says.
Kain lifts his guard.
"Come find out," he says.
They circle.
Kain moves in first, as always. Testing jabs, quick steps, feet light. Ryu feels old habits trying to pull him to retreat straight back.
He kills them.
Side step. Tiny forward step with guard tight. He remembers the chalk under his feet, the lines guiding him.
A jab whistles past his ear when he shifts his head instead of his whole torso. He feels the breeze, not the impact.
He sees it then: Kain's front leg a bit too far, weight slightly ahead, torso just a bit open.
That small break.
His fist twitches. He sends a short jab at Kain's chest. Nothing big. Just a reminder.
It lands.
Not hard. Not enough to move Kain. But clean.
Kain's eyes narrow a little.
They keep going.
Ryu lands a few more like that: short, efficient shots sparingly used, mostly to mark openings he sees. He never chases. Never throws more than one or two at a time.
When Kain corners him, Ryu doesn't panic now. He steps off the line, shoulder checking out of tight spots, sometimes using a small hip bump to slide along the wall instead of being pinned flat.
Kain feels the difference. Ryu can tell by the way the older boy's mouth compresses.
Eventually, Kain drops his hands a little and steps back.
"Enough," he says.
His breathing is slightly heavier. Not much. But noticeable.
Ryu's chest rises and falls fast. Sweat runs down the side of his face. His arms feel heavy.
He kind of likes it.
Bruk grabs a bottle and tosses it to Ryu. He catches it clumsily and takes a long drink, cool water hitting a dry throat.
Kain leans against the wall again, but his eyes are sharper now.
"You're starting to be irritating," he says.
"Only starting?" Ryu says.
Kain scratches at his jaw.
"You're not just surviving anymore," he says. "You're managing space. Using angles. Making us fix our feet."
"Old man says if your feet are wrong, your face follows," Ryu says.
"He's not wrong," Bruk says. "Still hate that he's right."
Kain looks at Ryu for a long moment.
"You know what this means, right?" he asks.
"That I'm finally allowed to be smug?" Ryu says.
Kain doesn't smile.
"It means you're getting noticeable," he says. "To people who watch. To people who like finding talent. To people who sell talent."
Bruk's expression darkens a bit.
"Owners," he says. "Fixers. Guys who pretend they run 'sports' but just run meat into walls."
Ryu's stomach tightens.
"I'm not stepping into their pits," he says.
"For now," Kain says. "But when someone sees a kid your size make older boys stumble and not lose his head, they start making plans. Not always with you involved in the planning."
Ryu looks at his own hands.
Small. Calloused. Not dangerous-looking yet.
He already knew this, in theory. But hearing it like this, after feeling Kain's weight check him for real, lands different.
"I'll be careful," he says.
"Be boring when you can," Kain says. "Save 'impressive' for when you get paid or when your life's actually on the line."
Bruk points a thumb at him.
"What he means is," he says, "don't turn every idiot confrontation into a showcase. You did fine at Pit Lane. Don't start performing."
"Got it," Ryu says.
He does get it. Mostly. It still itches under his skin, the urge to test himself harder. But he's not stupid enough to say that out loud.
He grabs his bag at the edge of the wall and slings it over his shoulder.
"Same time tomorrow?" he asks.
"If you're not dead," Kain says.
"If you are dead, tell us how you did it," Bruk adds.
Ryu snorts and heads out of the alley, legs pleasantly heavy.
He walks home with measured steps. Forward. Side. Little adjustments. People pass him. Cars rumble by. Somewhere, a train horn cuts through the city noise.
He feels stronger.
Not strong enough for the exam. Not strong enough for people who bend rules in ways he hasn't touched yet.
But he's on the line now.
And he's not falling off it easily.