The training ground was silent except for the steady rhythm of fists striking a wooden post. Each impact was sharp, like a hammer on steel. Sweat rolled down Hiro's face, dripping onto the dusty ground. His knuckles had split open hours ago, but he didn't stop. Pain was part of the process a sign that he was pressing beyond comfort.
The air was cold, the kind of chill that seeped into your lungs with every breath. But Hiro welcomed it. It kept him alert. In the world of shinobi, conditions were never perfect.
"Your form's cleaner today," a voice remarked from the side.
It was Might Duy. He was leaning casually against a tree, his ever-present grin in place. Despite his cheerful demeanor, Hiro had learned not to underestimate the man. There was a raw, disciplined strength beneath that smile.
"Cleaner doesn't mean stronger," Hiro said, continuing his strikes. "I still can't generate enough force to keep up with the Leaf genin, let alone a jonin."
Duy walked closer, watching Hiro's movements like a craftsman inspecting a blade. "Strength isn't just about muscles. It's about control. Even with the Eight Gates, I wouldn't last a minute against a skilled opponent if my control slipped."
Hiro stopped and turned toward him. "That's why I'm trying to integrate techniques from my old world Taekwondo kicks for reach, Muay Thai knees for close range, wrestling for throws… but it's not syncing yet."
Duy nodded thoughtfully. "That's because you're still treating them as separate. Here, everything must flow. Shinobi battles aren't staged matches. They're chaos. You need to be able to move from one style to another without thinking."
That hit Hiro hard. In MMA, he had always switched consciously adjusting stance, distance, tempo. But here, there would be no time for that.
Duy gestured toward a small training dummy made of bundled straw. "Try this: for the next week, every strike must chain into a different type of strike. A punch into a kick, a kick into an elbow, an elbow into a throw. No repeats, no pauses."
Hiro walked toward the dummy, feeling the weight of the challenge. His MMA instincts told him to optimize for power or position, but Duy's approach demanded adaptability over everything else.
He started slow. Jab low kick clinch knee hip throw. Then again. Cross spinning back kick elbow sweep. The movements were messy at first, transitions awkward. But after a dozen tries, his body began to anticipate without conscious thought.
By nightfall, his arms and legs felt heavy, but his breathing was steady. This was different from his old training. In MMA, exhaustion meant the session was nearly over. Here, exhaustion was just the beginning.
Duy clapped him on the shoulder. "Good. When your body moves without your mind's interference, that's when you'll start to touch the essence of the Gates."
Hiro stared at him. "You've opened them before?"
Duy's smile didn't fade, but there was a shadow in his eyes. "Yes. And it nearly killed me. The Eight Gates aren't just a technique they're a pact you make with yourself. To go beyond human limits… at a cost."
Hiro didn't ask more. He understood. Every martial artist knew the temptation to push too far, to sacrifice long-term health for a moment of power. But here, the stakes were higher. The cost wasn't years of pain it could be instant death.
Still, the thought of it ignited something in him. If mastering the Gates was possible, even for a few seconds…
That night, Hiro didn't sleep right away. He sat cross-legged on the floor of his small apartment, eyes closed, visualizing every movement he had practiced. He imagined blending them a taekwondo roundhouse flowing into a Muay Thai elbow, into a judo throw, into a handstand kick he'd once seen in capoeira.
By dawn, he had a plan. He would master flow before he chased the Gates. And when the time came, he would open them on his own terms.
Because in this world, his fists alone had to be enough.