Raizen followed Jairo and Taro into the family dojo.
It was big enough to swallow noise. Cedar beams ran the length of the ceiling. Light slid across a floor polished by years of feet. The west wall was a clean line of steel—tantō, short blades, spears—oiled and set at perfect angles. Barrels of kunai and shuriken sat by the racks like quiet wells. On the north wall, training dummies stood in a row. Their canvas skins were cut and stitched, wood showing in thin scars. You could read old lessons in those marks.
They stepped all the way in. Jairo didn't waste the walk.
"We have three months to turn your blind eye into a weapon," he said, voice even. "Taro and I built the plan. You show up. You do the work."
Three months. The words snagged on Raizen's ribs. He didn't ask why. Not yet. He pushed the question down and asked the one he could use.
"What kind of training?"
"Every morning starts the same," Jairo said. "Sensory warm-up."
Taro pulled a pouch from his sleeve, pinched it open, and let a handful of coins clatter into his palm. He walked the room and dropped them one by one—some near, some far, some high on window ledges, one low under a bench. The metal made small, neat sounds against wood and stone.
Jairo pointed to the center of the mat. "Stand there. Don't turn unless I tell you."
He held up another coin between two fingers. "When you hear a chime, call it. High or low. Near or far. Direction like a clock. Then you can turn and check."
Raizen stepped to the mark. The dojo smelled like oil and cedar. His heartbeat felt loud.
"This is why," Jairo said, softer. "Your eyes are down one. Your ears are not. We're going to make them work for you. You'll learn the room before you look at it."
Taro flicked the first coin—just a quick tap against wood somewhere to Raizen's left. A sharp ring, then quiet.
"Call it," Jairo said.
Raizen breathed once. "Low. Near. Nine o'clock."
"Turn," Jairo said.
Raizen turned. The coin winked under the bench, exactly where the sound had been.
"Good," Jairo said. "Again."
Another chime, higher this time. Raizen listened for the echo, for the way air changed when metal sang against stone.
"High. Far. One o'clock."
"Turn."
Right again.
Taro's mouth ticked. He scattered three coins fast—left, right, behind—each a different height, each a different distance.
"Don't chase noise," Jairo said. "Hear the room."
Raizen set his feet and let the dojo talk. He called what he heard. High. Low. Near. Far. Nine. Four. Eleven. He was wrong sometimes. He corrected. He kept his voice steady.
"That's day one," Jairo said when the pouch was empty. "Tomorrow we add movement. After that, walls and corners. You'll learn to make the blind side move first."
Taro toed a coin back into his hand. "And when the bell rings out there," he said, nodding toward the village, "you'll be early to it."
Raizen nodded once. Three months still sat in his chest like a weight, but it was a weight he could lift.
"Again?" he asked.
"Again," Jairo said.
They kept at the coin drill for half an hour until Raizen's throat was dry from calling directions. Every mistake felt louder than the chimes themselves.
Jairo finally raised a hand. "Good. But if you want to survive the next stage, you'll need hundred percent accuracy. No guessing. No close-enough. In a fight, close-enough gets you killed."
Raizen swallowed hard. He didn't want to ask what came next, but his father told him anyway.
"The next part still uses sound. But now we fight. Either me or Taro will face you, and we'll switch often. We'll tie bells to our wrists and ankles. At first, no strikes—just movement. You learn the rhythm before we test you with blows."
Taro wordlessly tied a bell around his left wrist and another around his left ankle. The soft jingle sounded harmless. Then he began to circle Raizen. Slow. Measured. A flick of the wrist—chime. A brush of the ankle—chime. The sound bounced through the dojo, filling corners Raizen couldn't see.
At first Raizen tried to cheat—eyes darting, head swiveling to track Taro. Jairo's voice cut sharp: "No." He stepped forward, pulled a strip of black cloth from his sleeve, and tied it over Raizen's eyes.
"Now," Jairo said, "listen properly."
The world went dark.
The bells became everything. Each note was thin, quick, and slippery. Was that behind him at six? Or sliding to the side at eight? The further away Taro moved, the harder it was to judge. Sometimes Raizen called it wrong—"high left" when it was really "low left"—and Taro's footsteps made the mistake feel heavy.
But he kept calling. "Three o'clock… low. Nine o'clock… high." Wrong half the time. Closer on the next try. Then right. Then right again.
He pressed on, sweat at his temple under the blindfold. Every failure was a bite to his pride. Every correction was a promise: Try again. Try again.
And he did.
By the end of the day Raizen was tired and being haunted by the sounds of coins and bells, but as he laid in his bed he though that if he keeps following this training he would definitely be in a much better place and maybe he might even be able to get his first win in the academy.
Week 1 — Coins & Hearing
They started with the coin sensory drill.
Taro scattered coins around the dojo—high, low, near, far.
Raizen stood still, called the location (high/low, near/far, clock direction), then turned to check.
The first days were rough. He guessed a lot. He wanted to look. Jairo tied the blindfold tighter and said, "Eyes are down one. Ears are up two."
By midweek, Raizen began to hear the room, not just the noise—echo, height, the way metal hits wood vs stone.
By the end of the week, Jairo timed him and called it: "About seventy percent accurate. Good enough to add more."
Small win: he could now say "Low, far, nine o'clock," and be right more often than wrong.
⸻
Week 2 — Bells & Guard
Jairo added the bell awareness and bell guard drills.
• Taro tied small bells to his left wrist and ankle (Raizen's blind side).
• He circled slowly, flicking a wrist or ankle.
• Raizen had to call the cue and set the right guard:
• Wrist bell (high) → shell (right forearm to temple)
• Ankle bell (low) → shin check or knee bump
No strikes yet. Just sound → guard.
At first he was late. The shell came up after the chime. The check missed and his shin paid for it.
He repeated until his body moved as he spoke. The guards got faster and smaller. No big swings. No panic.
Takeaway: bells = automatic guard. The blind side started to feel covered instead of empty.
⸻
Week 3 — Six Tools, Nothing Fancy
Taro gave him a tiny toolbox: jab, short cross, palm heel, elbow, knee, shin check.
"Small and honest," Taro said. "If it's big, it's wrong."
They drilled on dummies for hours every day:
• Jab: straight line, hand snaps back.
• Short cross: compact—no windup.
• Palm heel: jaw/ear—safe wrist, shakes the head.
• Elbow: short, from the frame.
• Knee: to the thigh—stop the advance.
• Shin check: meet kick with bone, not hope.
Hands kept dropping when he got tired; Taro tapped his gloves with a stick until they stayed home.
By week's end, the six tools felt natural. No flourish. All function.
Now when a bell rang high, Raizen could shell and add a short cross to the body without thinking. When it rang low, he checked shin and bumped a knee back.
⸻
Week 4 — Headlock Survival
Last, they introduced headlock survival.
Taro wrapped him from the side—sometimes loose, sometimes tight, sometimes wrong on purpose to trick him.
Raizen panicked the first few reps and thrashed himself off balance.
Jairo stopped him. "Only three moves," he said.
Ear to sky. Hand to far hip. Step through and peel.
They put a timer on it.
• Day 1: 4–5 seconds with ugly scrambles.
• Midweek: 3.2–3.5 on average.
• End of week: about 2.8–3.0, clean when he remembered to breathe.
The headlock stopped feeling like "I'm dead" and started feeling like a rest stop—a place for one breath and one simple escape.
⸻
Where he stood after 4 weeks
• Coin accuracy: ~70–80% on demand (up from guessing).
• Bell → guard: automatic shell/check on the chime; faster each day.
• Six tools: compact strikes feel natural; no big swings.
• Headlock: escapes under 3 seconds on good reps; panic fading.
Weeks 5–8 — Application
Week 5 — Bell Combat & Bruises
The bells started to mean real hits.
Wrist chime → light jab from the left.
Ankle chime → low kick or sweep.
Raizen got tagged a lot the first day. He kept chasing hands.
Jairo stopped the round. "Hands lie. Hips don't. That's why Tetsuo walked you—jab high, kick low. Move on the belt, not the fist."
They ran it again. If the hip turned left, Raizen shelled and slid 45°. If the hip dipped, he shin-checked and knee-bumped. One short counter only—body jab or short cross. No haymakers.
By week's end, he was still getting touched, but less. The answers were smaller and earlier.
⸻
Week 6 — Hip Reading & Doorways
This week was about not biting.
Taro threw big, sloppy hand feints on purpose. Raizen wasn't allowed to move until the hip committed. If he flinched, Jairo cracked the staff on the floor—wrong cue.
It felt wrong to wait while a hand flashed at his good eye. He learned anyway.
Hold on the fake. Move on the turn.
Shell, slide, short counter. Done.
They added doorframe pummels. Narrow space. One rule: keep a calf or shoulder on the frame.
Post. Wedge. Turn. When Taro shoved left, Raizen used the frame like a fifth limb and stole the angle back. The hallway stopped being a trap.
⸻
Week 7 — Blind-Side Trap
They turned the left from a hole into bait.
"Leave a sliver open," Jairo said. "Not a door. A window. Make them think they found it."
Taro took the bait. Raizen met it with a high shell, drove his left shoulder through the sternum, and slid out on the 45°. One body jab and he was gone.
First tries were too big—he left a door and ate a punch. He cut the gap down to almost nothing and the trap started to snap.
They repeated until the sequence felt like closing a drawer: bait → shell → shoulder bump → exit. No chasing. No pride.
⸻
Week 8 — Rhythm-Break Striking
"Attack off sound, not sight," Jairo said.
If Taro's breath sharpened, Raizen touched a palm heel on that inhale.
If a step squeaked, he sent a short cross during the step.
If a bell chimed, he hit a beat after, not before. No windups. Only the six tools.
He threw less and landed more. Small, mean, on time.
They layered chaos once: Jairo tapped random sticks and coins to flood the room. Raizen moved on a couple of fakes and got clipped. He reset, watched hips, and the fakes got quiet.
⸻
Where he stood after 8 weeks
• Bell combat: blocking + one short counter on most chimes; still late when tired.
• Hip reading: waits through fakes; moves on hips; far fewer bites.
• Doorframe pummels: frame feels like a fifth limb; turns out of corners without panic.
• Blind-side trap: works at practice pace; landed a few at spar pace.
• Rhythm strikes: fewer punches, better timing; no big swings.
• Breath/Seal: mostly cool in drills, a few warm ticks under pressure; "Seven" + exhale brings it down.
Dojo.
Taro's wrist bell chimed—high left. Raizen's forearm snapped up, blocking the strike aimed at his head. He fired back with a palm heel to the gut, but Taro caught the counter, twisted it aside, and left Raizen's chest wide open. A quick feint flashed toward his blind eye.
For a heartbeat Raizen almost bit on it—but then he remembered the lesson. Hands lie. Hips don't. He read the shift in Taro's waist, checked low with his shin, and shot a jab. Taro's guard snapped up in time.
They reset.
Taro circled like a shark, bells jingling. Raizen forced himself not to follow with his eyes. He closed them halfway, listening. A bell chimed sharp behind him—strike at the back of his head. Raizen ducked under at the last second, then spun, leg sweeping the space. Taro danced out of reach, but Raizen planted, pushed off the ground, and rushed.
The two traded in a blur—jab, check, elbow, counter—but every strike met a block, every step was answered. The rhythm was brutal, like the dojo itself was keeping time.
Then came the hardest test—a bell on his blind side. His heart spiked. For a split-second panic pressed in. He threw his guard up clumsy, almost too slow. Taro's jab skimmed past—but Raizen managed to slip under and find daylight again.
That was when another sound cut in. A heavier chime.
His father had joined.
Raizen's breath caught, then steadied. He cleared his mind. Seven.
Now the room filled with noise. A coin clattering. A stick tapping. Chimes scattered across the walls. Taro was trying to flood him with distractions. Raizen clenched his jaw. Ignore everything but the bell.
It came low and fast. He reacted, meeting Jairo's leg sweep with a sharp knee that killed its power. He chained a feint low, jabbed high—but Jairo read it clean, ducking and unleashing a string of punches.
The bells shrieked in chorus.
Raizen froze, overwhelmed. He panicked, throwing up a sloppy guard. Not the compact guard he'd drilled, but a desperate shield. Jairo punished it. A gut punch slammed him down, then his father swept his legs out and clamped a headlock tight.
For a moment, the world spun.
Then Raizen forced his breath into rhythm. Ear to sky. Hand to hip. Step. Peel. He slipped free—faster than ever before. His chest burned, but he was out. He drew his fist back to counter—
Clang.
The clock rang out. Session over.
Raizen dropped to his knees, chest heaving. Sweat rolled down his face, and the bells still seemed to echo in his ears. His father watched, unreadable. Taro smirked, twirling the loose bell strap in his hand.
The training wasn't about winning. It was about not breaking under the noise.
And for the first time, Raizen realized just how much further he had to go.
Raizen pulled the blindfold up and sucked in air like he'd been drowning. Sweat slicked his hair to his forehead. His ribs ached where his father's fist had landed.
Jairo stood over him, arms crossed. "You panicked," he said flatly. "The second the bells stacked, you froze. That guard you threw up wasn't the one we drilled. It was messy. Desperate."
Raizen's hands curled into fists. "I… I know."
"Knowing isn't enough," Jairo said. "You can't let sound turn into noise. You hear one bell, you answer it. You hear ten bells, you still answer one at a time. No panic. No scatter."
Raizen dropped his head, shame burning hotter than the ache in his gut.
Taro crouched beside him, tossing the wrist bell lightly in his palm. "But you didn't break," he said. "That sloppy guard? Ugly, yeah. But it kept you on your feet long enough to breathe again. And when he trapped you—" Taro gave a low whistle. "Fastest I've ever seen you peel a headlock."
Raizen looked up. "Faster than last time?"
"Record time," Taro said with a grin. "You finally trusted the steps instead of flailing."
Jairo's face didn't soften, but his voice did, just a little. "Progress doesn't excuse mistakes. But it proves you can move forward. You ignored Taro's coin trick. You checked my sweep with a knee instead of eating it. You slipped the hold clean."
He leaned closer. "Don't forget this part, Raizen. Struggle isn't failure. Struggle is how you build a weapon out of what used to be a wound."
Raizen nodded, breathing steady now. The bells were still ringing faint in his ears, but instead of drowning him, they sounded like a challenge.
"Again?" he asked, voice hoarse but firm.
Jairo's eyes narrowed. Then, for the first time that day, he gave a small nod.
"Again."