A kid ran up to Aragorn and shoved a bokken into his hands, grinning ear to ear as if he couldn't wait to see Aragorn smashed into the dirt.
Aragorn accepted the wooden sword, turning it over in his grip. He tested the weight, the balance, and the feel against his palm before stepping forward. Stopping five meters away from the oddly proportioned Caba, he exhaled slowly and let his body move on its own.
His stance settled naturally: legs spread evenly, shoulders loose, the bokken raised high with the edge angled inward but facing away from his face.
The old instructor, who had been lazily stroking his beard with amusement, froze mid-motion. His smile slipped the instant he saw the stance. His eyes narrowed slightly, but he said nothing.
Instead, his voice rang out, calm but commanding: "Engage."
Both boys gave a sharp nod.
"GYAAAAHH!" Caba bellowed, charging with all the bluster of a bull. He lifted his bokken high overhead and swung down with a clumsy but forceful slash.
Aragorn didn't flinch. He let the blow come.
At the last instant, his own blade tilted, guiding Caba's strike along its length. The momentum carried harmlessly to the side. Aragorn twisted his wrist, shoved Caba's weapon away, and stepped in—bringing his bokken down in a sharp crack against the boy's oversized head.
Caba yelped, clutching his skull as he stumbled backward. His eyes watered red, and his face twisted with rage as he raised his weapon again.
But before he could lunge, the old instructor raised a hand, his tone leaving no room for debate. "The match is over."
Caba froze. Reluctance burned in his eyes, but he knew better than to argue. With a scowl, he backed away, still rubbing his head.
The dojo fell silent. All around, the kids who had been snickering earlier now gawked at Aragorn with wide eyes. The instructor, meanwhile, studied the boy intently—his earlier amusement replaced by something far more serious.
The instructor's serious expression faded the moment Aragorn's eyes met his. With a slow nod and a stroke of his beard, the old man finally said, "Not bad, kid. I will gracefully allow you into my dojo."
Aragorn gave a small nod of his own. "Thank you, old man."
In a blur, the instructor vanished from his spot and reappeared in front of him, bokken raised.
It was so fast Aragorn's heart lurched. His Observation Haki flared on instinct, and his body shifted before he could think.
The strike whistled past his head—almost. The tip of the bokken smacked against his forehead with a sharp thwack.
"GAH!" Aragorn clutched his forehead, glaring up through watery eyes.
"What the hell is wrong with you, old fart?!"
The dojo erupted in laughter, but the instructor only barked out his own amused chuckle. "It ain't 'old man' to you, brat. From now on, it's Teacher Mitsu!"
Though he looked casual, Mitsu's mind was anything but.
'Those instincts… that reaction. A five-year-old shouldn't be able to nearly avoid my strike. What kind of monster is this kid?'
Aragorn rubbed his forehead, scowling, but then gave a reluctant nod.
"…Fine. Teacher Mitsu."
Mitsu grinned, his beard twitching as he stroked it again.
"Good. Now, tell me—do you have any parents, kid? And what's your name?"
Aragorn shook his head.
"I live in the orphanage nearby. My name's Aragorn."
"Aragorn, eh? Hmph. From today on, you'll train here. Don't disappoint me, brat."
Aragorn gave a small nod, but inside, his mind whispered another command.
Status.
Name: [Mitsu Nagori]
Race: Human
Title: Sword Instructor
Class: Retired Marine
Attributes:STR: ??
DEX: ??
CON: ??
INT: ??
Skills:[Geppo]
[Rankyaku]
[Soru]
Talents:
[Mild Sword Talent]
Aragorn's eyes narrowed slightly.
'A retired Marine… and he knows three of the Rokushiki. No wonder his movements felt like teleportation. His physical stats must completely dwarf mine. Of course… that's only natural.'
Despite Mitsu acting as if Aragorn was nothing more than another brat in the dojo, his actions said otherwise. The old man even walked with him to the orphanage. He bowed his head before Dama, the caretaker, and personally asked that Aragorn be allowed to train under him.
Dama had been thrilled—her wrinkled face lighting up at the thought of Aragorn finding a path, a place to belong. But her joy was tinged with worry.
"The fees, I… I couldn't possibly—"
Mitsu waved her words away as if he were swatting a fly.
"Fees? Pah! You speak as though I'm asking for the deed to a castle. The boy will train for free."
From then on, Aragorn's days changed.
Every morning, without exception, he was required at the dojo by six. The drills were mercilessly simple, yet exhausting:
One hundred strikes each,
straight down.
Straight up.
Diagonal down-right.
Diagonal down-left.
Diagonal up-right.
Diagonal up-left.
Horizontal left.
Horizontal right.
Eight hundred swings. Every. Single. Day.
The wood of the bokken blistered his hands. His shoulders ached. His body screamed at him. But Aragorn gritted his teeth and swung again, and again, and again.
Each strike echoed through the dojo like a drumbeat, slowly forging his foundation.
Every single strike was watched by Mitsu himself. A single mistake—be it the angle, the grip, or the rhythm—and Aragorn received a sharp smack across the shoulders from his teacher's bokken.
But those mistakes were rare. Aragorn had a strange, terrifying knack: once he performed a strike correctly, he never repeated the error again.
The more Mitsu watched, the deeper the lines on his forehead became—not from anger, but from shock.
'This brat… his body is weak, but his sword… his sword is already sharp as boys twice, three times his age.'
There was no mercy in the schedule.
Aragorn was forbidden from eating until all eight hundred strikes were finished flawlessly. Only then was he rewarded with a steaming bowl piled high with rice and meat. At first, Aragorn thought it was a luxury meal—better than anything the orphanage kitchen had ever offered him. But as days passed, he realized something alarming: his appetite was growing. No matter how much Mitsu fed him, his stomach seemed to demand more, as though the training had awakened a bottomless hunger.
And the food was only the beginning.
Once the bowl was empty, Mitsu sent him outside for conditioning.
Tires strapped to his waist as he ran through the dirt yard until his legs burned. Push-ups until his arms shook. Sprints until his lungs felt like they were on fire.
There were no breaks, no soft words, and no mercy.
At times, Aragorn felt less like a student and more like a slave being ground into dust. But Mitsu knew what he was doing.
The old instructor had come to a conclusion, Aragorn was unlike anyone he had ever seen. Most students needed years to even grasp the basics of form and technique. They had the strength to wield a blade, but no gift for precision. Aragorn was the opposite. His talent was so overwhelming that he could master a stance or a form within a single day—but his frail body could never keep up.
So Mitsu pushed him. Harder in the body than in the sword. Because until Aragorn's flesh and bones could match his monstrous instinct, his talent would go to waste.