The small, heavy stones had become a second skin. Tucked into the pockets of his gi, they were a constant, invisible anchor, a personal crucible in which Haruki's determination was being forged. The secret training had consumed him. While the other children, and even Krillin, trained in focused bursts and then rested, Haruki's training never truly ended. He ate with the weight of the rocks, slept with them under his mat, and carried them through every waking moment of his day. His body, small and young as it was, was a machine of constant, low-grade suffering.
The results, however, were undeniable. When he removed the stones for a moment, his body felt impossibly light, his limbs floating with an unnatural ease. His movements, once clumsy and uncoordinated, now possessed a subtle grace. He could leap a foot higher and sprint a little faster. But this quiet triumph came at a heavy cost. His exhaustion was a permanent state. There were dark circles under his eyes, and his constant focus on his secret regimen made him less present during the temple's official training. He was a small, tightly coiled spring of kinetic energy, but the constant pressure had begun to fray his edges.
The Abbot, a man whose wisdom seemed to extend beyond the mortal realm, noticed the change. He saw the fire in Haruki's eyes, but he also saw the unshakeable weariness that clung to him like a shadow. He didn't scold him, didn't question his methods. He simply watched, his gaze a calm, impenetrable pool of ancient knowledge.
One morning, the Abbot gathered the children for a new exercise. It wasn't about strength or speed. It was about balance. A single, thin bamboo pole was placed over a narrow, flowing stream in the temple gardens. The task was to walk from one end to the other without falling. It seemed simple enough, a child's game, but the bamboo was slick with moss and the current of the stream beneath created a mesmerizing, disorienting motion.
Krillin went first. He was light and agile, but his mind, always in motion, was a distraction. He wobbled, his arms flailing, and eventually lost his balance, splashing into the shallow water with a surprised yelp. He laughed it off, his good nature shining through the minor failure. The other children fared similarly, some making it a few steps, others plunging in immediately.
Then it was Haruki's turn. He stepped onto the pole, his brow furrowed with a lifetime of inherited concentration. He was not thinking about the bamboo or the stream. He was thinking about the weight of his rocks, the extra push-ups he had done, the fear of the future, the flicker of ki he had felt. His mind was a maelstrom of thoughts and anxieties, each one a tiny, invisible weight pulling him off-balance.
He took a step, and then another. His movements were not graceful; they were stiff, overly deliberate. He was trying to force his body to stay still, but his mind was in a hundred different places at once. His feet felt heavy, unresponsive. He was so focused on trying to be perfect, on not failing, that his anxiety became a physical burden. He wobbled violently, his arms flailing in a desperate attempt to find his center. He managed to hold on for a moment, his body trembling with the effort, but he couldn't keep his mind still. He fell. Not with a simple splash, but with a clumsy, awkward tumble, his gi and the secret rocks in his pockets feeling like lead weights dragging him down. He sat there in the cold water, defeated and humiliated, the futility of his efforts a bitter taste in his mouth. He had failed at something so simple, a task his friends had failed at with laughter and cheer, but his failure felt monumental.
As he got out of the water, shivering and disheartened, the Abbot approached him. He did not scold, nor did he offer sympathy. He simply stood there, his presence a calm, judging silence.
"You have been training your body, Haruki," the Abbot said, his voice as quiet and clear as the stream. "You have been training with the weight of stones. But you have not been training your mind. Your spirit is as heavy as your pockets. Tell me, what good is a strong body if it is commanded by a broken will?"
Haruki remained silent, his head bowed. He knew the truth of the Abbot's words, but he didn't know how to respond. He couldn't tell him about the future, about the necessary cruelty of his training.
"Strength is not a singular goal," the Abbot continued, his words sinking into Haruki's weary bones. "It is a balance. The body is the vessel, the mind is the engine, but the spirit is the rudder. You have been building a strong engine and a powerful vessel, but you have forgotten the rudder. Your will is so focused on becoming stronger that it has become rigid, unyielding. You are pushing too hard, too fast."
The Abbot knelt and picked up a handful of smooth, river-worn pebbles. He placed them in Haruki's palm. "These rocks are not for your pockets," he said softly. "They are for your mind. They are a reminder of patience. You do not move a mountain by pushing it. You move a mountain one pebble at a time. The same is true for your strength. If you push too hard, you will only break."
That night, Haruki did not train. He did not sneak out of the dorms. He sat on his mat, the small pebbles from the river clutched in his hand. He understood now. His past life had given him the knowledge of what he needed to do, but it had not given him the wisdom of how to do it. His desperate fear had blinded him to the most fundamental lessons of his new reality. He was not just a boy training to be a fighter; he was a human being learning to live in a world of impossible power. And that required more than just physical strength. It required patience, balance, and a clear mind.
The next day, he walked the bamboo pole again. This time, he left the rocks in his gi pockets. He did not force his movements. He let the motion of the stream guide him. He did not try to empty his mind, but instead, he acknowledged every thought and every fear, and then he let them go. He did not make it to the other side. He fell, again, but this time, he fell with a quiet splash, and when he climbed out of the water, his heart felt a little lighter. He was still weak, still scared, but he was learning. He was not just building a body of a warrior; he was building the mind of one, too.