The lessons from the bamboo pole and the Abbot's quiet wisdom had reshaped Haruki's world. He still carried the weight of the small stones, but he no longer saw them as a simple burden. They were a tool, a way to add resistance and feel the difference in his body. His secret training was no longer a frantic, desperate effort to outrun his fears, but a deliberate, mindful practice. He would still rise before dawn, but he would take the rocks off for his kata, focusing on perfect form and balance. When the official temple training began, he would put them back on, transforming every movement into a workout. He was no longer just building strength; he was building a kind of body-awareness, a quiet sense of his own physical limitations and how to overcome them.
His body, now five years old, was still small, but it was coiled with a newfound tension. His movements had a subtle snap to them, a precision that hadn't existed before. He was a tightly wound spring, and the other students were beginning to notice.
The Abbot had sensed a change in the atmosphere. The students, inspired by the quiet determination of the youngest among them, were training with a renewed vigor. To channel this energy, the Abbot announced a day of sparring. The announcement sent a ripple of excitement through the temple. This was not a tournament; it was a way to test their skills and learn from one another. The matchups were carefully chosen, designed to pair students of similar size and skill.
Haruki found himself paired with a boy named Ren, a year his senior. Ren was quick and scrappy, known for his relentless, wild attacks. As they bowed to each other, a crowd of students gathered to watch.
Ren charged first, a series of quick, choppy strikes aimed at Haruki's head and chest. The old Haruki would have flailed, trying to block or run. But this new Haruki was different. He saw the punches coming. His mind, trained by hours of meditation under a waterfall, was clear and calm. He didn't just react; he analyzed. Ren was fast, but his movements were sloppy. Haruki took a small step back, his body a well-tuned instrument of balance, and deflected the blows with minimal effort. He didn't counter-attack. He simply waited, his feet rooted to the ground. Ren, frustrated, pushed harder, his movements becoming even more telegraphed. Haruki found his rhythm, a dance of subtle sidesteps and gentle blocks. He was not trying to win; he was trying to learn. He was a sponge, absorbing Ren's reckless energy, using it to understand his own movements better. The spar ended with a stalemate, with both boys panting and grinning. Haruki had not won, but for the first time, he felt a flicker of genuine confidence. He had not just survived; he had held his own.
Next, he was matched with Krillin. Their sparring was a different kind of dance. Krillin, with his boundless energy and good humor, was a fluid and agile fighter. He was a natural talent, his movements light and quick. He would bob and weave, throwing feints and clever jabs. Haruki, in contrast, was grounded and solid. He was a fortress, defending his core, waiting for an opening.
Krillin's cheerful voice broke the silence of the sparring. "You're getting so much better!" he said, landing a light, playful jab to Haruki's shoulder.
Haruki parried the next blow. "You're still faster," he said, and it was true. Krillin's speed was natural, effortless. Haruki's was a slow, deliberate accumulation of effort.
They sparred for a solid five minutes, a friendly, back-and-forth exchange that felt less like a fight and more like a conversation. Krillin would try a fancy kick, and Haruki would find a solid block. Haruki would attempt a slow, powerful strike, and Krillin would simply sidestep it. The match ended with them both laughing, exhausted and happy. It was not a contest of who was stronger, but a demonstration of their growing bond.
The final spar of the day was for the advanced students. A boy named Kenji, the older student who had arrived earlier that year, was to demonstrate his skill against a senior monk. The monk was a lean, disciplined man in his thirties, and his every movement radiated a quiet power.
Kenji, a teenager filled with youthful arrogance, was a force of nature. His movements were explosive, his strikes filled with a raw, undeniable power. He moved with a speed that left the other students gasping. He was a whirlwind of motion, and he seemed to have the upper hand against the older monk, who only defended.
Haruki watched, his mind racing. He had seen this before. In his past life, he had watched countless videos of fights where a powerful, overconfident youth was easily outmatched by a seasoned master. He saw the same pattern playing out here. Kenji was strong, but his power was wild and undisciplined. The monk, on the other hand, was an absolute master of his body and his ki. He was letting Kenji exhaust himself.
The monk suddenly ceased his retreat. He planted his feet, and his body seemed to solidify. He simply let Kenji throw a powerful punch, and instead of blocking it, he absorbed the force. There was no audible grunt, no change in his serene expression. The monk then returned a single, simple, open-palm strike to Kenji's solar plexus. There was no noise, no visible flash of light, but Kenji was sent flying back, skidding across the ground, gasping for breath. The fight was over. Kenji had all the power in the world, but the monk had a control he had never dreamed of.
The reality of the power gap hit Haruki like a physical blow. His own progress felt laughably insignificant. His victories against his peers meant nothing in the face of this kind of power. He was a tiny fish in an ocean of sharks, and his small, daily victories were nothing but a drop of water in that vast, terrifying sea. The Abbot's words echoed in his mind: Strength is a balance. The body is the vessel, the mind is the engine, but the spirit is the rudder. The monk had an absolute command of all three. Kenji had only one. Haruki was somewhere in between.
That night, Haruki did not feel the triumph of his sparring sessions. He only felt the overwhelming weight of his inadequacy. He lay on his mat, his small, tired body a testament to his effort, and a stark reminder of his weakness. His heart was filled with a new kind of determination. He had not just learned how to fight. He had learned the terrifying, sobering truth of what he was fighting for. He was not just trying to be strong; he was trying to be a master. His journey had just begun.