The weight of the stones in Haruki's gi pockets felt heavier than ever, not because of their physical mass, but because of the immense, crushing pressure of the new reality he had witnessed. The monk's effortless power, the quiet, devastating precision of his strike, had been a revelation. It wasn't just about training hard; it was about training with an absolute command of one's own energy, a discipline far beyond anything the Orin Temple's regimen had taught him. He realized that his secret training, once a source of pride, was still rooted in a fundamental misunderstanding. He was training for strength, but the true masters were training for control.
His days were now a quiet, internal battle. During the morning mountain runs, he didn't just carry the stones; he focused on the feeling of their weight, trying to understand how to move with them as if they were a part of his body. During kata practice, he didn't just strive for perfect form; he tried to feel the flow of energy through his limbs, a faint, almost nonexistent sensation that he had only experienced a few times before. He was no longer just a boy in a new world; he was a student of an ancient art, a seeker of a power he could barely comprehend.
His newfound focus did not go unnoticed. Krillin, always a few steps behind him on the mountain path, saw the change in his friend. Haruki's movements, once stiff and deliberate, now had a quiet fluidity. He didn't seem to be running against the mountain; he was moving with it.
"You're different," Krillin said one afternoon, as they were filling their buckets from the stream. "You're getting so fast, but you don't even look like you're trying."
Haruki looked at him, a faint, weary smile on his face. He wanted to explain, to tell Krillin about the weight of his pockets and the overwhelming feeling of inadequacy he felt, but the words wouldn't come. How could he explain the feeling of Ki to someone who hadn't felt it? How could he tell his friend that the very foundation of his life was built on a lie, a simple, brutal reality that would one day demand everything from them both?
Instead, he simply said, "I'm just learning to feel lighter."
Krillin, ever the optimist, took this as a sign of progress. "That's awesome! Maybe I should start doing that, too. Feeling lighter, I mean."
Haruki knew that Krillin was already "lighter" in a way he could never be. His spirit was unburdened by the weight of a past life and a terrifying future. He had a simple, pure heart, and that was a source of strength that Haruki, for all his knowledge, could never replicate.
One evening, after dinner, the monks gathered in the main dojo for their final lesson of the day. The Abbot had the students sit in a large circle, their legs crossed in the traditional meditative pose. In the center of the circle, a small, clay bowl sat on a low, wooden pedestal. A single, small candle flickered in the bowl, casting a soft, dancing light across the room.
"Tonight," the Abbot said, his voice a calm and steady presence, "we will not focus on the mind. We will focus on the body. Do not seek to clear your thoughts. Do not fight the sounds around you. Simply focus on the feeling of your own body, and find the warmth that lives within you."
Haruki's heart hammered in his chest. This was it. This was the lesson he had been waiting for. This was his chance to find that elusive spark of Ki he had felt before. He closed his eyes, ignoring the rustling of the other students and the soft flickering of the candle. He focused on his small, tired body. He felt the ache in his legs from the mountain run, the faint sting in his knuckles from a long day of kata practice, the persistent pressure of the stones in his pockets. He did not fight these sensations; he simply acknowledged them.
He moved his attention inward, to his gut, to his very core. He sought the warmth, the feeling of energy that had eluded him for so long. He remembered the feeling of failure, the humiliation of the sparring session, the quiet desperation that had fueled his training. He didn't push these feelings away; he embraced them, allowing them to burn with a fierce, quiet intensity. He was not trying to find peace; he was trying to find power. He was not trying to be a calm monk; he was trying to be a raging fire.
The room faded away. The sounds disappeared. His consciousness narrowed to a single point, a pinpoint of light in the center of his being. He wasn't thinking, wasn't meditating, wasn't even breathing in a conscious way. He was simply feeling. He felt the heat in his core, a small, manageable flame that was no longer a flicker, but a steady, persistent warmth. He felt the warmth spread through his veins, down to his fingers, up to his head. He felt alive in a way he had never felt before. He felt powerful. Not in a physical sense, but in a deeper, more fundamental way. He was no longer just a human being; he was a vessel of energy, a container of a force he was only just beginning to understand.
His concentration was so deep that he did not hear the Abbot stand up. He did not hear the other students finish their meditation. He was in his own world, a world of pure, unadulterated energy. He felt the warmth gather in his palm, and he felt a faint, golden glow. He was a beacon in the darkness, a small star in a silent, cosmic sea. The warmth in his palm intensified, and he knew, with a certainty that went beyond words, that he had found it. He had found his inner fire.