Morning light slipped quietly through the paper windows of the Genesis dojo, settling across the wooden floor like something sacred.
Onori knelt at the center of the room, eyes closed, spine straight, breathing slow and measured. Each inhale felt deliberate. Each exhale released something she hadn't yet named. Her bokutō rested before her, parallel to the floor, untouched.
The doors slid open behind her.
Akira entered first, followed by Kenji, Nikki, and Vincent. None of them spoke. The dojo had a way of demanding silence—not through rules, but through presence. Even Kenji, usually unable to keep still, held his tongue.
Onori bowed once, then rose smoothly to her feet.
"Before you fight others," she said softly, "you still your own mind."
Kenji rolled his shoulders, already restless. "Yeah, I don't really do 'still.'"
Nikki smirked. "We know."
A faint ripple of laughter eased the tension.
Then the air shifted.
The doors slid open again, less ceremoniously this time, and Miylen stepped inside.
Her bo staff was slung across her shoulder, hair still slightly messy, eyes bright with barely contained energy. She looked around the dojo like it was a puzzle she couldn't wait to test.
"Sorry I'm late," she said cheerfully. "Got lost. Then I found a tree worth climbing."
Onori turned to her, smile polite but firm. "You're just in time."
Training began simply.
Onori led them through foundational drills—footwork, breathing, controlled strikes. Her movements were precise, almost quiet, each motion flowing into the next like water following a channel carved long ago.
Miylen followed along.
At first.
Then her instincts took over.
Her movements loosened, speed increasing, staff snapping through the air with a sharp whistle. The rhythm broke. The sound of wood striking wood rang louder, harder.
Crack.
Onori halted mid-motion.
"You're rushing," she said, not unkindly. "Each strike is a breath. Not a storm."
Miylen grinned, sweat already gathering at her temples. "Storms still move things."
From the corner, Vincent spoke without looking up. "Two different languages. Same fight."
Akira watched them closely.
There was something in Miylen's stance that felt familiar—something unpolished, reactive, forged by survival instead of structure. It reminded him uncomfortably of himself before Yokosaki. Before fixing things became easier than breaking them.
Onori stepped forward, bokutō resting lightly in her grip.
"Then show me," she said, "what a storm can do."
They faced each other.
Staff versus sword.
The room seemed to shrink around them.
The first clash was clean. Onori deflected Miylen's opening strike with barely any effort, redirecting the force instead of meeting it head-on. Miylen circled immediately, faster now, staff blurring in wide arcs.
Onori moved just enough.
Kenji leaned forward, elbows on his knees. "She's reading her before she even moves."
Nikki nodded. "Yeah. But the forest girl doesn't stop."
Miylen spun, staff cutting through the air—but Onori stepped aside at the last second, letting the blow skim past her shoulder. Her counter was immediate, precise.
Tap.
"Match," Onori said calmly.
Miylen exhaled hard, chest rising and falling. Her smile never left.
"Again."
They went again.
And again.
Each time, Onori adjusted—her calm bending, adapting. Each time, Miylen pushed harder, refusing to slow down. The rhythm changed. Discipline met instinct somewhere in the middle.
Then—
Crack.
The sound was sharp, final.
Miylen froze, staring at the splintered end of her staff. For a heartbeat, no one moved.
Then she laughed.
Full, loud, unbothered.
"Guess that's what happens when you push too hard."
Onori lowered her bokutō. "Or when you try to break what should bend."
Miylen looked up at her.
Really looked.
There was no challenge in her eyes now. Just recognition.
She bowed—awkward, imperfect, but sincere.
"I like you."
Onori blinked, surprised. Then she smiled. "Then next time… don't hold back."
They exchanged a nod.
Not trust.
Understanding.
By evening, they sat outside in the dojo garden, exhaustion settling into their bones. Cicadas hummed. Wind moved gently through the bamboo.
Kenji stretched out on the ground. "You know… this might actually work."
Nikki raised an eyebrow. "What might?"
"Us," he said. "If we stop trying to outshine each other."
Vincent took a drink from his bottle. "That'll be the day."
Akira chuckled quietly.
His eyes drifted to the broken staff resting beside the repaired bokutō, leaning together against the wall.
Different weapons.
Different philosophies.
Sharing the same space.
Steel and splinters, he thought.
Not the same kind of strong.
But maybe that's what makes us dangerous.
The sun dipped low, casting the dojo roof in orange and gold.
For once, no one rushed to leave.
And for once, the quiet felt earned.
The wind moved gently through the garden.
Not bowing.
Not breaking.
Just finding its way forward.