Ryu POV
The wind settles. The crowd quiets. The shinobi across from me rolls his shoulders like he's already won.
His name is Kaito, if I heard right. Tall, maybe seventeen or eighteen. Confident. Too confident. That's something my father drilled into me early—confidence is fine, arrogance is a weakness.
Kaito cracks his knuckles. "You look calm," he says. "You shouldn't be."
I don't respond.
He steps forward, fast—faster than most normal warriors. His foot digs into the dirt, and he launches a straight kick toward my ribs.
I shift my body just enough so it brushes past. My father's voice echoes in my head:
"Never block first. Redirect. Let their momentum become your ally."
I pivot, grab his ankle, and pull. He stumbles but catches himself.
The shinobi watching murmur. Kaito's expression tightens.
"Not bad," he says. "Lucky start."
I widen my stance. Hand near my sword, but not drawing it. Not yet.
Kaito runs in again, fists and feet moving in a flurry. Shinobi hand-to-hand style. Sharp, compact, efficient. His strikes come from every direction—jabs, elbows, knees. A mix of taijutsu and Ki-enhanced balance.
But I see clean openings.
Every movement he makes is a little too loud.
A little too committed.
My father used to tap the back of my hand when I overextended.
"Stay grounded, Ryu. A blade only finds you when you lose yourself."
I duck under a punch and slip behind him. As he turns, my fist lands cleanly in his gut. Not full power. Just enough to push him back and make him second-guess himself.
He staggers, glaring.
"You're playing with me," he says.
"Maybe."
That pisses him off. Ki flares slightly around his legs. He dashes in faster than before—almost a blur. The crowd reacts, some leaning forward, some whispering.
He spins midair, heel cutting toward my temple.
I drop under it and sweep his leg mid-spin. His body twists awkwardly, but he catches himself on a hand, flips, and launches a kick upward.
He's good. More polished than I expected.
But he's not better.
Kaito leaps away to create distance. "Fine then," he mutters. "No holding back."
He rushes me again, and this time he doesn't let up. His blows hammer against my guard—shins, forearms, shoulders. I absorb them, moving with each hit. Not resisting. Not stiffening.
My father's words again:
"A samurai's body is a river. Let the attack pass through you."
Kaito notices. His hits get sharper, faster, more frustrated.
"You're not even trying!" he shouts.
"I am," I say quietly. "Just not the way you want."
He lunges with a palm strike aimed at my chest. I tilt left. His palm grazes my ribs. He tries to grab my arm—I slip out. He goes for a sweep—I hop over it.
He's good. He adapts fast.
But I read him too easily.
Raizen watches from the side, arms crossed. I feel his eyes dissecting every move I make. The other shinobi whisper more now.
"Who IS this kid?"
"He's avoiding everything…"
"Does he even need the sword?"
Kaito hears the whispers too, and it hits his pride. He clenches his fists, and Ki flares around his legs again.
He charges forward, this time aiming for my chin with a rising knee. I grab his knee midair, twist my hips, and throw him across the field.
Dust explodes as he rolls.
The crowd reacts as he stands back up, panting, dirt streaked across his face.
"You little—" He chokes on the rest, too angry to form the words.
I straighten my back.
This isn't a fight for me. It's practice.
A test.
And honestly… it's the first time in a long time I've been able to move freely without worrying about killing something.
I raise one hand and motion him forward.
He snarls and dashes in.
This time he mixes feints into his attacks—fake punches, false steps, shifting weight. He's trying to trick my reactions.
It's a good adjustment.
But my father's voice echoes again:
"A true swordsman watches the center, not the hands. The eyes. The breath."
Kaito's breathing gives him away before any move does.
He inhales sharply—too sharply.
I step into him, chest-to-chest, and ram my shoulder into his sternum. He flies back, skidding across the ground again.
He coughs violently.
Shinobi watching fall silent.
He forces himself up, wobbling.
"You're… a monster," he spits.
I don't reply.
He rushes again, slower now but more desperate. Fists clench. Ki burst. He throws everything he has—every punch, kick, knee, elbow, reckless and wild.
I shift, twist, parry, redirect. Nothing touches me cleanly.
His rage is blinding him.
"Emotion dulls the blade," my father used to say.
I step past a punch, grip his wrist, and slam him down. The force knocks air out of him.
He struggles up again.
Still not enough.
He tries a Ki-enhanced punch straight toward my face.
I sidestep and finally let my hand touch the hilt of my sword.
The moment I do, Kaito freezes—not because the blade is out, but because the pressure shifts. My stance changes. My breathing changes.
Something inside me settles into the familiar rhythm my father carved into me since childhood.
Kaito's eyes widen.
"T-that stance… that's samurai—"
I disappear from his field of view. Not from speed alone—just clean movement. Precision.
I reappear beside him and draw only an inch of my blade.
The clash of our movement sends dust shooting upward.
He tries to elbow me—I slide past it, driving a knee into his side.
He collapses but catches himself on a hand.
I step forward. He backs up frantically.
"Wait—"
He throws a wild kick with everything he has left.
I duck under it, flip my blade in hand, and press the edge to his throat before he lands.
His eyes go wide as he falls backward, only stopping because the sword stops him.
I look down at him. Calm. Breath steady.
"It's over."
The training field is so quiet I can hear birds in the distance.
Raizen lowers his arms slowly. Some shinobi exchange looks. Others nod. A few stare at me like I'm some animal they don't understand.
Kaito stares up at me with disbelief, chest heaving.
He finally whispers, "What… are you?"
I pull the blade back, sheath it with one motion, and turn away.
Just a kid.
Just a survivor.
Just someone walking the path Tenma left for me.
But I don't answer him.
I don't owe him one.