The bruises didn't fade quickly.
Ryu noticed them every morning when he woke up—dark patches along his ribs, faint yellow spreading over purple, his shoulder still stiff when he lifted his arm too high. Some days the pain felt distant, manageable. Other days it reminded him exactly how close he'd come to being helpless.
The village had gone back to normal.
That was the strangest part.
Fishermen still argued over nets. Children still ran barefoot through the sand. The sea still rolled in and out like nothing had happened. If someone hadn't seen the pirates with their own eyes, they'd never know danger had even visited Gosa.
But Ryu remembered.
He remembered the fear.
He remembered freezing.
And he remembered the moment when something inside him had *moved* without permission.
That part wouldn't leave him alone.
So he started training.
Not because he knew how.
Because he didn't know what else to do.
---
He ran first.
Every morning before the sun rose fully, he left the village and followed the coastline until his lungs burned. He ran through uneven sand, through shallow water, through rocky patches that punished careless steps.
When his legs gave out, he walked.
When walking hurt, he stopped.
Then he did it again the next day.
He climbed trees until his palms split and bled. Balanced on fallen logs over shallow drops. Jumped from rock to rock along the shore, misjudged distances, fell, got back up.
There was no method.
Just repetition.
Just stubbornness.
At night, he lay awake replaying the fight in his mind.
The moment the pirate had moved.
The moment his body had reacted without him thinking.
That feeling—sharp, sudden, impossible to ignore.
He tried to recreate it.
Closing his eyes, standing still, focusing on his breathing.
Nothing happened.
He tried again.
Still nothing.
Frustration gnawed at him.
"Think less," Kenji said one afternoon as he watched Ryu nearly fall off a rock for the third time. "You look like you're trying to outthink the air."
Ryu huffed. "That's not helpful."
Kenji shrugged. "Neither is smashing your face into the ground, but here we are."
Ryu sat down heavily, staring at the sea.
"I felt something," he said quietly. "During the fight."
Kenji nodded. "Yeah. You moved before they did."
"I didn't decide to," Ryu continued. "My body just… did it."
"That sounds useful."
"It also sounds dangerous."
Kenji didn't argue.
They sat in silence, waves lapping against the shore.
"You think it'll happen again?" Kenji asked.
Ryu shook his head. "Not if I keep trying to force it."
That night, he dreamed of falling.
Not from a height—just sinking, slowly, into water too deep to swim through. Every time he reached for the surface, it slipped farther away.
He woke up breathless.
---
The old man appeared three days later.
Ryu didn't notice him at first.
He was standing near the edge of the village, leaning lightly on a staff, watching the sea as if it had something interesting to say. His clothes were simple, worn by travel and time. His hair was gray, tied loosely behind his head.
He looked… ordinary.
Too ordinary.
Ryu felt it before he understood it.
That same sensation again.
Pressure, faint but unmistakable.
The old man turned his head slightly.
Their eyes met.
Ryu's breath caught.
Not fear.
Recognition.
The man's gaze wasn't sharp or judgmental. It was calm. Observing. As if he were looking *through* Ryu instead of at him.
Ryu hesitated, then approached.
"Can I help you?" he asked.
The man smiled faintly. "You already are."
Ryu frowned. "I don't understand."
"Of course you don't," the man replied easily. "You're trying too hard."
Ryu stiffened. "You've been watching me."
"Only a little."
The man tapped his staff lightly against the ground. "Your footwork's sloppy."
Ryu blinked. "What?"
"You lean forward when you move. Means you're committing before you know what's coming."
Ryu stared. "You don't know me."
The man chuckled. "I know enough."
Ryu hesitated. "Who are you?"
"Just someone passing through," the man said. "Names don't matter much at this stage."
Ryu frowned. "Stage of what?"
The man didn't answer.
Instead, he gestured toward the shoreline. "Show me how you train."
Ryu hesitated only a moment before stepping onto the sand.
He took a stance—awkward, improvised—and moved forward, throwing a punch into the air. Then another. A kick. A turn.
Clumsy.
Unrefined.
The old man watched silently.
When Ryu finished, breathing hard, the man nodded once.
"You're trying to be strong," he said. "That's your first mistake."
Ryu bristled. "What's that supposed to mean?"
"It means strength is the result," the man replied. "Not the goal."
Ryu opened his mouth to argue—
—and stopped.
Because the man had stepped closer.
Not fast.
Not slow.
Just… there.
Ryu hadn't felt him move.
The old man raised a hand, stopping inches from Ryu's chest.
"You're looking for this," he said quietly. "But you're staring too hard."
Ryu swallowed. "Then what should I do?"
The man stepped back.
"Listen."
And with that, he turned and walked away.
Ryu stood there, confused, frustrated, heart pounding.
"Wait!" he called. "That's it?"
The man didn't turn around.
"Pay attention," he said. "And stop trying to force the sea to answer you."
Then he was gone.
Just like that.
Kenji approached a moment later. "Who was that?"
Ryu shook his head. "I don't know."
But the feeling lingered.
That night, Ryu didn't train.
He sat alone by the shore, eyes closed, breathing slow.
He listened.
Not for sounds.
For shifts.
The way the wind changed direction.
The way waves crashed harder against certain rocks.
The way the air felt heavier before movement.
For the first time, he didn't try to *do* anything.
And for a brief moment—
He felt it.
Not clearly.
Not fully.
But enough to know it was real.
Ryu opened his eyes.
His hands were shaking.
He smiled.
Not because he was strong.
But because he finally knew where to start.
---