The wind carried the sound of rushing waves and distant gull cries as Onigiri stood at the center of the island's northern plateau, sweat clinging to his shirt, breath slow but heavy. Each movement of his form was sharper now—deliberate—but the stiffness hadn't left him.
He pivoted, struck forward, and felt the ripple of power run up his arm. The punch cracked through the air and rattled the compression rings on his wrists. Dirt kicked up from the pressure, but something was still off. Too much force. Not enough control.
Bulma, lounging with a tablet on a nearby rock, didn't even look up.
"You know," she said, flicking through sensor data, "you're still treating martial arts like it's weightlifting. All push, no precision."
Onigiri exhaled and shook out his arms. "You think I don't feel that? It's like my body knows how to throw a mountain… but not how to throw a punch."
She smirked. "Then maybe it's time you learned how to dance."
Before he could reply, the sound of something tapping against the rocks caught both their attention.
A figure approached from the shoreline, staff lightly thumping the dirt, sandals barely making a sound. He was old—or at least old by appearance—wearing a worn brown robe, the fabric faded by sun and travel. A low ponytail of white hair swayed as he walked, and a wooden gourd swung at his waist with each step.
He said nothing at first. Just observed.
"Uh… can we help you?" Bulma called.
The man smiled faintly. "Not unless you're offering tea."
Onigiri straightened, his instincts prickling. There was no malice in the man's movements. But there was… balance. Every step was like it belonged exactly where it landed.
"You're the one they're whispering about in the villages, aren't you?" the man asked. "The boy who broke a man's arm without meaning to."
Onigiri's face tightened. "You here to lecture me?"
The man's smile didn't change. "No. I'm here to observe. And perhaps… offer something. If you're willing to spar."
"Who are you?"
"Names are just noise. But if it helps, you can call me Hachirō."
Bulma glanced at Onigiri, who gave a slow nod.
"Alright," he said, stepping into the clearing. "Let's see what you've got."
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The spar wasn't what Onigiri expected.
Hachirō didn't posture. Didn't tighten his fists. He just moved—hands open, weight shifting like water. When Onigiri threw a probing jab, Hachirō leaned with it—not dodging, not blocking, just not being there.
A second jab, faster. Hachirō's sleeve fluttered as he stepped sideways, guiding Onigiri's wrist past him with a brush of his palm.
Then Onigiri stepped in hard, driving a straight punch toward Hachirō's chest.
The old man twisted—not fast, not forceful, but with such perfect timing—that the momentum carried Onigiri forward off-balance.
His foot caught a root. His body turned—and he hit the dirt.
Onigiri blinked up at the sky.
Hachirō hadn't even struck him.
"Power without rhythm," the old man said, offering a hand, "is like thunder without rain. Loud, but empty."
Onigiri took the hand and rose.
"I've never seen anyone move like that," he muttered.
Hachirō's smile grew a little softer. "Because you've been taught to lead with strength. But your body—it already knows how to listen."
There was a flicker of something in Onigiri's eyes. A memory. A flash. One of his parents training—a brutal match. No grace. Just war.
But this… this was different.
"It felt like… I moved before I thought," Onigiri said quietly.
Hachirō nodded. "Then stop getting in the way."
Bulma, watching from the side, blinked. "Okay, that was… kinda cool."
Hachirō turned to her. "You built those rings, didn't you?"
She nodded.
"Keep adjusting them," he said. "This one has instincts even he doesn't understand yet. Let's not put a cage on them—we'll build a path instead."
And just like that, he turned away, walking toward the treeline.
"I'll be back in a week," he said over his shoulder. "If you've learned how to listen by then—we'll begin."
Onigiri watched him go, breath still uneven. His heart wasn't racing from effort. It was racing from something deeper.
A strange calm.
Like his body had remembered something his mind never learned.
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The next day, Onigiri returned to the plateau alone. The sun had barely crested the horizon, casting long shadows through the trees and painting the earth in gold.
He took a deep breath and stepped forward.
He tried to mimic the way Hachirō had moved—weight low, arms open, breathing in rhythm. His first attempt at a step-turn was clumsy, more stomp than flow. He furrowed his brow and reset.
Again.
This time, he kept the motion soft, trying to feel the movement rather than force it. The shift in weight almost felt right—but his next movement overcompensated. His heel dug too deep, and he stumbled, catching himself with a frustrated growl.
"Okay," he muttered. "Less… uh… effort?"
He tried again. A jab. A pivot. He visualized the moment Hachirō redirected him. Tried to recreate the sensation of moving without resistance. His body wanted to lash out—but he pulled it back, focusing on rhythm.
And then, for a fleeting second, it clicked.
His body shifted into a half-step turn. His arm flowed with the motion. It wasn't fast. It wasn't strong. But it was right. His foot landed silently. His breath stayed steady.
He blinked.
"…Huh."
Then he tried again.
And it fell apart.
Too fast. Too much force. The ground cracked beneath his heel. A tree branch snapped from the wind pressure of his next strike.
He groaned, pulling off the compression ring from his right wrist and glaring at it.
"You're not the problem," he muttered. "I am."
Still, he sat down cross-legged, rubbing sweat from his brow. He closed his eyes and slowed his breathing.
I moved before I thought.
Then stop getting in the way…
He stayed that way for several minutes.
No strikes. No movement.
Just breathing.
Letting his body remember that whisper of flow.
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The sun had started its descent when the rustle of brush signaled a presence. Onigiri didn't move—not out of fear, but instinctual awareness. The rhythm of the steps was unmistakable.
Hachirō emerged from the treeline, hands behind his back, the same faint smile on his lips.
"Still trying to move like water?" he asked.
Onigiri opened one eye and exhaled. "More like splashing around in it."
Hachirō chuckled and sat on a nearby stone. "Even the fiercest river begins as a stumble in the mountains."
"I don't get it," Onigiri admitted. "I can feel it—sometimes. Just for a moment. But then it's gone."
Hachirō's gaze turned serious. "Because you're still fighting your instincts. Your body is built to act. You must learn to trust it without overpowering it. There is a difference between movement and motion."
He reached into his sleeve and pulled out a small hourglass, flipping it once and placing it on the stone.
"Three minutes. That's your challenge."
Onigiri blinked. "Three minutes of what?"
"Stand against me. Flow with me. Don't get thrown. Don't lose rhythm. Do that, and I'll begin teaching you properly."
Onigiri stood slowly, stretching his arms. "And if I fail?"
Hachirō's eyes twinkled. "Then we try again. Until you don't."
They stood facing each other again as the last light of the day painted the sky in hues of fire and ash.
The hourglass turned. The grains began to fall.
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Bulma was waiting for him back at the campfire.
She didn't say anything at first, just handed him a bottle of water and scooted over to make room on the log bench. The firelight cast a warm glow across her face, softening her usual confidence into something more thoughtful.
"So," she said eventually, "how'd the private training go? You looked focused when I left."
Onigiri took a long drink before answering. "He gave me a challenge. Three minutes. I have to stay in rhythm with him—can't get thrown, can't lose my flow. If I can manage that, he'll start teaching me properly."
Bulma raised an eyebrow. "Sounds intense. But honestly… kinda you."
He gave a half-smile. "It's harder than it sounds. I've spent my whole life pulling back. Now I'm supposed to lean in. With control."
"Maybe that's the point," she said, nudging him gently with her shoulder. "You spent so long trying not to break the world, you never thought about how to live in it."
He blinked at her. "That was poetic."
She shrugged, trying to act casual. "I've been hanging out with a philosophical old man and a guy who can punch through mountains. Stuff rubs off."
They sat in silence for a while, watching the flames dance. Then Bulma added quietly, "You know, I'm proud of you. Not just for surviving. For actually trying to grow."
Onigiri looked down at his hands. "I don't want to hurt anyone ever again. I want to be strong the right way."
Bulma smiled, softer now. "Then you're already halfway there."
He turned to her, eyes meeting hers, and something passed between them—quiet understanding, unspoken warmth.
The fire crackled beside them, but the world felt still.
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The next morning came fast.
Onigiri stood once more at the plateau, barefoot on the cool earth. The early light stretched long and low, casting sharp shadows across the moss-covered stone. A gentle breeze tugged at his hair, and the only sound was the slow turning of the hourglass as Hachirō set it down on a nearby rock.
"Three minutes," Hachirō said simply.
Onigiri gave a short nod. He exhaled slowly, lowering his stance, arms open, body relaxed—at least as much as he could manage.
The grains began to fall.
Hachirō moved first—one fluid step, no warning. Onigiri reacted too fast, trying to mirror, but stumbled slightly as the motion overextended his weight.
A brush of the old man's palm grazed his shoulder.
"Breathe," Hachirō reminded calmly. "Do not chase me. Listen to the air."
Onigiri grit his teeth, adjusted.
Hachirō circled. Onigiri mirrored. Each motion was like a dance, one slow enough to feel deliberate but fast enough that any lapse would end in a throw. When Hachirō feinted low, Onigiri shifted his balance—not to strike, but to reposition.
Time lost meaning.
One minute passed.
Hachirō struck forward—a palm toward Onigiri's chest. Rather than block, Onigiri rolled his shoulder and turned his hips with the motion. Their arms glided past each other like intersecting streams.
For a breathless moment, it was working. Onigiri wasn't reacting. He was flowing. No brute force. No hesitation.
Until his instincts surged.
Hachirō twisted with a sudden flick of his leg. Onigiri tried to compensate—but overcorrected. His weight shifted too far back. The world spun.
He hit the ground with a solid thud.
The hourglass still hadn't emptied.
Hachirō stood over him, offering a hand.
"Again?" he asked.
Onigiri took the hand, pulled himself up, and nodded, chest rising with exertion.
"Again."
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Three days passed.
The hourglass turned again. And again. And again.
Each attempt brought Onigiri closer to the edge of mastery—and failure. At first, he barely lasted a minute. Then two. Then just over two and a half before his balance gave way.
But with each reset, something shifted.
He began anticipating not where Hachirō was, but where he would be. He stopped lunging, started flowing. He stopped bracing, and started breathing.
By the fourth day, his footsteps were light enough not to disturb the dust. His strikes stopped being punches—they became extensions of motion. Circles within circles.
And when Hachirō swept low with a deceptive shoulder feint, Onigiri stepped around it—not with power, but with presence.
The final grains in the hourglass fell.
Hachirō lowered his hands and smiled.
"Well done."
Onigiri's chest rose and fell with exertion, but he didn't speak. He simply stood there, breath steady, heart calm.
"Your body remembered," Hachirō said. "And this time… you listened."
Onigiri finally cracked a grin. "So what now?"
Hachirō turned toward the cliffs overlooking the sea. "Now, we begin."