A month had passed since Onigiri first reached the summit of Korin Tower. Every day had started the same: silence, breath, and the delicate balance of a wooden cup filled with spring water. Only recently had the tremors in his hands stopped feeling like earthquakes.
Now, in the quiet stillness before sunrise, Onigiri sat cross-legged once again on the stone platform, his eyes half-lidded, the cup resting carefully in his palms. The incense stick smoldered nearby, trailing a slow ribbon of smoke skyward.
He breathed in through his nose. Out through his mouth. The rhythm came naturally now—no longer forced or exaggerated. The surface of the water reflected the pale morning sky without a ripple.
From across the platform, Korin leaned against his staff, watching with one eye open and the faintest twitch of a smile on his whiskered face.
"Not bad," the cat murmured to himself. "Took him a month just to hear himself think. Let's see what he does when the world starts talking back."
He pushed himself off the wall with a grunt, walked toward the pedestal, and plucked up the familiar wooden cup from the previous day. He gave it a lazy spin in his paw and then tossed it lightly into the air, catching it without looking.
"Alright, dog-chaser," Korin said, stepping forward. "Let's see if you can catch the wind."
Onigiri blinked, slowly setting his own cup aside. "Huh?"
Korin tossed the cup again, this time catching it in his tail. "New lesson. Take this from me."
Onigiri stood up, stretching slightly. "You want me to fight you for it?"
Korin grinned. "You can try. But this isn't about fighting. This is about feeling. Don't chase the cup. Catch the current."
Before Onigiri could question that, Korin flipped the cup into the air again. Onigiri lunged.
And missed.
He reached where Korin was—not where Korin was going. It felt like trying to grab smoke with a fist. The air where the cat had stood was still warm.
Korin was already gone, drifting to the left with a casual sidestep that felt more like a breeze than a movement.
Onigiri landed, spun, and lunged again.
Missed.
The wooden cup spun lazily in Korin's paw as the cat chuckled. "Speed's useless if you're always late to the conversation."
He tapped his staff against the stone. "Your body moves before your breath does. Your thoughts are shouting what you'll do next. Loud minds make slow hands."
Onigiri narrowed his eyes, his breath steady, but his pride already starting to ache.
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Onigiri tried again.
He moved faster this time, sharper—waiting for the arc of the cup, the twitch of Korin's paw, the hint of a pattern.
But every time he reached out, the moment slipped through him. Korin didn't dodge so much as wasn't there when Onigiri moved. It was like chasing a reflection across water.
Korin kept his smirk, his movements smooth, effortless. He barely used his staff. The cup twirled between fingers, tail, paw—always just out of reach.
"Still using your muscles to solve a conversation," Korin teased. "Try listening for once."
Onigiri exhaled sharply through his nose and dashed in again, feinting left and swinging right. Korin leaned just enough for Onigiri to miss—again.
He stumbled past him, catching his breath. His hair clung to his forehead. His hands curled tight.
"This isn't working," he muttered.
Korin tilted his head. "Oh? And here I thought your fancy space-blood would carry you through anything."
Onigiri clenched his jaw, eyes narrowing. "I'm faster than you. Stronger too."
Korin shrugged, flipping the cup into the air again and catching it behind his back. "And I'm older, shorter, and fluffier. Yet here we are."
Onigiri bristled and attacked again—faster, harder. He moved like a blur, his breath controlled but sharp, each motion calculated.
And again, Korin wasn't there.
Onigiri landed hard, sliding across the stone platform, frustration mounting. He slammed his fist into the ground, cracking the edge of a nearby tile.
Korin, now standing beside the incense burner, looked down at him calmly. "Power without presence is just noise."
Onigiri sat up slowly, rubbing his wrist. "Then what am I supposed to do?"
Korin's smile faded slightly. "Feel. Not with your eyes. Not even your skin. Feel with your quiet."
Onigiri didn't reply. He simply stood again. Slower this time.
He closed his eyes. Let his breath settle. And when the wind shifted—the faintest twitch of Korin's presence—he moved.
For the first time, he didn't miss entirely.
His fingertips brushed the edge of the cup.
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The moment passed quickly—too quickly—but something about it stuck. The feeling. The stillness that came before the motion. The way everything slowed, just slightly, like his mind had stepped back to let something else move first.
Onigiri opened his eyes slowly, lowering his hand. Korin had already skipped a few paces back, the cup resting in his tail once more.
"That," the cat said with a satisfied nod, "was the right direction."
Onigiri exhaled, shoulders falling. "I didn't get it."
"No," Korin said. "But you didn't miss it either."
Onigiri sat down again, sweat beading at his brow. He wiped it with the back of his forearm. "I wasn't thinking that time… I just moved."
Korin grinned. "Exactly. You let go. You didn't try to force the moment—you flowed with it."
He gestured toward the incense smoke rising behind him. "That's ki. That's intent. You felt it without chasing it."
Onigiri looked at his hand, flexing his fingers slowly. "So this is what Ki control really is?"
Korin's expression softened, his gaze thoughtful. "It's the first breath of it."
He walked over and sat beside Onigiri, surprisingly quiet. The incense smoke curled between them like a lazy river.
"Most people think Ki control is about blasting holes through walls, or lighting up like a firecracker," Korin said. "But real control?" He tapped Onigiri's chest. "It's in here. It's the moment between tension and action. Between breath and movement."
Onigiri sat in silence, watching the smoke drift up toward the clouds. For once, he didn't feel the need to respond. He just breathed.
Korin nodded to himself, pleased. "Keep going. You're not chasing the wind anymore. You're starting to ride it."
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That night, under the hush of moonlight and the quiet chirp of insects, Onigiri sat alone at the edge of the tower's platform. The world below was cloaked in mist, the stars above shimmering like pinpricks in a canvas of black silk.
He rolled a pebble between his fingers—not out of distraction, but focus. His body was sore but steady, his mind unusually still.
"Feel with your quiet," Korin had said.
It echoed louder now than it had in the moment. Like a mantra. Like a puzzle begging to be solved.
He had always been strong. Always pushed forward, punched through, leapt farther. But now—he questioned if that was ever true control.
The moment he brushed the cup replayed in his mind. The breath before movement. The subtle shift of wind, the invisible rhythm between intent and action.
Was that what Ki really was?
Not power—but presence.
He drew in a slow breath. The air was cool, but it filled him differently now. He could feel the tension in his shoulders as it left him. The night no longer felt silent—it was alive, and he was simply one note in its melody.
Maybe, he thought, this was the kind of strength that couldn't be measured in strikes or speed.
Maybe this was the kind that lasted.
He set the pebble down and closed his eyes. The wind passed over him, and he didn't brace against it.He was beginning to understand. Not just the training, but himself.
And for the first time in a long while, he didn't feel the need to get stronger.
He just wanted to keep learning.
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