I push open the door, its hinges creaking in protest. The smell of old wood, dust, and sweat fills the air. The man inside doesn't look up at first. He's kneeling on the floor, sharpening a blade with methodical precision. His hands are rough, scarred from years of war and training. His eyes, dark and cold, flicker briefly as I step inside. There's no surprise in his gaze—he's seen too much.
He doesn't ask questions. He doesn't need to.
"Toss me the broom," he grumbles without looking up. His voice is low, gravelly, as though it's been worn down by time and hardship.
I stare at him for a moment, hesitating, then walk over to the corner where a battered broom lies. I pick it up and hand it to him. He doesn't acknowledge my gesture, just takes the broom and hands it back to me. No words, no explanations.
"Sweep."
And so, I do. The broom scrapes against the floor, pushing dust into the corners of the room, until the sweat on my forehead stings my eyes. Time stretches in the oppressive silence. I'm not sure how long I'm supposed to clean, but I do it anyway. It's the only thing I can do right now. No questions. Just work.
Finally, when I finish, I step back, wiping my hands on my shirt. The old man looks up, his gaze sharp like a knife. He doesn't smile. Doesn't nod in approval. He just gestures to the worn-out punching bag in the corner.
"Hit it."
I hesitate. My muscles are sore from the day's walk, my knuckles already bruised from countless beatings before. But I step forward anyway. I've been in worse pain. I'm used to it by now.
I throw a weak punch at the bag. It barely moves. My arms shake from the effort.
"Again," the old man says, his voice flat.
I try again, but the bag barely shifts. My strike is weak, lackluster. I feel the sting of failure creeping in, a familiar sensation. But before I can stop myself, I speak.
"I can't."
Before the words even leave my mouth, he strikes. A blow to my ribs, not hard, but enough. Enough to steal the air from my lungs.
"Again," he says, his voice unwavering.
I collapse to one knee, clutching my side, gasping for breath. Pain lances through my body, making my muscles scream for release. I want to stop. I want to give up. But something inside me tells me that I can't. Not this time.
The old man stands over me, watching, waiting.
"The world won't wait for you to be ready," he says. "It will tear you apart. Hit the bag."
I rise. Slowly, painfully. I make my way back to the bag, my vision blurring with sweat and tears. I strike again, harder this time. The bag moves just a little. And then again. And again. Each punch is a battle against my body, my mind, my doubts. I keep hitting, keep pushing, even as my skin splits and my knuckles bleed.
The days stretch into weeks. Every morning, I wake before dawn, the sky still heavy with darkness. The old man is waiting. There is no greeting, no acknowledgement of yesterday's pain. Only orders.
"Run."
My legs are weak, but I run. Miles through the empty streets, past silent buildings, over bridges where the wind howls through rusted beams. The first week, I collapse before I reach the halfway point. He drags me back. The second week, I make it further. By the third, my legs stop trembling when I climb the steps back to the training hall.
Then come the drills. Punching. Kicking. Falling. Again and again, until my body remembers the movements even when my mind is numb with exhaustion. He teaches me how to take a hit, how to absorb a blow without breaking. When I falter, he strikes—not with cruelty, but with purpose. A reminder that the world doesn't pull its punches.
He feeds me sparingly. Simple meals—rice, eggs, whatever he has. No indulgence, no comfort. Just fuel for the next day's battle.
"You think strength comes from muscle?" he asks one night as I collapse onto the wooden floor, drenched in sweat. "You're wrong. It comes from pain. It comes from knowing you will break, and standing up anyway."
I say nothing. My breaths come in ragged gasps, my body screaming for rest. But I understand. Every bruise, every aching limb, every drop of blood spilled onto these worn wooden floors is a step forward. A step toward something unbreakable.
One month. One month of pain. One month of crawling through the fire.
And when I look into the mirror, I don't see the same broken person anymore.
I see someone who will not fall.
One night, after a particularly grueling session, the old man sits across from me, his expression unreadable. He sharpens his blade slowly before speaking.
"You've endured," he says. "Now, you're ready for something more."
I look at him, waiting. He sets the blade down and leans forward.
"I will teach you the first veil," he continues. "If by fate, you will learn the other techniques. This is an ancient combat technique of the Shirogiri clan."