"Dude, you look like someone dropkicked your soul," Matsuda said, shoveling yakisoba bread into his mouth like it owed him lunch money.
"Did your mom make you clean the roof again?" Issei asked, nudging me with a grin.
I gave them a tired shrug. "Worse. Nightmares."
Technically true. If you count dream-training with the void constantly trying to eat me as a nightmare.
"Man, you need to come out with us more," Issei sighed. "There's a new ramen place downtown. 'Hella spicy, hella jiggle'—that's their slogan."
I forced a grin. "Sounds… life-changing."
They meant well. But I couldn't afford distractions. Not now.
Between training with my powers and trying to blend in, something had become crystal clear—I had no real combat experience. Just powers. And powers without foundation were a ticking time bomb.
So after school, I made a decision.
For the next few days, I hit up every dojo in town. Karate. Judo. Kendo. Even a weird Aikido place run by a dude who looked like he fought bears for fun.
And every single one of them had one thing in common.
Price tags bigger than my dignity.
"Eighty thousand yen for a beginner course?!" I nearly dropped the pamphlet.
"Specialized martial arts instruction," the receptionist sniffed, like I'd insulted her ancestors.
I left before my wallet could file a restraining order.
By the third evening, I was about to give up.
That's when I saw it.
A half-faded sign off the road on the outskirts of Kuoh:
"Ishiguro Dojo – Strength is forged, not inherited."
The place was tucked between an overgrown rice field and the edge of a thick forest. The path leading to it was cracked stone and silence. No music. No students. Just wind rustling the trees.
The building looked ancient. Wood warped from age, roof sagging like it had stories to tell. There was moss on the steps and dust in the air.
Great, I thought. I've found the haunted dojo.
I was about to turn back when I heard a voice behind me.
"You here to mock the dead or learn to fight?"
I turned and froze.
The old man stood at the top of the steps, leaning on a wooden broom like it was a staff. Long, gray hair tied back, beard streaked with white like a mountain in winter. He wore a simple robe—no belts, no flash. But his eyes…
Sharp. Calm. Focused. Like he could see every lie I'd ever told.
"I… I was just looking," I said. "Most places are too expensive."
He studied me for a long second, then nodded.
"Then you'll train here. Pay when you can. If you last long enough to make it worth it."
"…Huh?"
"You've got fire in your gut," he said, starting to sweep the steps. "And broken things in your eyes. That's the best kind of kindling."
I blinked. "You're… serious?"
He didn't look up. "You want cheap, weak, and fast—go back to the city. You want to break the bones of your soul and rebuild them from ash—you start now."
Okay, I thought, either he's a lunatic or an actual master.
Probably both.
Later that night, I told Mom. She looked up from the sink, worry written across her face.
"A dojo? Out of town?" she asked. "Do they have a license? You sure it's not some cult?"
"He's legit. Just… old."
She wiped her hands on a towel and turned to face me. "You've been changing lately. Not just cooking and being less…" She paused. "You know. Perverted. But changing."
I looked away. "I just… I want to be strong."
She stared at me for a moment, then gave a tired smile. "Alright. But if he tries to make you drink some weird stuff you run, okay?"
I laughed. "Deal."
"I can give you some money from—"
I cut her off. "He said not to. Said I can pay when it's worth it."
She raised an eyebrow. "That's either really kind… or incredibly sketchy."
"…Yeah. I'm betting on kind."
Next afternoon, I was back.
The old man was waiting in the backyard—cleared dirt, bamboo fencing, and the forest looming beyond like a wall of green silence.
"You're late," he said.
"It's four minutes past," I argued.
"Four minutes in a real fight gets your neck broken."
Right. We're doing this.
He tossed me a wooden staff.
"First lesson: survive."
Then he attacked.
Fast.
Too fast.
The staff whistled through the air—first a lazy swipe, then a blur that nearly took off my ear. I ducked, rolled, and stumbled backward.
"Eyes up!" he barked. "Feet down! Stop thinking like a student!"
I gritted my teeth, adrenaline kicking in. I started moving—faster. Observation Haki helped. Barely.
Don't react. Predict.
I sidestepped a thrust, slipped under a feint, and deflected one blow with sheer dumb luck.
Then he stopped, planting the staff like a flag.
"…Good."
I panted, sweat dripping down my back. "That was good?"
"For a wet leaf trying to be a blade? Sure."
He handed me a water bottle. "Now. Run to the top of that cliff." He pointed to a sheer rise behind the forest, where the sun hung low in the sky. "Up and back before the sun's gone. No shortcuts. No excuses."
I stared at the path.
It wasn't a trail. It was a trial.
"…Got it," I said, and started running.
Branches slapped my face. Rocks tore at my feet. My lungs screamed.
But I didn't stop.
Couldn't stop.
Not when the old me—the canon fodder Motohama—was waiting to drag me back down.
I reached the top as the sun kissed the edge of the world, gasping, shaking. But I made it.
As I looked out over the treetops, heart thundering in my chest, I made a silent vow.
I will not be weak. I will not be forgettable.
I will not be someone else's comic relief.
This world might think I'm just another background character.
But they're not ready for what I'm becoming.
Not yet.