The road turned to dirt three days ago. Ryo walked with his hands in his pockets, shoulders loose, boots crunching gravel that had once been river stone. His shirt was gone. Had been for weeks. The fabric kept tearing when he moved, and sewing it back together felt like a waste of time. His skin had browned under the sun, tight over muscle that shifted when he breathed. A merchant cart passed him. The ox pulling it snorted. Its ears flattened. The animal tried to turn away from the road and the driver cursed, whipping the reins. Ryo didn't look at the ox. He kept walking. The village sat in a valley between two bald hills. Smoke rose from clay chimneys. He could hear steel hitting steel from a forge, the rhythmic clang mixing with the smell of boiling rice. The gate was wooden, twice his height, painted with symbols he couldn't read. Didn't need to. The meaning was clear: this place had walls, and walls meant people who knew how to fight. He ducked under the gate. The wood scraped his hair. He was taller than the frame now. Had been for a while. A woman carrying a basket of yams saw him first. She stopped mid-step. Her fingers tightened on the wicker until her knuckles matched the pale vegetable flesh. She didn't scream. Just backed away, one foot behind the other, until she bumped into a post and scurried down an alley. Ryo watched her go. He didn't smile. Didn't frown. His face held nothing that made people feel safe. He walked down the main street. Dust puffed under his boots. The buildings were close together, second floors leaning over the road like old men hunched against rain. A group of children playing with a leather ball saw him. The ball bounced twice, unattended. The kids stood frozen. One started crying, not loudly, just a thin whine that cut off when another child clamped a hand over their mouth. He stopped at a water pump. The handle was iron, rusted at the hinge. He worked it with one hand, water gushing into a stone basin, and cupped his palms to drink. The reflection stared back at him. Dark eyes set deep under a brow that cast a shadow. A jaw that looked like it had been carved from the same stone as the basin. His hair had grown wild, black curls that fell past his ears, framing a face that belonged to someone who broke things for a living. He looked older than thirteen. The body said seventeen, maybe eighteen. The shoulders stretched wider than most men's, the neck thick with corded muscle that moved when he swallowed. His chest was slabbed, abs cut into six distinct blocks under skin that carried scars from claws and teeth. His arms hung heavy at his sides, veins tracing paths like river deltas down to wrists that were thicker than some adults' ankles. A boy maybe two years older than him approached. The kid wore a green gi, a white belt knotted loose at his waist. He held a wooden tray with tea cups. "Hey," the kid said. His voice cracked. "You lost?" Ryo wiped water from his chin with the back of his hand. "No." "You're... big." "Yeah." The kid tried to smile. It didn't reach his eyes. His hands shook, making the cups rattle against the tray. "We don't get many strangers. Especially not ones who look like they eat rocks for breakfast." Ryo didn't laugh. He studied the kid's stance. Weight on the back foot. Shoulders tense. A fighter, but not a good one yet. "You train here?" "Kung fu. My dad teaches it." The kid swallowed. "There's other schools too. Karate. Judo. Muay Thai. This village is kind of a place where martial artists settle down when they retire from tournaments." Ryo nodded. That explained the sound of bodies hitting mats that drifted from the eastern end of the village. The ki signatures he felt humming in his gut like distant thunder. Not strong. Not Roshi-strong. But real. "Where's the karate school?" Ryo asked. The kid pointed with his chin. Down the street, past a sake house with a red lantern. "Master Tanaka's place. But he's... he's not really taking students right now. He's picky." Ryo stepped away from the pump. The kid flinched, tea sloshing over the tray rim. "Thanks," Ryo said. He walked in the direction the kid had pointed. People moved out of his way without him asking. A fisherman hauling a net pressed himself against a wall. Two old men playing checkers on a crate stopped talking when he passed. One of them knocked over his own king piece and didn't reach to right it. The air felt different near the karate dojo. Cleaner. The building was stone, not wood, with a heavy wooden door that stood open. Inside, a dozen students in white gis snapped through kata in unison. Their punches cut the air with sharp hiss sounds. Ryo stood in the doorway. His shadow stretched across the training floor, long and dark. The students stopped. One by one, their heads turned. A girl in the front row dropped her stance and took a step back. The boy behind her bumped into a punching post and yelped. A man walked from the back room. He was maybe fifty, gray at the temples, his gi worn soft at the elbows. He moved like someone who had spent decades learning exactly where his center of gravity lived. His eyes found Ryo and narrowed. "Can I help you?" Master Tanaka asked. His voice was even. Professional. But his hand hung at his side, fingers twitching like they wanted to close into a fist. Ryo stepped inside. The floorboards creaked under his weight. He felt the eyes of the students crawling over him, scared and curious and something else. Recognition, maybe. The way prey recognizes a shape that doesn't belong in the grass. "I'm looking for a fight," Ryo said. Tanaka's jaw tightened. He looked at the child in front of him, at the shoulders that filled the doorway, at the eyes that held no challenge in them—just expectation. Like the outcome was already decided and they were only waiting for the clock to run out. "You want to challenge me?" Tanaka asked. Ryo rolled his neck. It popped once. "Yeah," he said. "I do."
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