In the hallowed space of the dojo, Sensei Leonardo invited Fiona to explore its depths. Despite the initially intimidating aura of the students, Fiona began to recognize familiar faces. Faces of those who once bought mangoes from her when she sold them at the park, faces from the market where she used to work, and even some youngsters who frequented the tech mall to buy parts. The world, she realized, was indeed a tiny place, and these seemingly distant lives were now converging within the confined walls of the martial arts sanctuary.
Fiona couldn't help but marvel at the realization that the dojo, though seemingly sparse in numbers compared to Camilla's grand establishment, resonated with a power that could make the very ground tremble beneath the footsteps and shouts of its dedicated practitioners. The sensei led her through the quiet halls, a stark contrast to the bustling energy of Camilla's dojo.
As they stopped at an empty room, Fiona's senses were immediately drawn to the worn tatami beneath her feet, a canvas that told tales of time passing and countless stories etched in sweat and sacrifice. Dust motes pirouetted in the sunlight that streamed through open windows, casting an ethereal glow on the aged surroundings. The room held the scent of old leather punching bags, the metallic tang of blood, and the unmistakable fragrance of salty tears. The students had poured their essence into this space, leaving behind marks of their dedication.
In the center stood a sturdy piece of wood, a silent witness to the relentless training of students past. Fist imprints, like scars, adorned its surface—a testament to the commitment of those who sought to overcome not just external adversaries but their own limitations. Fiona traced the dents with her eyes, feeling the ghosts of their struggles lingering in the room.
The sensei stood in the doorway, his eyes, though devoid of sight, gazing into the room with a mixture of nostalgia and pragmatism. The worn tatami and the wood with its battle scars held the echoes of students who had faced their own battles within these walls.
High on a wall, Fiona noticed a quote from the father founder of the art. Slowly reading the words, "If you do not overcome your tendency to give up easily, your life leads to nothing," she felt a pang in her gut. The timeless message reached across generations, speaking of perseverance and making her own struggles and aspirations feel worthy.
Sensei Leonardo explained that the dojo sustained itself because of the dedication of its few but committed students. He acknowledged Fiona's financial constraints but emphasized that training here required reciprocal commitment. "These walls have witnessed the sweat and grit of those who embraced Master's words. Only those willing to invest in themselves deserve to train here," he stated with unwavering conviction.
Fiona's mind drifted to Camilla's grand dojo, a spectacle of martial artistry. The contrast between the opulence there and the humble authenticity of this kyokushin dojo was stark. Sensei Leonardo, sensing her thoughts, remarked, "Twenty flames burning bright are worth more than a hundred flickering embers, Fiona." The absence of adornments and luxuries in this space created an atmosphere of purity, a welcoming humility beneath the rigors of training. It felt more authentic for her, and despite the harshness of the discipline, the dojo embraced Fiona like a wise elder imparting timeless wisdom.
As Sensei Leonardo posed the pivotal question, "If not money, what can you give back to the dojo, Fiona?" a palpable tension filled the room. Fiona clutched the fabric of her t-shirt, acutely aware of her financial shortcomings. Doubts gnawed at her, and beads of cold sweat traced a path down her back. Her eyes darted around, seeking a solution, a lifeline that would tether her to the place she so desperately wished to call home. Egoistic desires surfaced – the desire to stay, to become somebody, to possess what others in the dojo had – a sanctuary for self-improvement, a mentor to guide her steps.
With a trembling voice, she tentatively suggested, "I could clean the place up..." However, Sensei Leonardo, tapping his cane against the ground, interrupted her with a command to speak louder. Faced with the challenge, Fiona's resolve strengthened, and she proposed, "I could clean up, wash uniforms, and even cook if needed." Her heart spoke, resolute and unyielding.
The sensei responded with his own set of questions, delving into the depths of Fiona's soul. "Did you see, Fiona? How many times have you silenced your heart?" Grasping her chest, she felt the steady cadence of her own heartbeat. How many times had she denied herself, choosing comfort over growth? Merely ten minutes within the crucible of the dojo had already initiated a transformation, molding her in ways she couldn't yet fathom.
From behind the sensei, a middle-sized robot materialized from the shadows, an obsidian silhouette shimmering with the dojo's warm hues. Archon, speaking through Fiona's phone, introduced the robot as Scour, a name bestowed upon him by the students. With robotic efficiency and a touch of personality, Scour set to work, his whirring form gliding across the tatami, banishing dust in a silent ballet of efficiency. Archon, with his playful interpretation of Scour's actions, added a lightness to the room.
Sensei Leonardo acknowledged the robot's presence, a testament to the collaborative efforts within the dojo. Scour extended a worn brush towards Fiona, a tool bearing the marks of a student's handiwork – a patchwork of duct tape and a band-aid adorned with a cartoon smiley face. The robot nudged the brush towards Fiona's feet, offering a silent pact of shared purpose.
With a final, happy chirp, Scour whisked away, leaving Fiona holding the brush with a newfound smile. Sensei Leonardo, with a stoic yet thoughtful expression, listened to her proposal. His white eyes, though sightless, bore into Fiona's soul. Speaking with a commanding authority, he declared, "Take the brush, Fiona. Show me the fire in your heart. Prove your commitment through your actions. Only then will this dojo be your home." With those words, the aged sensei turned away, leaving Fiona and Sky in the dusty room, poised at the threshold of transformation.
Sky entered the room, barefoot, his eyes fixed on the weathered wood in the center. With a pointed fist, he traced the contours of a mark embedded in the surface—a weathered print of his past training, a testament to countless battles. A soft punch made the wood creak, releasing the dust of memories. Gloves were cast aside, and his coat, a study in contrasts, draped across his broad shoulders.
Fiona could now see it up close, not under the moonlight as the first time. Black as a moonless night, the coat clung to him like a second skin, adorned with hints of silver shimmering within the weave, reminiscent of moonlight trapped in obsidian—a whisper of Streagrian magic. The garment bore the weight of battles fought and scars weathered, its edges frayed and kissed by the imprints of countless cosmic struggles. Beneath the hood, hidden from the world, were eyes that mirrored an ocean of sadness, each line etched with the weight of infinite universes. Gazing into them was to risk drowning in profound sorrow, a sadness capable of cracking the sturdiest human heart. Yet, within that sea of melancholy, a flicker of warmth endured—a flicker nourished by the embers of those who had touched his heart.
With a practiced motion, he shed the cloak, revealing the warrior beneath—a figure clad in a modern take on a magic kenjutsu student's garb. Humble, worn leather whispered of battles fought not only against flesh and blood but against the very fabric of reality. A torn and humble orange belt hung from his belt, the sole adornment marking him as an initiate in Kyokushin's art. Despite a century of practice, he claimed no title or mastery, always referring to himself as a "student" with a wry smile that never quite reached his eyes.
Approaching the wood, Sky spoke to Fiona about its significance. "This wood, this makiwara, it's not meant to be broken, Fiona," he rasped, his voice a low rumble against the stillness. "It's about endurance. Patience. Perseverance." His calloused hand, knuckles like knotted oak, touched the polished grain. "The wood isn't meant to shatter. It's meant to receive your blows, to mirror your strength, to show you what you're truly capable of."
With a flick of his wrist, a series of strikes were unleashed—a blur of controlled fury. The air crackled with the whisper of blades, the wood sighing under the impact. Fiona watched, mesmerized, as Sky wasn't just striking out but dancing with the makiwara. His movements became a conversation in the ancient language of steel and spirit, a reminder of his strength etched deeper with each rhythmic blow. As the echoes of the last strike faded, a spark ignited in Sky's eyes—a tiny flame defying the ocean of sorrow.
Fiona, witnessing this profound demonstration, understood the true purpose of the training. It wasn't about becoming a weapon; it was about learning to live with one. To carry the weight of infinite sadness without succumbing to it. It was about finding the strength to dance in the face of darkness, to project one's light onto the world, one patient, persevering strike at a time.
Fiona, fueled by eagerness, approached the makiwara, her desire for immediate training evident. With a question, she sought Sky's guidance on forming fists and standing before the wooden training tool. Sky responded with a gentle smile, recognizing her enthusiasm but emphasizing the need for time and dedication in mastering the art. "You can't just pick a brush and paint a masterpiece, you can't plant a seed without first preparing the ground, come Fiona," he urged.
Leading her to the room where students had practiced moments before, Sky pointed to broken planks hanging on the wall. Each plank bore the marks of students' names, painted with ink as part of an initiation ritual. Devoid of trophies like Camilla's dojo, this wall was adorned with the warriors who had graced these halls, leaving their mark. Nostalgia flickered in Sky's eyes as he looked at some of the names. Then, Fiona noticed Sky's own plank—aged, bearing his name in blood instead of ink.
Intrigued, Fiona questioned the significance. Sky, with a trembling hand, traced back to the day he inscribed his full name, "Skyknight Beoulve." He explained, "Because I took five years to feel worthy of inscribing my name here, it was the day I left for the stars." The smell of fallen leaves emanated from the broken planks, and when Sky shared his plank with her, Fiona realized it wasn't just a normal piece of wood.
Sky disclosed that it came from the Kerguelen Islands, hailing from an ancient tree. No harm had befallen any trees in obtaining it. This piece of wood carried the whispers of the wind, the touch of the cold ocean spray, and the quiet strength of a plant that endured alone in a harsh environment. Holding it felt like grasping a tangible reminder of nature's power and the untold stories waiting to be discovered in unexpected places. The wood emitted a pleasant aroma, sweet and delicate, its surface smooth but surprisingly solid.
Eager to be part of the wall of warriors, Fiona placed the old brush back in her hands and returned to the dusty room, her thoughts echoing with determination. "Someday, I too want my name there" she declared, ready to embrace the journey.
Determined to make progress, Fiona nestled onto the dusty tatami, fervently attacking the accumulated layers of neglect. Hours passed, with the sun's beams casting long shadows that danced with a myriad of microscopic specks. Each grain of dust, seemingly defiant, twirled in miniature tornados before settling back onto the worn tatami mats. Fiona's brush mimicked the fierce strikes she yearned to unleash on the makiwara, but the dust resisted. It billowed in fluffy clouds, clung to the bristles, refusing to be tamed. The more she brushed, the more it multiplied—a tangible manifestation of her frustration.
Her forehead beaded with sweat, arm muscles trembling, Fiona felt as if she were engaged in a Sisyphean task. Each stroke seemed like a futile blow against an invisible wall built of doubt, and the nagging suspicion that this simple chore was a test destined for failure. In a moment of despair, tears stung her eyes, the brush falling limp in her hand. The dust settled, a mocking shroud over the room, mirroring the darkness seeping into her mind. "Even cleaning," she choked out, voice ragged with despair, "even this simple task, I can't do it right."
A cool breeze brushed past Fiona's cheek just as she contemplated giving up on the dust, sending a shiver down her spine. The swirling dust motes became reminiscent of the gentle hazel eyes of Camilla's father, her ex-boyfriend, their warmth forever dimmed by loss. Those eyes truly saw her, unlike the judging gazes she sometimes encountered in the world outside. The stubborn persistence of the dust mirrored his unwavering dedication to their relationship—a stark contrast to her own doubts and insecurities. Even in the chaotic dance of the dust, Fiona found a hint of beauty, a reminder of the joy he brought into her life, a stark difference from the harshness she felt within herself.
Sky walked behind her, taking the other half of the room with a brush of his own. His voice, soft and kind, cut through the fog of Fiona's self-doubt. "Fiona," he said, "the path to mastery is not paved with impatience. Like the dust, some things need time to settle before they can be truly swept away." As he started brushing out the dust, it also resisted Sky's strokes. Yet, he silently persisted, focused on his task, fervently trying his best to sweep away not just the physical dust but also the doubts that clouded Fiona's mind.
Fiona slumped into a corner of the room, dust clinging to her clothes and defeat heavy on her brow. Sky observed her from his side of the room, noticing her emotional struggle. "Still wrestling with the dust devils?" he asked softly. Fiona sighed. "Maybe I'm not meant for this, Sky. Maybe even cleaning is beyond me." Sky smiled understandingly. "We all have moments like that. Rome wasn't built in one day, even the universe wasn't formed in seven days." A small laugh escaped Fiona's lips. "At least you didn't have dust clinging to your dignity."
Fiona noticed that even faced by a daunting task, Sky remained the same. "Speaking of escape," Sky winked, "what's next on your agenda? A well-deserved nap, perhaps?" Fiona shrugged. "Actually, I was thinking..." She hesitated, a hint of embarrassment in her voice. "The cyber cafe. Maybe a few rounds of... you know... games."
Sky's face lit up, asking, "Can I go too?" Fiona looked at him in confusion. A celestial warrior joining her in the cyber cafe? She replied, "If you want to." Sky, excited like a little kid, picked up his coat, put his hood back on, and rocked his feet toward the door. Scour came beeping, bringing a towel that he offered to Fiona, and Archon provided the translation, "The little guy says good work, Fiona." Fiona took the towel to dry her sweat while patting the robot on its top part. Happily, Scour went away beeping, clearly expressing joy at having Fiona as a cleaning partner.
Approaching the main door of the dojo, Sensei Leonardo was waiting, sensing the sunset and awaiting the students of the night class. The scent of the city returned, metallic and frivolous. Fiona saw Sky preparing to salute the sensei, welcoming Fiona to imitate his posture. He slightly opened his legs to the length of his shoulders, then crossed his arms over his chest while closing his fists, forming an X. He lowered his arms while bowing strongly, taking a deep breath before bowing, and his gaze slightly pointed downwards. Clumsily, Fiona tried the same, startled when Sky said, "Osu, sensei! Thanks for the training."
The sensei bowed slightly and offered his hand to shake Sky's, which he accepted happily. The handshake wasn't a dainty clasp; it was a collision, palms meeting with the force of seasoned oak smacking oak. Their grips tightened, knuckles bone-to-bone, a silent contest of strength woven into the fabric of the moment. Then, a sharp clap resounded, the air crackling with the echo of a thousand shared trials. In that percussive snap, their histories intertwined, untold battles whispered in the tremor of their intertwined flesh. It wasn't just a greeting; it was a pact, a war cry disguised as a simple human touch. They weren't strangers sharing pleasantries; they were battle brothers, forging steel against the anvil of the handshake, ready to face the world's furnace once more.
Sensei Leonardo spoke to Sky, "Hopefully you won't take 50 years to reach another belt." Sky replied with a nervous smile. Fiona, watching the solemnity of the handshake between sensei and student, longed for that connection. Sensei Leonardo extended his hand to her. Even if she had to earn her place in the crucible of the dojo, she had been welcomed to try. Hesitating for a second, she felt the master, even if he couldn't see, he grabbed Fiona's hand and shook it strongly, sending shivers through her spine. The master acknowledged his new student, lively and raw.