Seijuro twisted the doorknob, pushing the door open with a casual stride. Outwardly, he appeared calm, but inside, a swirling storm of unfamiliar emotions churned. It was as though time itself slowed the moment he stepped inside, each step feeling like he was sinking into invisible quicksand.
Something about the situation struck him. "Wait... I've never been to school before. Which means..." The realization hit him like a train, a mix of unease and apprehension surging through him. He took a deep breath, muttering to himself, "I'm totally nervous right now."
Despite the confession, his body betrayed nothing of his inner turmoil. His posture was steady, his expression unreadable. No trembling hands, no visible signs of fear. Just the same indifferent, almost aloof demeanor.
But the moment he walked in, a wave of stares hit him like a tidal wave. Every eye in the room seemed to lock onto him, curious and scrutinizing.
"Who are you?" came a gruff voice from the front of the room.
Seijuro's gaze shifted to its source—a short, stocky old man with glasses perched on the bridge of his nose. The man's grey hair was combed neatly to the side, but it was his build that stood out. His muscular arms bulged beneath the short sleeves of a uniform that looked like a cheap tuxedo knockoff. Despite his small stature—no taller than 5'6, with a slight hunch—he radiated an air of authority.
And danger.
Seijuro's instincts kicked in immediately. He could feel it—the raw, tangible energy that clung to the old man like a second skin. "His Reitō..." Seijuro noted silently, his sharp eyes narrowing as he assessed the man's strength.
It wasn't just strong. It was the third most potent Reitō Seijuro had encountered, right after Ryu Takahashi and... what was that other guy's name? Lucien Graves.
The teacher squinted at Seijuro, clearly unimpressed by his entrance.
A bead of sweat rolled down Seijuro's temple, though his face betrayed none of his discomfort. He wasn't used to feeling like this—out of place, exposed—but he wasn't one to shy away. Straightening his posture, he forced himself to meet the man's eyes. "Seijuro Matsuda," he muttered, his voice barely above a whisper.
The old man cupped a hand around his ear. "What was that? Speak up, boy!"
Seijuro cleared his throat, his hands instinctively slipping out of his pockets. This time, his voice came out clear and firm. "My name is Seijuro Matsuda. I'm supposed to be in this class."
The teacher raised a thick brow, studying him for a long moment before letting out a low grunt. "Seijuro Matsuda... You're that kid Ryu told me about, huh?"
Seijuro's brow furrowed slightly. "Ryu mentioned me to the teacher? Since when did he have that kind of pull?"
The old man didn't wait for a response. "Well, you're late. Normally, I'd hand out punishments for that, but since it's your first day, I'll let it slide."
He adjusted his glasses, his voice taking on a formal tone. "My name is Koichi Takeda, but you will address me as Sir Takeda. I'm your practical instructor." He turned to the class. "Everyone, this is our new student, Seijuro Matsuda. Be kind and welcoming."
Seijuro's gaze flicked around the room, taking in the unusual setup. This wasn't a typical classroom with desks and chairs. Instead, it resembled a dojo, with polished wooden floors, padded walls, and rows of training dummies lining one side. There were racks of weapons and other training equipment neatly organized along the back. The students themselves stood in disciplined rows, their postures straight, their uniforms pristine.
"So this is their version of a classroom? Looks more like they're preparing for war," Seijuro mused, his lips twitching into a faint, sardonic smile.
Takeda gestured toward an empty spot at the back of the formation. "You can take the last spot there."
With a nod, Seijuro moved to his place. As he walked, the air buzzed with whispers, the students openly murmuring among themselves.
"How can he join this late? He must be some rich kid or something."
"I heard the teacher mention Ryu Takahashi. Maybe they're connected?"
"No way. Special treatment already? What a joke."
"Look at him. That messy white hair and those blue-looking eyes... Who even goes out looking like that?"
"Look at his hair, I'm sure he dyed it. He kind of looks like an old man haha!"
"His eyes look more grey than blue, or maybe a mix? In anyways I'm sure those are contacts!"
The girls weren't much better.
"He's kind of cute... but doesn't he give off total thug vibes?" one whispered, wrinkling her nose. "He just looks way too serious, like a woman beater!'
"That serious look makes him even hotter, though," another murmured, her cheeks faintly pink.
"Ugh, he's probably full of himself. Bet he thinks he's better than everyone else."
Seijuro's sharp senses caught every word, but his expression remained blank. "Dammit, their voices are so annoying," he thought irritably.
He'd been through this before—the judgment, the whispers, the sideways glances. Ever since he was a kid, people had always stared at him like he didn't belong. His unusual white hair, his sharp blue eyes, his tall, lanky frame—it all made him stand out in ways he couldn't control.
Seijuro had always been judged by his appearance, a burden he carried since childhood. Even his parents had turned their backs on him, convinced there was something inherently wrong with him. He had always been different—both in how he looked and how he acted.
While other toddlers struggled to take their first steps, Seijuro was already running circles around them. By the time he was five, his punches were strong enough to make his father wince, and his movements had the grace of a seasoned athlete. His snow-white hair, piercing blue eyes that seemed to glow dimly under certain lights, and his unusually rapid growth only made him stand out more.
To his parents, his differences weren't a gift; they were a curse. Whispers of superstition and fear crept into their hearts. They began to look at their son not with love but with suspicion. "He's not normal," they would mutter behind closed doors, though Seijuro always heard. "What if he's... some kind of demon?"
Eventually, their fear outweighed their love. Unable to reconcile the boy's talents with their narrow view of the world, they left him behind. Seijuro never forgot the coldness in their eyes the day they walked away.
Seijuro reached his spot, standing tall despite the murmurs still buzzing around him. His mind churned with memories of the past, but his face betrayed nothing. He wasn't about to let a room full of strangers get under his skin.
Takeda clapped his hands sharply, silencing the room. "Alright, that's enough chatter! We've got a lot to cover today, so let's get started. Matsuda, you'll catch on as we go."
Seijuro nodded, his expression hardening as he prepared himself. "This is just the beginning," he thought, glancing at the curious, judgmental faces around him. "I'll have this entire class kissing my feet in time."
Sir Takeda's voice cut through the room like a blade, loud and firm, instantly silencing the scattered murmurs. His authoritative tone left no room for disobedience. "Now, back to class! Time to start today's lesson," he barked, already moving on from Seijuro's introduction as if it was nothing of importance.
Seijuro glanced at the other students as they straightened up, their eyes glued to Takeda. He remained quiet, standing at the back, his gaze unwavering.
Takeda continued, pacing slowly at the front of the room.
"It has been one week since you all enrolled at the Academy. One week. That means I expect progress," he said, turning his head sharply to ensure every student felt the weight of his words. "As users of the Yūka Flame, mediocrity will not be tolerated."
Seijuro cocked an eyebrow, leaning slightly forward with interest. "The Three Divine Academies is one of the best, it's expected that there expections would be high."
Takeda raised three fingers. "Since day one, I've introduced three foundational techniques of the Yūka By today, you are all expected to have them committed to muscle memory. These techniques are your building blocks. Mastery of these basics will determine whether you stand or fall as a fighter."
Enshō Techniques are divided into three categories: Hokā, Seika, and Yukā, each with its own unique set of abilities that martial artists can learn and master. Unlike Shindō Techniques, which require Kiryū (energy flow), Enshō techniques do not rely on it, focusing mostly on physical skill. This is common knowledge amoung students.
Seijuro crossed his arms, his curiosity piqued. "Techniques, huh?" he muttered to himself, his mind already racing. He adjusted his posture to focus, his sharp eyes fixed on Takeda as the instructor moved toward the side of the room.
There, lined neatly against the wall, stood a row of training dummies, each crafted from some kind of reinforced metal. The gleaming surfaces reflected the sunlight pouring through the windows, and their sturdy construction made them look almost indestructible. Takeda stopped in front of one dummy and placed a hand on its cold frame.
"Pay attention," Takeda ordered, his voice calm but commanding. "I will demonstrate each technique only once."
"Yes, Sir!" the students shouted in unison, snapping to attention.
Seijuro couldn't help but smirk. "This should be interesting," he thought, though there was a tinge of arrogance in his expression. How hard could the basics really be?
Takeda stepped into position, planting his feet firmly on the ground. "The first technique," he began, his voice dropping into a serious tone, "is called Tanshō—The Short Palm."
He shifted his stance, his feet sliding apart to shoulder width. "This is the simplest and most fundamental Yukā technique. It's not about power, but precision. For this strike, you don't pull back. You don't wind up. You strike directly, with no wasted motion."
Seijuro narrowed his eyes, watching every movement like a hawk. Takeda's feet dug into the floor with a force that made his calves bulge beneath his slacks. His muscles coiled like steel springs, and for a moment, the entire class held their breath.
Then, it happened.
Takeda's arm shot forward like a flash of lightning, the palm of his hand slamming into the dummy's chest with a deafening thud. The strike was so fast it was nearly invisible, leaving an afterimage in the air. The impact caused the heavy metal dummy to tremble violently, emitting a low hum as if resonating with the sheer precision of the attack.
The class erupted in gasps and murmurs.
"What the hell was that?!" Seijuro thought, his mouth slightly agape. He'd expected something basic, something mundane. Instead, he'd witnessed a strike so calculated and controlled it bordered on the supernatural. "This old dude has serious skill!"
Takeda stood straight, his arm still extended. "Tanshō is designed to unbalance or stun your opponent without overcommitting," he explained, turning to face the class. His voice was steady, almost nonchalant, as if the display of skill had required no effort at all. "It's quick. Efficient. Perfect for close-quarters combat."
Seijuro leaned against the wall, his expression unreadable. But inside, his mind was a whirlwind. That… was the most basic technique? He felt a bead of sweat slide down his temple. His hands instinctively curled into fists as excitement bubbled in his chest. Damn, staying at this academy was the right call!
For the first time in a long while, Seijuro felt genuinely thrilled. His lips curled into a lopsided grin, part nervous, part exhilarated. The students around him were still whispering in awe, their gazes shifting between the dummy and Takeda.
"Now for the next technique!"