The class moved forward one by one, each student taking their turn to face the metal dummy. The room buzzed with tension, and every failed attempt seemed to thicken the air. Most students fumbled with the techniques, struggling to replicate the flawless movements that Sir Takeda had demonstrated just moments before.
"Sloppy!" Takeda barked at a student who had barely grazed the dummy. The poor boy flinched under the harsh critique, his shoulders slumping as he trudged back to the line. His face burned red with shame, his eyes cast down as the other students stifled laughter—or didn't bother to hide it at all.
"Hey, don't take it personally," one student whispered, smirking as the boy passed. "We're all just here for the entertainment."
Takeda turned back to the class, his gruff voice tinged with a smile that hinted at amusement. "It's harsh, but that's how you'll learn. Pain and failure are the fastest teachers." He crossed his arms, the faintest glint of satisfaction in his eye betraying how much he enjoyed this process.
Seijuro Matsuda stood off to the side, arms folded, his sharp eyes scrutinizing every movement. "Weak. Weak. Sloppy. Pathetic." His mind dissected each performance as if filing away notes. There were about twenty students in the class, but in Seijuro's eyes, only four were worth paying attention to. The rest were cannon fodder at best.
His gaze lingered on one student in particular.
"Xu Zihan," Seijuro thought, sizing him up. The boy from China stood at a modest 5'5"—short, but quick. His wiry frame and long, messy hair made him look more like a scrappy street brawler than a disciplined student. Despite his average appearance, Xu's cheerfulness was contagious. He laughed loudly at every joke, and the way he casually bantered with the other students made him impossible to dislike.
Still, Seijuro noted the flaws: Good speed. Decent Reitō. But his technique barely compensates. Xu had scored a B.
Then his eyes shifted to Faye Marigold.
The pink-haired girl from France was impossible to ignore. She stood a little taller than Xu, her sharp yet elegant features making her look more like a runway model than a martial artist. Seijuro noticed how the boys in the class hung on her every word, their eyes trailing her every movement. The girls, meanwhile, either whispered enviously behind her back or tried to win her favor.
Faye had earned a B+, which Seijuro grudgingly admitted was deserved. Her grasp of the techniques was nearly flawless, even if her speed and power left much to be desired. "Smart. Sharp. Dangerous in the right circumstances," he concluded.
His attention then landed on Kaoru Tsurugi.
Kaoru was a mystery. Tall, lanky, and quiet, the Japanese student blended into the background like a shadow. With his dark, fluffy hair and relaxed posture, he looked utterly unremarkable—until he moved. When Kaoru stepped up to the dummy, his precision and power were unmatched. Seijuro's lip twitched in irritation. "His Reitō is leagues above mine," he admitted reluctantly.
Kaoru had scored an A, effortlessly securing the top rank. But what unsettled Seijuro the most was the way Kaoru carried himself: calm, unbothered, as if none of this mattered.
And then there was Amun Ma'atir.
The golden boy.
Amun exuded a natural charisma that made him impossible to ignore. Standing nearly as tall as Seijuro, with an athletic build and sharp features, he looked like he belonged on the cover of a magazine. Amun had passed the test with such ease it was almost insulting. Everyone in the class admired him—some openly, others begrudgingly. Seijuro clenched his jaw. "A prodigy. Compared to everyone else, it's like comparing insects to animals."
Finally, it was Seijuro's turn.
"Listen, kid," Takeda said, his gruff tone softening just slightly. "I don't expect you to nail this on your first try. Watch the others, take some notes, and you can retake the exam next week."
"No," Seijuro said simply, stepping forward.
Takeda raised an eyebrow, his lips curling into a smirk. "Really now? You sure about that?"
Seijuro nodded, his expression calm yet unyielding.
"Well, be my guest," Takeda said, stepping aside, his arms crossed as he leaned back to observe.
The murmurs started immediately.
"He's gonna embarrass himself," one student snickered.
"What a showoff," another said, rolling his eyes.
"Who does he think he is?"
Seijuro ignored them. He'd grown up tuning out voices like these—jeers, taunts, whispers. They were background noise. He closed his eyes, taking a slow, steady breath. His mind flashed back to the streets, to the underground fights where survival wasn't a choice—it was the only option.
The first technique: Tanshō—the Short Palm.
He opened his eyes, stepping into position. His stance was firm but fluid, his focus razor-sharp. In one explosive motion, he closed the gap between himself and the dummy, driving his palm forward with blinding speed.
CRACK!
The sound echoed through the training hall, silencing every whisper.
Seijuro stepped back, shaking his hand slightly. "Tch," he muttered under his breath. Too fast. Not enough control. The technique is meant to stun, not destroy.
The titanium dummy didn't ring like it was supposed to. Instead, a dent—large and unmistakable—marred its surface.
The students behind him stared, their mouths hanging open.
"No way..." one of them whispered.
"Is that... normal?"
Takeda's expression shifted from smug amusement to grim seriousness. He strode forward, his eyes narrowing as he examined the dummy.
"The dummies are made out of a unique type of metal named Balsinite," he muttered. "Designed to withstand Yukā techniques. And he left a dent..."
"I can do quite easily, yea for sure. But for a student his age?"
He turned to Seijuro, his eyes sharp. "Interesting. Your precision is garbage, but the raw power? That's something else entirely."
Seijuro didn't reply. His focus had already shifted to the next technique. The whispers of his classmates faded into the background as he steadied his breathing.
Ever since Seijuro was a kid, the streets had been his home. Survival meant fighting, and there was no other choice. Things only got worse when his power manifested. His gang saw him as a weapon, throwing him into illegal underground matches with Nephoms and others just as rough. It was brutal, unforgiving, but Seijuro pushed through. Each fight, each wound, only made him stronger.
Takeda mind wandered. "Ryu Takahashi," he said, his tone low. "What exactly did you bring into my class?"
The room fell silent, the tension thick enough to cut with a knife.
Seijuro cracked his neck, stepping into position again. "Let's see how far I can push this."
It was time for the next technique: Jinsenkyaku—the Swift Flash Kick.
Seijuro took a slow breath, his body tense with anticipation. He reviewed Sir Takeda's words and movements in his mind, forcing himself to commit every detail to memory. Get it right this time. Focus. The others were watching, some whispering among themselves, others silently judging. He couldn't afford to fail again. He had to get this one right.
Without wasting any more time, Seijuro shifted his weight and lashed out with his leg. The kick was fast—blisteringly fast. The air seemed to crackle with energy as his foot made contact with the dummy's side. The impact was strong enough to send a shockwave through the air, but still, Seijuro knew. His technique lacked the control and precision it needed. Instead of landing cleanly, his kick cracked the dummy's ankle, sending a sharp sound echoing through the room.
Seijuro's leg recoiled, frustration flaring up inside him. Why the hell am I not getting it?! He clenched his fists, the anger boiling beneath the surface. His forehead burned with the heat of his frustration, but he fought to keep himself in check. He couldn't lose control. Not now.
Sir Takeda, watching intently, merely hummed to himself, eyes narrowed. He'd already pegged Seijuro's problem. The students behind him, who had been mocking earlier, fell into a hush. Their expressions shifted slightly. It wasn't laughter anymore, but a cold, measured observation. The four students Seijuro had noticed earlier—those who posed the biggest threats—were all watching with quiet interest, as though assessing their new competition.
But then there was Kaoru Tsurugi, the lone exception. He barely looked up from his half-closed eyes, wiping sleepy tears from his face with the back of his hand. He seemed like he couldn't care less, though it was clear he was observing just as carefully as the others.
Seijuro shook off his irritation. No time to waste. He had to focus. He had one last technique to go through: Jikuten—the Pivot Shift.
This time, the eyes of every student in the room were on him. They were all fixed on him, like some kind of foreign object in a museum. The weight of their stares pressed down on his shoulders, but he blocked them out, focusing only on the technique. His mind reeled back to the key points he'd remembered. One foot planted on the ground, while the other does the work. Simple in theory, but execution was everything.
Sir Takeda's sharp eyes narrowed in, sensing the shift in Seijuro's posture. So, he's figured it out, has he? Takeda's lips curled into a small smile, but it wasn't the mocking grin from before. It was a knowing one, like he'd seen something special.
Seijuro planted his foot, focused. He let his body move. And it flowed. No hesitation, no doubt. It was like water, seamless and natural, his body moving almost effortlessly. The shift was perfect, as if the technique had always been a part of him, buried deep within his muscle memory.
When he finished, Seijuro took a slow breath, wiping a bead of sweat from his forehead. It had felt... easy. Too easy. His Shindō—was all about dodging and counterattacks, adapting on the fly. This? This was practically second nature to him. A simple shift. A power of cake.
Sir Takeda's gruff laughter broke through the tension. It was loud, deep, and surprisingly lighthearted. He slapped Seijuro on the back with a force that almost sent him stumbling forward. "You know, kid," Takeda chuckled, "at first I didn't know what to think of you. But it seems you've got some talent there!"
The sound of Takeda's hearty laugh echoed around the room, and a wave of shock rippled through the students. They'd never seen this side of their instructor before. The rigid, no-nonsense Takeda, now cracking jokes with a student. It was... almost unsettling. A few of the students exchanged confused glances, while others just stared, slack-jawed. Seijuro barely registered their reactions, his face twisting in annoyance as Takeda's large, grimy hand hit his back.
"Hey, old geezer," Seijuro muttered, rubbing his shoulder where Takeda's slap had landed. "Don't hit me so hard." He shot a glare at Takeda, but it didn't faze the older man in the least.
Takeda just laughed harder, clearly amused by Seijuro's annoyance. "I'm not going to apologize, kid!" Takeda's laughter echoed again, and the students were left in stunned silence, wondering if they'd missed something in the exchange. They couldn't quite place it—how could a student speak to Takeda like that and not get torn apart?
"Isn't Sir Takeda normally so strict?" one of them whispered. "Yeah, he'd totally tear us apart if we even looked at him like that. How is this guy getting away with it?"
Takeda finally turned to address the class, his grin fading into a more businesslike expression. "Despite being your first time seeing the techniques, you did fairly well, kid. Though, everything but that Pivot was pretty damn awful." He paused for effect, before adding, "I'll give you a C+."
Seijuro blinked, surprised. A C+? That was... decent, especially considering he'd only seen the techniques once. It wasn't perfect, but it was better than he'd expected. The fact that his Pivot had been near perfect was a small victory in itself.
Takeda crossed his arms and regarded Seijuro with a thoughtful look. "You're not bad, kid. Not bad at all."