The sun burned high above the canopy, pouring shafts of gold through the restless leaves. The air smelled of pine and damp soil, sharpened by the faint brine of a nearby pond. Insects hummed lazily in the warmth, but within the clearing, the stillness was broken by voices and hurried steps.
Tora and Kandaki had risen at dawn, as they always did, ready for another grueling day of training. Their limbs ached from the previous month's drills—runs until their lungs collapsed, sparring until their arms turned to stone, lessons that seemed to bring them no closer to the strength they dreamed of. And yet, when Toki appeared before them that morning, something was different.
His golden eyes carried a light they had not seen in weeks, a light that made their tired bodies stiffen with anticipation. His hands, though raw and scarred, rested with purpose on his belt. His voice, calm but edged with steel, cut through their murmurs.
"From now on," Toki said, "we train together."
The children exchanged a look—half disbelief, half exhilaration. Kandaki's fists clenched. Tora's lips twitched into a grin. For so long, they had struggled alone, stumbling through exercises with no sense of direction. But if Toki was joining them, then everything would change. It had to.
"Come," Toki ordered, already moving. "There's something I want to show you."
The children scrambled to follow, hearts hammering with excitement. His pace was brisk, silent but determined, his boots crushing dead leaves in steady rhythm. They trailed him through the forest, past trunks scarred by storms and training, past the broken trail he himself had carved weeks ago while dragging a log through the underbrush. That scar of earth stretched long and jagged like a wound, a testament to his relentless will. The children stared at it in awe.
"He dragged that?" Kandaki muttered.
Tora swallowed hard. "All the way through the forest…"
The path itself was a lesson before the lesson. To walk it was to be reminded that strength was not built in a day, but gouged into the world by persistence.
At last, the trees opened, spilling them into a clearing bathed in sunlight. A pond shimmered at its center, its surface rippling gently with the breath of the wind. On a flat stone by the water's edge sat Ozvold, the violin resting loosely in his hand. His posture was casual, almost lazy, but his eyes were sharp, watching everything with the quiet amusement of a man who had seen too much.
"Sit," Toki commanded, gesturing toward a fallen log at the water's edge. The children obeyed, perching side by side, still staring at Ozvold with cautious curiosity. The clown turned violinist smirked faintly and plucked a lazy note from the strings, as if to remind them he was listening.
The air grew still. The pond mirrored the sky above, and for a moment the world seemed suspended, waiting for the lesson to begin.
Toki planted himself before them, arms crossed, eyes burning with that fierce golden fire. His voice dropped low, deliberate.
"Tell me—what do you think is the most important thing… in both boxing and running?"
The children stiffened, exchanging a quick glance. It wasn't a trick question, was it? They thought furiously, lips twitching as they struggled to find the right answer.
Kandaki straightened first, fists curling. "Endurance. You need stamina to keep going, whether it's throwing punches or running distance. Without endurance, you collapse."
Tora shook her head, more confident. "No. It's speed. If you're faster than your opponent, you win. If you're faster than your weakness, you leave it behind."
For a heartbeat, silence reigned. Then—Toki laughed. A low, rough chuckle that made both boys flush crimson.
"Wrong," he said flatly, the humor fading as quickly as it had come. "Both of you are wrong."
The words cut deep. Kandaki's jaw tightened, Tora scowled, but neither dared speak. Toki stepped closer, crouching so his gaze leveled with theirs. His eyes were merciless, yet not unkind.
"The answer," he said, "is rhythm."
The word hung in the air, foreign and unexpected. Kandaki blinked. Tora tilted her head, frowning.
"Rhythm?" Kandaki muttered. "That's… music, isn't it?"
Toki's gaze sharpened. "It's everything."
He stood again, his voice rising, carrying the weight of conviction. "The reason you haven't grown stronger this past month is not because you lack strength, or will, or even endurance. It's because your rhythm is broken. Kandaki—when you throw punches, there is no cadence. You burn energy with every swing, wasting yourself before you've even begun. Tora—your feet are faster than your mind. You run out of sync, losing balance and bleeding speed. Both of you consume yourselves because you have no rhythm."
The children lowered their heads, shame prickling hot in their chests. They wanted to argue, to defend themselves, but the truth of his words stung too deeply. They had felt it—every failed strike, every collapse at the finish line.
"Rhythm," Toki continued, "is the heartbeat of strength. Without it, power is wasted. Without it, speed is chaos. Without it, even endurance collapses."
He turned, gesturing sharply toward the man on the rock. "Ozvold."
Ozvold raised his brow, then lazily tucked the violin under his chin. "Ah, finally. I was wondering if I'd get to play or just sit here roasting in the sun."
Toki ignored the remark. He pointed toward the trees. "Here's the exercise. Tora—you'll sprint to that oak, a hundred meters away. Kandaki—you'll strike this tree beside me with your fists, as many times as you can. Every movement, every strike, every footfall will be a note. Ozvold will play them."
The children blinked. "Play them?" Tora asked.
"You'll hear it," Toki said. "And you'll understand."
He raised his hand. "Begin."
Tora burst from the log, feet hammering the soil. Kandaki roared and swung at the bark, fists colliding with dull thuds. And from the violin—music erupted.
The notes jerked and stuttered, high strings forced shrill by Tora's uneven strides, low tones strangled by Kandaki's wild, arrhythmic punches. The bow screeched, stopped, squealed again. It was chaos made sound—jagged, painful, unbearable.
The children lasted less than a minute before faltering. Tora stumbled to a halt halfway, clutching her knees, ears ringing from the racket. Kandaki dropped his fists, grimacing as the last screech of Ozvold's bow bled into silence.
Ozvold let the bow rest. "Well," he drawled, "if you wanted to torture me, Toki, you succeeded. That was bloody awful."
The children stared at the ground, humiliated. Tora bit her lip hard enough to draw blood. Kandaki slammed his fist into the log, muttering curses under his breath.
Toki's voice cut through their despair, sharp as steel. "Do you hear it now? This is what your training sounds like. Chaos. Waste. Broken rhythm."
He stepped closer, his shadow falling over them. "Don't rely on your eyes—they'll betray you. Sight can lie. But rhythm? Rhythm never lies. It is the truth of movement, the breath of every step, every strike. Without rhythm, you are nothing but noise."
The children swallowed hard, unable to meet his gaze. Shame and anger twisted inside them, but beneath it burned something else—a spark of understanding.
Toki turned away, crouching by the pond. He scooped a few flat stones into his scarred palm, weighing them. The water shimmered with reflected light as he straightened.
"Imagine your movements are notes on a staff," he said quietly. "Or think of them as water."
He flicked his wrist, sending the first stone skipping across the surface. It bounced once, twice—and sank. Ripples spread outward, messy, uneven.
"This," he said, "is your rhythm now. Too slow, too broken. You create only chaos, and then you drown."
He hurled the second stone faster, smoother. It skipped once, twice, thrice—five, six times—before reaching the far bank and vanishing into the grass.
"But if you learn rhythm… you don't sink. You glide. You move with purpose, with music. You reach the other side."
The children stared at the pond, breath caught. The ripples shimmered like a vision of what they could become. Kandaki's fists trembled. Tora's heart pounded with sudden urgency.
Toki turned, his eyes fierce. "This is your choice. Stay as you are or learn rhythm. If you choose rhythm, then every step, every punch, will carry you farther than brute strength or speed ever could."
For a moment, no one spoke. Only the hush of the forest, the gentle lap of water against the bank.
Then Kandaki rose to his feet, fists tight. "I… I'll learn it. I don't care how long it takes."
Tora stood beside him, chest heaving. "Me too. I'll match the rhythm. I swear it."
Ozvold chuckled softly, adjusting his violin. "Well. That's better. Perhaps next time my ears won't bleed."
Toki's lips curved—not quite a smile, but something close. "Good. Then listen. Listen, and follow."
He nodded once to Ozvold. The man lifted the bow, coaxing a slow, steady rhythm from the strings. Not a song, not yet—just a beat, patient and even, like a heart.
Toki's voice joined it, firm as command, soft as prayer. "Step. Strike. Breathe. Let the rhythm carry you. Not too fast. Not too slow. Let it bind you to each other."
The children obeyed. Tora ran again, this time listening not to the ground, but to the violin. Kandaki struck, fists falling in time with the bow. The sound changed—still rough, still imperfect, but less chaotic. A pattern began to form.
Sweat dripped. Feet stumbled. Fists faltered. But always they returned to the rhythm, pulled back by the sound of Ozvold's bow, by the weight of Toki's gaze.
The sun had fallen low, bleeding copper and violet across the forest. The canopy of pines whispered with the cool breath of evening, carrying the faint resin-sweet scent of sap and needles. A chill breeze brushed the clearing where the day's training had ended, tugging at hair, tugging at clothing, carrying with it the quiet promise of rest.
Toki led the children back along the narrow path. The ground was soft beneath their feet, uneven with roots and fallen leaves, but the rhythm of their steps was steady now, like the echo of the lesson he had given them. They moved together, no longer scattered individuals but a small unit following his lead.
Kandaki trudged just behind him, his small fists flexing at his sides, jaw tight with thought. Tora, still flushed from the last exercise, walked with her head high, every so often brushing her braid back over her shoulder.
Ahead, the path widened, opening onto the edge of the forest. The cabin awaited them, warm light glowing faintly in its windows, smoke curling thin from the chimney. The sky behind it was a blaze of red and gold, like fire laid upon the horizon.
Bernard stood in the doorway, sleeves rolled back, his hair tied at the nape of his neck. A wooden spoon was in one hand, and a faint wisp of steam curled from the pot behind him. The smell of stew drifted outward—meat, onions, and broth thickened with herbs. Beside him, fussing with plates and muttering under his breath, was Mr. Smith. His motions were quick and distracted, his face pale in the firelight as though shadows clung to his every thought.
When the children saw the cabin, their tired faces lit with relief. Kandaki muttered something about food under his breath; Tora elbowed him lightly, though her own eyes brightened as much as his.
Toki slowed his stride. He reached out with one scarred hand and rested it firmly on Kandaki's shoulder. The boy looked up at him with wide, uncertain eyes.
"That was only the first day," Toki said. His voice was low but steady, every syllable carrying the weight of promise. "I have much more to teach you."
Kandaki swallowed hard. "Like what?"
Toki's hand moved down, taking Kandaki's smaller fist into his own. Slowly, deliberately, he curled each finger inward, closing them into a tight, proper fist—thumb laid across the front, not hidden where it would shatter on contact.
"More than just how to punch," Toki said, his tone carrying something fierce beneath its calm. "I will show you countless techniques. But for now, I will tell you this: do not fear contact. If you strike the surface of a stone, it will not break. But if you strike through it—if your rhythm carries you past hesitation—no obstacle will stand before you."
Kandaki's breath caught in his throat. For a moment he stared down at the fist Toki had shaped for him. The boy whispered, almost as if to himself, "Strike through…" Then his lips pressed tight, and he nodded.
Toki released his hand and moved to Tora. She stiffened instinctively when he stepped closer, her pride and stubbornness flashing in her eyes. Toki ignored her defiance and pressed his palm gently but firmly against the middle of her back, just below her shoulder blades.
"Tora," he said. "You are a natural runner. Your body bends with a flexibility others do not possess. When you lower yourself, your center of gravity shifts to your knees. Do not fight this gift. It is what allows you to cut through the resistance of the air. If you trust it, if you build your rhythm to match it, the world's resistance will never shatter you."
Her eyes widened slightly. "So… I shouldn't try to run like the others?"
"No," Toki said. His hand pressed once against her back, then withdrew. "Do not force yourself into another's mold. Use the shape that is yours. The rhythm you hold belongs only to you. Strength is not in copying—it is in listening to your own beat."
For once, Tora did not retort. She nodded, quickly, sharply, as though afraid he might take the words back if she hesitated. Her fists clenched at her sides, not in anger but in resolve.
"Now," Toki said, turning to all of them. "Sit. Eat. Rest."
The children obeyed, shuffling toward the cabin with renewed hunger now that they had been released. Bernard stepped aside, ushering them in with a faint smile.
Toki, however, did not follow.
Bernard paused, spoon still in his hand. "You're not staying for dinner?"
Toki shook his head. "Not yet. It is my turn now."
Bernard frowned. "Your turn?"
But it was Smith who reacted first. He nearly dropped the plate he was holding, spinning around so quickly the lamplight caught on the edge of his spectacles. His voice was sharp, half-panicked.
"You're going to do it again, aren't you?" he said. His tone trembled with disbelief. "You're going to attempt that impossible training. Do you understand what you're saying? You think that just because you managed it once, you'll succeed every time? That's madness, Toki. Madness."
The air between them was taut as a drawn bowstring. Bernard said nothing, though his eyes flicked between them, wary. The children froze halfway to their seats, sensing the tension.
Toki's back was already turned toward the forest. His reply came calm, level, but unshakable. "Just because you no longer train me does not mean I will stop. If I do not attempt the impossible, it will remain impossible."
The words struck like iron. For a moment, silence held the cabin and the clearing alike.
Smith's lips trembled. His fingers clenched hard around the plate until his knuckles whitened. His voice, when it came again, was softer—thin, nearly breaking. "You'll kill yourself chasing this dream."
Still facing the trees, Toki gave the faintest shake of his head. "Better to die pursuing the impossible than to live beneath it."
And without waiting for another word, he broke into a run.
The earth answered him with the pounding of his feet, a rhythm deeper than breath, deeper than thought. He surged forward like a shadow made of fire and wind. Each step left a faint imprint in the soft soil, as though the ground itself remembered his resolve. His figure disappeared quickly into the dimming forest, swallowed by trees and twilight.
Smith stood motionless, staring after him. The plate shook faintly in his hands before he set it down on the table with trembling care. He stepped toward the doorway, watching the path where Toki had vanished.
A slow smile crept across his lips, weary but touched with something like hope. He tilted his head back to the sky where the first faint stars began to appear.
"Perhaps I was too weak to succeed," he murmured. "But I will let you prove my theory in my place."
Behind him, Bernard finally moved, clapping a hand on Smith's shoulder. The older man flinched but did not pull away. Bernard's voice was quiet, steady. "You've taught him more than you think. And he'll carry it farther than either of us ever could."
Inside the cabin, the children sat silent at the table, bowls before them but untouched. They listened to the echo of Toki's footsteps still lingering in the air, long after he had gone.
For Kandaki, those footsteps were a drumbeat urging him to strike deeper.
For Tora, they were a wind she longed to outrun
And for Smith, standing in the doorway beneath the fading light, they were the sound of the impossible being chased, one step at a time.