Viktor sat at his desk, illuminated by the dim light of his study. He was frantically scribbling something into a thick notebook covered in complex, multi-layered formulas and diagrams of alchemical runes. Sharply crossing out the last paragraph, he tore out the sheet with a whistle, crumpled it into a tight ball, and tossed it into the fireplace. The bottom of the hearth was already piled high with a mountain of crumpled, scribbled papers.
He sighed wearily and collapsed face-down onto the table, burying his head in his hands with a deep, dramatic groan.
— Why did I think this would be easy? — he mumbled into the silence.
He lifted his head, checked the time, and an expectant smile blossomed on his face.
— Alright, the Sharingan can wait. Time for training.
Standing up, he began to prepare. First, a cold shower, which quickly chased away the last remnants of fatigue. Then, a light breakfast—only oatmeal and a cup of strong black coffee. Walking into the living room, which also served as his study, he began briskly packing things into his sports bag: a bamboo sword, protective gloves, and a bottle of water.
He was just zipping up the bag when the front door opened without a knock, and Hermione walked in. She was wearing a simple but elegant summer dress and looked radiant, clearly ready for a long, sunny walk.
— Viktor, the weather is wonderful outside! Let's go for a... — seeing his sporty attire, she instantly pouted, crossing her arms over her chest.
— Oh, Hermione, I'm sorry, but I'm going to training. Let's do it next time.
— You always say that! — She tried to mimic his voice. — "Oh, I'm sorry, I'm busy with alchemy," "Oh, I'm sorry, I'm creating a new spell," "Sorry, I'm going to training!" You've been busy for a whole month. When are we finally going to Diagon Alley?
— Well, it's not my fault I have so much to do, — Viktor replied, slinging the sports bag over his shoulder. — But here's the good news: I'm done with the spells, I just need to experiment, but I can't use a wand in the Muggle world. And the alchemy project turned out to be harder than I thought, so I need a break. And... today is my last training session.
— Last one? But you've only been going to your silly stick fights for a month! — Hermione raised an eyebrow.
— First, it's called Kendo. And we don't just wave sticks; we also learn hand-to-hand combat, — he corrected proudly. — And second, it turned out to be too easy to learn, and I don't think I have anything left to do there.
— I don't understand, you're a wizard! Why waste time fighting with your hands and a stick when you have magic?
— Haa, — Viktor sighed and looked at her with complete seriousness. — You wouldn't understand, Hermione. Fighting and swords—it's all male romance! — Tossing a baseball cap on his head, he said: — That's it, I have to go, or the master will be angry. And you, so you don't get bored, can take any book and read.
Hermione frowned and quickly scanned his shelves.
— All your books here are related to alchemy, ancient runes. What am I supposed to read?!
Viktor, who was already almost out the door, set his bag by the threshold and walked back. With a swift movement, he pulled a thin, old book with a worn cover from the shelf.
— Here, take this. A very interesting book, — he beamed, shoving the book into her hands.
— What is it about? — Hermione asked, examining the book.
Viktor, who was already walking out, shouted over his shoulder as he opened the front door:
— It's about love!
Hermione watched the door close behind him and looked down at the book's title: Ira Levin, Rosemary's Baby.
Somewhere in a quiet, little-known alley in London, a small Dojo was hidden, smelling of wood and sweat. Inside, under bright fluorescent lights, two people were fighting with wooden swords—bokken. They were dressed in traditional keikogi (white jackets) and hakama (dark wide trousers), and their heads were protected by heavy men helmets, hiding their faces. Around them, in respectful silence, stood other students, also dressed in keikogi, their eyes fixed on the center of the hall.
One of the fighters was Viktor. His movements, which at first seemed a bit awkward to the uninitiated, were actually swift and precise. He moved lightly, almost dancing, evading the opponent's lunges and suddenly counter-attacking. His opponent, an elderly but sturdy Master, was more traditional; his strikes were powerful, but Viktor, though shorter and expected to lose to the experienced Master's onslaught, was in no way inferior in physical strength and even dominated.
The bamboo swords clashed with a dull thud, the sound echoing through the dojo. Viktor dodged a powerful blow to the head, the Master's bokken passing centimeters from his ear. Then he instantly closed the distance, his bokken darting forward, aiming for the torso. The Master managed to parry, but Viktor was already on the side, his legs moving like lightning. He faked a lunge to the head, forcing the Master to raise his guard, and then spun sharply, his bokken landing on the Master's right wrist with a loud, clean thwack.
The Master dropped his sword from the force of the blow and sank to one knee. He removed his men; his face was covered in sweat, and his eyes held annoyance.
Viktor removed his helmet. His appearance did not match the intense fight at all: he hadn't even broken a sweat, as if he had just stepped out of the shower. A contented, even smug smile shone on his face.
— Maeda arigato gozaimashita (Thank you for the training), — he said in a cheerful, carefree tone.
Looking at the beaming Viktor, the Master couldn't decide which feelings predominated: incredible pride in his student or deep, bitter despair at his loss.
A few years ago, he had come to England and built his dojo here. In Japan, he hadn't had the opportunity to fully develop; there was fierce competition and an overabundance of masters everywhere you looked. And here, in London, he had a whole host of students, largely due to the wave of popularity of films with Bruce Lee or Jean-Claude Van Damme. Most, of course, came just for the exotic appeal or entertainment, but there were also those who sincerely enjoyed training seriously.
And then, a month ago, this young man came to him, wanting to learn martial arts, especially swordsmanship. When the Master decided to test him by pitting him against one of his best students, the young man greatly surprised him. He won purely thanks to his lightning-fast reflexes and unexpectedly monstrous strength.
The Master immediately set about teaching this phenomenal talent and quickly discovered another astonishing thing: the boy was a genuine martial arts genius. His reflexes and physical condition didn't require training; they were already at the highest level, and he absorbed techniques with incredible speed, like a sponge. In that single month, Viktor had not lost once, easily defeating all his senior students, which filled the Master with boundless, jubilant pride.
The young man had a great future. The Master was already imagining them winning national competitions, how he would take Viktor to Japan, where he would trample many famous Tokyo dojos that had once rejected him.
But suddenly today, Viktor came and announced that he was quitting and would no longer come. It was a real shock, sudden and painful. That's why the Master, in a desperate attempt to keep him, had said that Viktor would only leave if he could defeat the Master himself. And here was the unexpected and bitter result: the student had surpassed the teacher.
— Viktor, you cannot leave! You have an incredible talent, and I still have much to teach you! — the Master's voice was a mixture of plea and despair.
— Forgive me, Master, but these skills are enough for me, — Viktor replied, turning his back to the Master. — You are right, I still have much to learn, but I must master that myself, through life experience. And my heart tells me that my path lies elsewhere. Thank you for everything, and farewell. — Without turning around, Viktor left.
Watching Viktor walk away, one of the students exhaled loudly.
— My God, I feel like I'm in a martial arts movie right now!
The others quickly nodded, completely agreeing. Viktor's last words truly sounded like a fragment from a farewell scene between a sensei and a student.
— I even got goosebumps from those words about the "other path"! — another whispered.
The Master looked at his students and coughed to get their attention.
— You shouldn't admire him so much, — the Master said dryly, trying to speak with maximum conviction. — He had great talent, but he decided to bury it, imagining that he had fully mastered martial arts already. Fool! I didn't even fight at full strength; I just wanted to test him, and I think he is not suitable for martial arts. — Fearing that his students would follow in Viktor's footsteps, he decided to immediately pacify them. — If it weren't for his pride, a little more time, and I would have taught him how to completely immobilize a person with just one finger!
The students' eyes sparkled with excitement.
— You can really do that?!
— Can you teach us?
The Master smirked, pleased with the effect he had achieved.
— All in good time; you are not ready yet.
At that moment, the door to the changing room, located directly opposite them, swung open, and out walked... Viktor.
He was already in his street clothes, his sports bag hanging on his shoulder. Looking at everyone who stood frozen, he scratched the back of his head awkwardly.
— My apologies. I wanted to make a dramatic exit, but I decided it was unseemly to leave in a hakama. And you know, you should really make another exit from the changing room. Well, now it's truly farewell.
And with those words, Viktor finally left the dojo.