The dojo sat on the edge of Z-City's residential district, a traditional wooden building that seemed almost out of place among the steel and glass towers. From the outside, it could have been mistaken for any old martial arts school but I knew better. This was the home of one of the greatest living martial artists in the world.
I arrived at dawn. The sky was still streaked with deep purple, and the streets were quiet except for the distant hum of delivery trucks. I stood before the wooden gate, took a deep breath, and pushed it open.
Inside, the air smelled of tatami mats, oiled wood, and faint incense. The dojo floor stretched wide, sunlight spilling in through paper-paneled windows. A few students were already there, moving in slow, deliberate patterns that I recognized from the pages of my old martial arts books circular steps, flowing arm movements, the kind of form that turned an opponent's force into their downfall.
Bang stood at the far end, dressed in a simple grey gi. His posture was relaxed, but there was a stillness to him that made the air feel heavy.
"You're early," he said without looking up.
"I didn't want to waste time," I replied.
"Good," he said, turning toward me. "You'll need it."
We began with kamae stances. It sounded simple enough, until I realized the stances here weren't just for form they were alive. Bang corrected my foot placement, shifting my weight so subtly I almost didn't notice the difference until my legs began to tremble.
"You're too stiff," he said. "Water Stream isn't about brute force. It's about control. A rock can shatter under pressure. Water never does it shapes itself to the flow."
For the next hour, all I did was step, shift, and turn. Over and over. My thighs burned, my calves ached, and sweat dripped into my eyes. Every time I thought I'd gotten the movement right, Bang would shake his head.
"Again."
Midway through the morning, the door slid open.
A boy stepped in maybe fourteen or fifteen, lean but wiry, with sharp eyes and a scowl that seemed permanent. His hair was messy, and his gi was loose like he didn't care how it looked.
"Late," Bang said simply.
"Tch. I was busy," the boy muttered.
Bang ignored the attitude and gestured toward me. "Garou, this is Kaizen. He's trying out."
Garou looked me up and down like I was a cheap product on display. "He doesn't look like much."
I forced a small smile. "Nice to meet you too."
Garou smirked. "Let's see if you last the week."
The rest of the day was hell.
After footwork drills, we moved to kakie sticky hands. I was paired with Garou, who clearly took it as an excuse to test me. The exercise was supposed to be about maintaining contact, reading the opponent's movement, and redirecting their strikes. Garou, however, turned every exchange into a barrage of quick, sharp attacks.
I blocked one, redirected another, but his speed kept increasing. A fist slipped through and clipped my jaw.
"Too slow," Garou said with a grin.
I gritted my teeth. "Again."
By the end of the drill, my arms felt like lead, my forearms burned from constant impact, and my breath came in ragged gasps. Garou didn't look tired at all.
Afternoon training was worse.
Bang introduced me to the core of Water Stream Rock Smashing Fist: the flowing redirection of force. It was like learning to swim against a current every instinct told me to resist, to meet force with force. Bang kept shaking his head.
"You're still thinking like a rock," he said. "Let the water carry the stone, then break it when it's weak."
We drilled over and over. My hands moved in circular patterns, my body turning to guide invisible strikes past me. Bang demonstrated with such speed and precision that I barely saw the movement before I found myself off balance.
"Feel it," he said. "Don't just copy it."
The first night, I collapsed in my rented room and barely managed to drag myself into bed. My arms and legs screamed with every movement. But I got up again before dawn the next day.
And the day after that.
And the day after.
Each morning began with the same brutal routine: stances, footwork, sticky hands, flow drills. By midweek, I could feel subtle changes my balance was steadier, my reactions sharper. But my body was breaking down.
Garou seemed to take special pleasure in pushing me during partner drills. He was fast, unpredictable, and merciless. More than once, I hit the mat gasping for air.
"You're too tense," he'd say. "If you can't relax, you'll never keep up."
I didn't respond. Words didn't matter here only improvement did.
By the sixth day, I was running on sheer willpower. My arms felt heavy from the constant circular movements, my thighs burned from hours of low stances, and every muscle screamed when I moved.
That morning, Bang called me forward. "Let's see what you've learned."
He attacked without warning. Not hard not even full speed but enough to force me to react. I stepped, redirected, flowed around his strikes. For a few exchanges, I actually managed to stay balanced.
Then he shifted, just slightly, and my defense collapsed.
"Better," he said as I caught my breath. "But this is only the first drop in the stream."
The seventh day came.
I arrived before sunrise, my body aching but my mind clear. Bang watched me from across the dojo, his expression unreadable. Garou was there too, leaning against the wall.
Bang spoke. "You lasted the week. You may stay."
The relief that hit me was almost overwhelming. Not because I'd "made it," but because I knew this was just the beginning.
I bowed deeply. "Thank you, Master Bang."
He nodded once. "Tomorrow, we begin real training."
And in that moment, I realized this first week had only been the warm-up.