By the second morning, my body already felt like it had been trampled by a herd of angry buffalo. But Kimpe didn't care—his cold stare was enough to make even the toughest student shut up and keep going.
Then came the treadmill—five miles, every single day. The sound of pounding feet echoed through the gym like drums of war. If that wasn't enough, he made us jump rope for what felt like hours before we were even allowed to touch Muay Thai techniques. He called it stamina training. I called it torture.
By the time we finished, my legs felt like lead. I remember once trying to walk to the locker room, but each step felt like dragging iron weights behind me. Every breath was a struggle, every muscle trembled from exhaustion.
But somehow, after a week—or maybe two—the grind began to pay off. My body adapted. My lungs no longer begged for air after every run. The rope that once whipped against my shins now danced easily beneath my feet. Even rest days started feeling unnecessary.
One morning, Coach Kimpe crossed his arms and gave us a rare, approving nod."I think you're ready for real training."
Those words hit harder than any punch I'd thrown.
I wiped the sweat dripping down my forehead and groaned, "Finally," my voice hoarse from exhaustion and disbelief.
From there, we began with stances and footwork."You'll need balance," Kimpe said, pacing back and forth with the authority of a drill sergeant. "Guard up. Knees slightly bent. Move forward, backward, and sideways—but never cross your feet."
He made it sound simple. It wasn't. Hours passed with us shuffling, pivoting, and adjusting. My thighs burned like fire, but I kept going, determined not to collapse before Kagetsu did.
Once our footwork looked somewhat acceptable, he introduced "basic strikes"—punches, kicks, elbows, and knees. He demonstrated each motion with fluid, terrifying precision, and we followed along, repeating them until our muscles screamed in protest.
"Again," he'd say.And we'd do it again.And again.
Day after day, every movement drilled into us until it stopped feeling like something we did and started feeling like something we were.
Four weeks before the entrance exam, Kimpe introduced defensive skills. That's when training got serious.Blocking with shins. Parrying punches. Guarding against knees and elbows. We spent hours deflecting invisible blows, our forearms bruised and shins swollen. He told us pain was part of the process. "If you can't handle a bruise, you can't handle the battlefield," he said.
A week later, our routine was solid. Five miles first, then basic strikes or defense depending on the day. Every step of that run felt familiar now—painful, sure, but manageable. My body had adapted to the suffering.
By the fifth week, Kimpe added pad work and bag work. That's when we learned what endurance really meant.
Pad work tested timing and precision; every hit had to land with intent. Bag work tested power, and the heavy leather barely moved under my fists. Sweat dripped from my jawline, splattering the mat below, but I kept swinging. We all did.
Each hit drained energy, but it was addictive—the sound of impact, the small victories in form and speed.
In the last two weeks, Kimpe shifted our focus to review. No new moves, just endless repetition until our bodies moved on instinct. Every drill, every motion, performed with the same consistency as breathing.
And then, before I knew it, the final day arrived.
We said our goodbyes to Coach Kimpe and the other staff. Despite all the pain, there was a strange heaviness in my chest—a part of me didn't want it to end.
Walking home in our skin-tight training clothes, I thought to myself, This was actually pretty fun.
The air outside felt cool against my sore muscles, and the sunset bathed the streets in orange. A few minutes later, Kagetsu and I split ways, exchanging tired smiles and half-hearted waves.
"I'm home!" I called as I stepped through the door.
"Hey, honey," Zane's mom called from the kitchen, her warm voice cutting through the hum of boiling water. The rich aroma of spaghetti filled the house—it was heavenly after weeks of protein bars and cafeteria food.
"How was your last day?" she asked as I kicked off my shoes.
"Pretty fun," I said honestly, rubbing my sore neck.
"There's one more week before the entrance exam," she reminded me, glancing at me over her shoulder.
"Yeah, I know," I replied, heading upstairs.
"Shower and come eat dinner," she said.
"Got it."
I grabbed a white shirt, black pajama bottoms, and a towel before heading to the bathroom. The shower water hit my skin like a sigh of relief—hot, soothing, washing away the fatigue of weeks.
Afterward, I threw on my clothes, went downstairs, and devoured dinner. Zane's mom smiled quietly as I ate like someone who hadn't seen food in days.
Later that night, back in my room, I sprawled across my bed, scrolling aimlessly through my phone. My eyelids were heavy, but curiosity won over fatigue.
Out of nowhere, I searched for my old name—"Maketo Natsuo."Nothing came up.
A strange chill ran through me.
I tried again, this time searching "Kami Street," the neighborhood where I used to live. My heart jumped when I saw it appear on the screen. I zoomed in—there it was. My old street. My old house.
Excitement swelled in my chest. Maybe I can visit Mom, I thought.
But as I looked deeper, my excitement froze. The house wasn't listed under her name. Instead, it belonged to someone called Hijoki Loam, a middle-aged man who, apparently, had lived there for decades.
Decades.
It was as if this world mirrored mine… but with all the pieces rearranged.
Even Japan's president wasn't Oji Kabu anymore. In this world, it was a tall, bald man named Makabe Parai—middle-aged, athletic, and completely different from the one I remembered seeing on TV.
"All of this… so weird," I muttered, my voice fading into a yawn. My vision blurred as I set my phone aside.
Sleep came quickly, swallowing my confusion along with everything else.