I. The Departure and the Setting
The departure was silent, starkly contrasted against the usual booming chaos of the student body. It was well before dawn, the school courtyard submerged in the cool, blue-grey twilight. A fine mist, cold and metallic, clung to the asphalt. The selected representatives from all three years—the few chosen to face the looming, nameless threat of the outsiders—gathered with a solemnity that belied their youth. Their heavy canvas bags, slung over shoulders that would soon be bruised and aching, seemed less like luggage and more like burdens of responsibility.
The first-year trio stood near the periphery. Haru was an irrepressible spring of nervous energy, bouncing on the balls of his feet, his internal chaos barely contained. Aiko was an image of perfect, almost unnerving composure, every strap on her small backpack tightened, every movement economical. Kai, naturally, stood slightly apart. His dark eyes, usually reserved for screen metrics, were analyzing the geometry of the misty courtyard, his mind running through optimal hydration, calorie expenditure, and pacing strategies for the unknown physical trial ahead. He suppressed the analytical surge of both excitement and nerves—a new, complex challenge always felt like a necessary system upgrade.
Instructor Tanaka appeared from the shadows, his presence instantly commanding silence. He wore simple, durable training gear, moving with the quiet, effortless grace of a true martial master. He carried nothing but a heavy water flask and the weight of his past. His voice was low and dry, cutting through the chill air with the edge of a honed blade.
"The destination is Mount Hino Training Grounds," Tanaka announced. "It is a secluded facility, remote and unforgiving, used for intensive martial training that requires an absolute severance from comfortable civilization. I've booked it for the week. The rules are simple: there are no rules. You will either come back stronger, molded into something capable of survival, or you'll crawl home regretting you ever joined this division. I truly do not care which outcome you choose."
Haru immediately groaned, a sound of dramatic, practiced despair that eased the collective tension slightly. "Sensei, can't we just download the upgrade instead of climbing a mountain? My Aura core is fully cloud-compatible."
Aiko offered a minute shake of her head, but a subtle tremor of excitement ran beneath her stoicism. Kai merely adjusted the wristband holding the sensor of his internal System. He was observing the veteran and -years, noting their solemn, anticipatory expressions. This wasn't a school trip. This was a forging.
The convoy—a battered old school bus smelling faintly of stale gym socks and a pair of support vans—soon left the quiet city. Hours later, as the sun finally broke the horizon, painting the sky in fiery hues, the urban sprawl gave way to rolling farmland, and then finally, to the dense, intimidating, primeval embrace of the Mount Hino forest.
They arrived at a clearing dominated by an old-fashioned, sprawling wooden dojo. It was built of dark, heavy timber, its ancient, curved roof seemingly trying to merge with the towering pines that surrounded it. A rushing, frigid river cut through the valley floor nearby, its sound a constant, roaring reminder of raw nature. The air here was crisp, clean, and heavy with the scent of pine and damp earth. The setting was profoundly peaceful, yet undeniably intimidating. It was a place where distractions died, and only the essential truth of strength remained.
Tanaka stood on the dojo steps, watching them disembark. "Look around," he commanded. "This place is old. It has seen better fighters than you and broken many more. For the next seven days, this is your life. There are no tournaments, no points, and no referees. Each day will simulate the physical and mental pressure of a final-round match. Every minute is a drill. Every moment is a test. There will be no mercy for weakness, only consequence."
II. The Crucible of the Harsh Routine
Day One began with the shrill, merciless blast of a whistle at , the sound tearing through the final, clinging shreds of night.
The first test was the run through the notorious Mount Hino trail—a five-kilometer ascent that was less a path and more a brutal vertical climb of uneven rock, slippery roots, and hidden ravines. Many of the students, fit as they were, underestimated the sheer verticality and the thin, biting mountain air. Within the first kilometer, a handful of and -years were already collapsing, hands on their knees, vomiting from exertion, lungs burning for oxygen.
Haru, initially surging forward on a burst of wild, emotional energy, quickly ran himself into the ground. He slowed to a dramatic, panting stagger, his Aura sputtering. He didn't just feel physical pain; he felt betrayed by his own body. He cursed every step under his breath, his voice hoarse. "I swear, this mountain hates me! It has personally sabotaged my stamina stat! It knows I'm a flatlander! I'm filing a formal complaint against the entire geological structure of this peak!"
Aiko, running with her usual metronomic efficiency, maintained her pace near the front of the pack. Her discipline was absolute, forcing her body forward even when her quads screamed in protest. Her jaw was clenched so tightly it ached, and sweat poured off her in heavy streams. She was clearly straining against the hard physical limit her body imposed—she was a picture of controlled pain, a discipline that could not yield an inch, even when the instinct was to collapse.
Kai, however, was a study in efficient adaptation. Though he started slower than his hyper-energetic teammates, he didn't falter. His System was calculating the optimal angle of knee lift and foot placement, minimizing energy expenditure. His focus was entirely internal: a calm, four-count rhythmic breathing pattern that prioritized oxygen efficiency over speed. He treated the mountain less like an enemy and more like a mathematical problem to be solved with minimal effort. He observed the others struggling and saw the failure state of uncontrolled emotion (Haru) versus rigid, unsustainable commitment (Aiko). As the others struggled, Kai steadily adapted, his economical pacing catching Tanaka's eye. Kai's System wasn't built for bursts of speed, but for relentless, cold endurance, a philosophy that was paying dividends on the impossible incline.
After a sparse, silent breakfast of fortified rations, the training intensified in the main dojo. Sparring sessions began—but Tanaka introduced a vicious twist. The students were paired randomly and rotated constantly, sometimes facing an opponent they had just fought, sometimes a completely fresh one.
"Today, you will not fight for victory," Tanaka announced, his voice echoing in the vast, empty space. "You will spar until your bodies move on instinct, until you cannot consciously decide the next block or strike. Logic dies when fatigue sets in. I want to see pure flow, unburdened by thought. I want to see the limits of your physical discipline bleed into instinctual response, because the outsiders you will face do not fight by the rules of thought."
The sessions were brutal, lasting for hours with minimal breaks. Students fought until they could barely stand, their Aura reserves depleted, their muscles screaming. Haru, forced to fight beyond the point of conscious decision-making, began to surprise himself and his opponents. His logical mind shut down, but his innate fighting spirit took over. His movements became less chaotic and more creative, resorting to awkward, improvised counters—a strange hop, a sudden low duck—that worked simply because they defied the analytical patterns of his opponents. He had unlocked a pure, physical improvisation that was outside the System.
Kai, conversely, struggled immensely. His System was designed for optimal response to analyzable input. When fatigue blurred the opponent's form and speed, his calculation process slowed, creating micro-seconds of delay that led to clean hits. He realized, with mounting frustration, that relying on his brain only worked when his physical body was fresh enough to execute the command perfectly. When exhausted, the System crashed against the wall of unpredictable, instinctual combat. He began to learn, through painful bruises, that his intuition was the faster processor when the data was too complex or too degraded by fatigue.
The training continued until sunset, the last rays of light painting the dojo floor crimson. Students collapsed onto the cool wooden planks, exhausted and sore. Haru joked weakly, trying to mask his profound fatigue, "Sensei, I'm seeing double. I think I've unlocked the multi-vision cheat code, just in time for sleep. And I still taste pine needles."
Tanaka walked among the fallen, his expression severe. He offered no praise, no comfort, only silent acknowledgment of their endurance. He observed quietly, knowing that this physical and mental breaking point was the essential moment—the crucible where true, sustainable martial growth, unburdened by ego or calculation, finally began.
III. Moments of Bonding and Friction
That night, the select students were allowed a few precious hours of relaxation before curfew. A small campfire crackled brightly near the riverbank, its light casting long, dancing shadows. The air, crisp and cold, carried the faint scent of woodsmoke and damp moss.
The -years huddled together, their shared exhaustion creating a deep, wordless bond—the kind forged only through mutual suffering. Haru, recovering rapidly thanks to his high natural vitality, was back to his usual self, narrating the day's pain with humorous exaggeration.
"Honestly, I think Tanaka-sensei feeds the mountain before we run it," Haru whispered, leaning forward conspiratorially. "It's clearly hungry for -year souls. He's a training demon, I tell you, a true master of misery."
Aiko, who had just finished re-taping her knuckles, actually allowed a faint smile to cross her lips—the first genuine, unrestrained expression of the day.
Haru immediately froze, his eyes wide, mid-sentence. He didn't need to look up to know. A shadow fell over the campfire ring, blocking the light.
"I heard that, Ishikawa," Tanaka's deadpan voice stated from the darkness behind him.
Haru swallowed, sinking dramatically into the dirt, burying his head in his arms. "Just commending your dedication to our conditioning, Sensei. Absolutely top-tier villainy, sir. for sadism."
Everyone, even the usually stoic -years nearby, burst into laughter. Aiko's slight smile widened—the shared, ridiculous fear of their mentor was a powerful, necessary form of unity in the face of exhaustion.
The conversation eventually shifted, turning serious as they discussed the impending District Tournament. Haru, staring into the mesmerising flames, dreamed aloud about fame, about facing the unpredictable independent fighters and rising to the top. Aiko talked about discipline, about holding the line and proving the worth of their school's traditional methods against the 'rogue violence.'
Kai, however, remained thoughtful, watching the fire consume the wood, turning substance into pure, radiant energy. He had been unusually quiet. When Haru finally turned to him, demanding his motivation—the one thing Kai rarely offered publicly—Kai paused for a long time, choosing his words with surgical care.
"I train," Kai finally said, his voice low and serious, the sincerity burning through the cool logic, "because I want to know what I'm capable of if I stop holding back. My life has always been about control, about finding the optimal limit for every equation. The System demands absolute self-preservation. But Riku… Riku showed me that the limit I set was false. I need to break the control mechanism. The System demands that I find the ultimate, raw expression of my fighting potential, even if it introduces the variable of vulnerability."
He looked up, meeting their eyes. "These outsiders... they are the highest possible stress test. They are the true unknown variable I must solve. And the only way to solve it is to become an unknown variable myself."
The others fell silent. It was the first time Kai had expressed such a raw, intensely personal, and almost existential motivation. It wasn't about winning, fame, or even school pride—it was about self-discovery through absolute challenge, and a rejection of the safe boundaries he had always lived within. It was the sound of a machine choosing to become human.
IV. Tanaka's Secret Training Plans
Late that night, long after the students had retreated to their simple, barracks-style sleeping quarters, Tanaka sat alone in the dojo's small administrative office. The air was cold, and a single oil lamp cast wavering, heavy shadows on the walls. He was hunched over a stack of printed progress logs, the silence broken only by the scratching of his pen.
He wrote personal, concise notes on the margin of each log, his hand shaking slightly when he considered the necessary escalation of their training:
Kai:Mentally disciplined, but dangerously emotionally restrained. His new 'Flow Integration' is working, but it's still an intellectual process—like watching a fight through a camera feed. Needs intense, unpredictable pressure to awaken his true fighting instinct—the kind that bypasses logic entirely and forces commitment. Needs a personal breaking point.
Aiko:Solid fundamentals. Near-perfect execution under normal circumstances. However, she lacks adaptability when faced with total, malicious unpredictability. Her discipline becomes a trap when the opponent doesn't follow the expected pattern. Needs to learn intentional chaos, to break her own perfect form.
Haru:Raw energy, poor focus, but enormous potential for creative improvisation. He fights with his spirit. Needs to channel the chaos, not just release it. The -year mentorship is a good start, but he needs to learn true martial economy, or he'll burn out in the first round of the Finals.
Another instructor, an older, retired police combat specialist who was assisting him with the logistics, stirred his cup of instant coffee. "Tanaka-sensei," he remarked quietly, looking at the harsh schedule for the coming days. "You sound almost like you're preparing soldiers for war, not students for a tournament. The severity seems... extreme."
Tanaka finally looked up, his eyes darkened by the lamplight. His gaze held the weariness of a man who had seen too much violence. "Maybe that's exactly what they'll need to be, Sensei. The District Committee didn't open the tournament to raise prestige. They opened it because they needed a spectacle, and the outsiders, particularly the unaffiliated fighters like Saito, are going to deliver violence, not competition. If these children aren't ready for malice, they won't just lose; they'll be permanently broken."
Just then, his phone vibrated silently on the desk. It was another text message, unregistered, its presence a cold knot in the pit of his stomach. He saw the text—the confident, chillingly familiar tone of his former student.
'I hear you're still making monsters, Sensei. I look forward to seeing how they handle the ones already grown. Hope you taught them how to bleed efficiently.'
The message was unsigned, but the sender was unmistakable: Renji Saito.
Tanaka ignored the message, refusing to acknowledge the bait. But his hand tightened around the phone, the plastic creaking under the pressure, the knowledge of the impending threat settling heavily in his core. The past was not just returning; it was setting up a violent collision course with his students' futures.
V. The Mentor's Challenge: Kai vs. Riku
On Day Three, the schedule changed. Tanaka called an abrupt halt to the endless individual drills, demanding surprise team sparring matches.
"The most significant variable in a real fight is your teammates," Tanaka announced, his voice devoid of emotion. "You must learn to read them as quickly as you read your opponent, to trust their strengths instinctively. Today, the -year trio faces the -years elite, led by Riku."
The announcement hit the -years like a physical shock. Facing Riku and his elite teammates in a full spar was an acknowledgment of their new standing, but also a terrifying indicator of the gap they still had to close.
The spar began instantly, intense and electric. Haru fought with reckless bravery, his creative chaos forcing Riku's teammates to stay sharp, while Aiko's perfect parries acted as the anchor for the team's defense.
But Riku and Kai were immediately drawn to each other—a powerful magnetic pull between rival philosophies.
Kai tried desperately to analyze Riku's movements, deploying his newly refined Flow Integration, allowing his instincts to guide the fight. He used a series of quick, targeted strikes—aiming for the hips and shoulders—designed to create predictable defensive reactions he could then exploit.
But Riku was a master of the unpredictable. His precision and calm power were overwhelming. Riku's defense was like water—it flowed around Kai's strikes. Riku was constantly shifting his stance, his body a blur, never staying in a predictable pattern long enough for Kai's System to lock on. He was using the very unpredictable intuition Kai was trying to develop, but Riku's intuition was perfected, honed by years of discipline.
Riku suddenly launched a counterattack—not a powerful one, but one of impossible speed. A flicker of his hand, a rotation of his wrist, and a light, open-palm strike tapped Kai precisely on the temple. It was too fast to block, too clean to parry. It didn't hurt, but it stunned Kai's internal System.
Internal Monologue (Kai):Input Error. Strike velocity: above baseline prediction. Pattern: Zero-waste rotation. Counter-calculation: Impossible. The System cannot solve for perfect efficiency.
Kai was driven back repeatedly by Riku's effortless, disciplined attack. The fight was a decisive display of the experience gap. Kai was attempting to simulate Flow; Riku was Flow.
When Tanaka finally called the halt, Kai was breathing hard, sweat stinging his eyes, his ego smarting from the inability to even land a meaningful touch on Riku.
As the teams retreated, Riku paused beside Kai. He didn't offer advice or criticism, just a brief, measured acknowledgment—the ultimate respect between warriors. "You're improving, Kai. Your movement is less rigid, less reliant on pre-programmed stance transitions. Don't stop refining that feeling. That's where true speed comes from."
Riku walked away, leaving Kai momentarily stunned, a new, fierce heat in his chest. That small acknowledgment, devoid of arrogance and delivered with the respect of a true rival, ignited a powerful determination. Riku was not an obstacle; he was the future Kai had to reach.
VI. Glimpse of the Future
The final day of training ended not with a sparring session, but with a symbolic, grueling exercise designed to test pure endurance and spirit. Each student was required to strike a heavy, deeply rooted wooden pillar —a brutal test of muscular memory and mental fortitude against monotony and pain.
The sound of wood hitting wood was the only noise in the valley for an hour, a relentless, punishing, and utterly dehumanizing rhythm. Every single student's arms eventually failed them.
Haru, despite his best efforts, collapsed halfway, his arms refusing to move, his entire body trembling from exhaustion. He lay there, cursing, yet his spirit remained unbroken—he had fought until his body physically gave out. Aiko pushed through the pain in silence, her expression vacant, using her iron discipline to override her physical limits. She finished the drill perfectly, then collapsed into a controlled heap.
Kai finished last. His pace was agonizingly slow near the end, his shoulder protesting with every impact, but his form remained unbroken. He focused on the raw output of force, treating the final strikes as a meditation on commitment. He learned that the mind could command the body long after the body had begged for rest. He finished the thousandth strike with an unbroken focus, then slid down the pillar, breathing deep, satisfied with the data.
Tanaka walked past each student, stopping briefly at the scarred, heavy wooden pillar. He spoke quietly, his voice carrying the final, brutal lesson of the camp: "Remember this pain. It is your foundation. When the ring is silent, when your opponent is a monster, and your mind is screaming, this pain is the only truth you can rely on to keep moving."
As the old bus pulled away from Mount Hino, carrying the exhausted students back towards the city, everyone was silent—tired, bruised, but undeniably changed. The mountain had stripped away their preconceptions, leaving behind only the raw core of their resolve. They were no longer just students; they were fighters.
In the distance, Tanaka stood watching the bus disappear into the trees. He whispered to himself, a low, solemn promise to the students and the tournament committee alike: "This is just the beginning. The children are ready to face the shadows."
The scene shifted abruptly to the oppressive darkness of a dim, echoing underground dojo in the city's industrial district—a world away from the purity of Mount Hino.
Renji Saito stood in the center, his Aura dark and palpable, surrounded by a dozen other independent fighters—all wearing black, non-traditional training uniforms, their faces hard and scarred. The air was heavy with the palpable tension of fighters preparing for a ruthless war against the established order.
One of the independents, a scarred man with a cold stare, asked, "The academy's sending their best, huh? Kids fresh out of high school?"
Renji smirked, the expression dark and chilling, as he cracked his knuckles, the sound echoing in the close space. "Good. I'd hate for this to be too easy. I want to test the strength of the chains I broke. If they can't survive the school's shadow, they have no business in the light."