A light morning breeze, steeped in the aroma of blooming sakura and earth damp with dew, lazily stirred the branches of the old maple in the courtyard. Its crimson leaves, like drops of frozen blood, rustled quietly, casting whimsical shadows on the shoji of a traditional two-story house in the Tokyo suburbs. The house was modern, yet built with deep respect for tradition—dark wooden beams, a tiled roof with elegant curves, and a small rock garden at the entrance created a sense of harmony and peace. Adjoining this oasis of calm was the heart of the place—an old but immaculately kept dojo. Its walls of ancient cedar remembered more than one generation of warriors, and its wooden floor, polished to a shine, held the traces of thousands of hours of grueling training.
From inside, through the tightly closed sliding doors, came a powerful, coordinated chorus of voices, shouting a short, sharp "Ha!" with every strike. This sound, like a heartbeat, set the rhythm for the entire household.
An atmosphere of strict discipline and utmost concentration reigned within the spacious hall. The air was thick and warm from dozens of heated bodies. In neat rows lined up on the tatami stood students of all ages. There were very young boys, whose kimonos seemed baggy on them, teenagers from middle school with the first hints of youthful maximalism in their eyes, and several adult men, whose movements were polished and confident. All of them, as one, were practicing kata—a sequence of strikes and blocks, pouring all their energy into every movement.
Between the rows, hands clasped behind his back, their sensei walked slowly. He was an elderly man, his figure radiating the aura of an unshakeable rock. A thick gray beard, neatly trimmed, framed a face etched with deep wrinkles, where the wisdom of lived decades seemed to lie in wait. His long gray hair was gathered into a tight man-bun on the nape of his neck, so as not to obstruct his view. Despite his age, his build remained strong and solid; only his loose yukata concealed from prying eyes the musculature hardened by countless training sessions and time. His gaze was light, almost detached, yet incredibly focused. He noticed the slightest mistake, a barely perceptible loss of balance, or an incorrect angle of the wrist.
From time to time, he would stop, gently but firmly correcting the stance of a faltering student, or with a quiet but firm word, adjust the trajectory of a strike. His touches were barely perceptible, yet they carried such confidence that the student's body would find the correct position on its own.
After walking almost the entire hall, his gaze settled on a figure in the far corner. There, leaning against the wall, sat his own grandson, Saigo. The boy was slacking off again, staring blankly at one spot, clearly bored. A deep, almost soundless sigh escaped the old man's chest. He approached and neatly, without a single creak of his joints, lowered himself onto the tatami beside him.
"Saigo..." The sensei's voice was soft, devoid of reproach, but the grandson flinched all the same. "Since you've come to the dojo, perhaps you could show a little more initiative?"
The boy wearily raised his eyes, which held a world-weary sorrow, to his grandfather, but upon meeting the old man's warm and understanding gaze, he immediately lowered his head in embarrassment. His shoulders slumped.
"Well... I didn't want to come here..." he muttered, barely audible. "Father said it would be good for me and give me confidence... Grandpa, can't you talk to him? Can I stop coming?"
A timid hope sounded in his voice. He was a quiet, withdrawn child, for whom the harsh discipline and physical exertion of the dojo were completely alien. He saw no point in it, only another chore imposed by adults.
The old man felt a momentary pang of awkwardness. A fleetingly embarrassed expression crossed his face as he recalled a recent conversation with his son. It was he, Kenshin Yamamoto, who had insisted on bringing his grandson to the family dojo. The official reason was the desire to strengthen the boy's character, but the real one—a simple, selfish need to spend more time with him.
"Hmm, a difficult question..." Kenshin drew out the words, stroking his beard. "Is it really so uninteresting to you? Think of the strength in it. Martial arts are not just about waving your arms and legs. It is a path to understanding yourself. It is discipline that forges not only the body, but the spirit. Someday, you will meet someone you want to protect. And in that moment, you will be grateful for every hour spent here. Strength is needed not to attack, but to protect what is dear to you."
He spoke sincerely, pouring into his words the philosophy he had forged over a long life. But Saigo just stared absently somewhere through his grandfather.
"These aren't those times, Grandpa," he replied quietly. "You get arrested for fighting now. And if someone bothers you, you can just run away or call for help. It's not necessary."
Kenshin blinked in confusion. His grandson's logic, simple and modern, had thrown him off. He was used to thinking in categories of honor, duty, and protection, while Saigo's world consisted of rules, laws, and smartphones. The old man cleared his throat, deciding to try another angle, resorting to an argument that seemed to him eternal and indisputable.
"In that case... what about female attention?" He winked conspiratorially, lowering his voice. "A strong, trained body always attracts many girls. Trust me, your grandmother wouldn't lie!"
He tried to joke, putting on a sly grin and chuckling quietly. He remembered how his own wife had admired his strength and agility in his youth. But his grandson's reaction was far from what he expected. Saigo only lowered his head further, his ears turning slightly red.
"I'm not interested in that..." he mumbled and fell silent again, staring dejectedly at the floor.
Kenshin sighed wearily. All his arguments, honed over the years, had shattered against a wall of apathy and disinterest. He realized that further persuasion was pointless right now. Gently ruffling his grandson's hair, he rose and walked over to the other students who, unlike Saigo, craved his instruction and were waiting patiently for the sensei to finish his family matters.
The day flew by. As the last rays of the sun painted the sky in orange and purple hues, the training session came to an end. The students, one by one, approached the old master, bowed respectfully, and left the dojo, taking with them a pleasant fatigue in their muscles. Soon the hall was almost empty. Only two remained: Kenshin, who was slowly putting away the training equipment, and his grandson Saigo, who, having retrieved his phone, immediately dove headfirst into the virtual world, tapping furiously at the screen.
Suddenly, the paper shoji screen slid aside with a quiet rustle. A tall, sturdy man with the same sharp features as the old man appeared in the doorway. It was his son, Takeru. Removing his street shoes and stepping onto the wooden floor, he bowed deeply.
"Father! Thank you for looking after Saigo."
Raising his head, he looked questioningly at Kenshin, awaiting a report on his progress. The old man tried to avoid his gaze, feeling as if he had failed an important mission. He just waved his hand, inviting his son to follow him. Leaving the boy alone with his game—he hadn't even noticed them leave—they went into a small utility room that served as both a changing room and a tiny kitchen.
Kenshin silently poured two mugs of steaming green tea and sat down at the low table. Takeru settled opposite him.
"Haaa..." the old man exhaled, taking a sip. The bitterness of the tea cleared his thoughts a little. "He has no motivation at all, Takeru. None. And yet it all started so well... I remember how he nervously put on his dogi for the first time, how his eyes burned with curiosity. He was even excitedly waiting for the lesson to start. But... after just a few dozen minutes, he was exhausted and lost all interest."
He looked tiredly at his son. Takeru listened calmly, his face impassive, but his eyes showed understanding.
"I know, Father. He's always like this," Takeru said quietly. "At home, he barely leaves his room. He has no friends, he doesn't socialize with his peers. Just school, home, and his phone. I could forbid him from using it, but... he doesn't shirk his lessons. He always does his homework, his grades are good. The smartphone is his only window to the world, the only thing that truly interests him. If I took it away, he would withdraw completely."
"But we have to do something! We can't let him become a hermit in his own home," Kenshin set his mug on the table a bit more sharply than he intended.
"I know," Takeru sighed. "I've tried everything. I signed him up for different clubs—soccer, drawing, programming. It's the same every time: an initial burst of interest, and then apathy. He just... loses steam. I thought that you, your authority, the atmosphere of the dojo... that you could handle it. I was hoping he would find himself here."
Despair and guilt sounded in his son's voice. Kenshin saw how much he worried about Saigo. The old master fell silent, lost in thought. The problem was deeper than a simple reluctance to practice martial arts. His grandson was lost in this new, digital world, and the old, proven methods of upbringing didn't work here. He needed to find a different key.
A week passed. Takeru brought Saigo to the dojo again. Everything repeated: the boy changed, bowed, and retreated to his usual corner, his entire demeanor showing indifference to what was happening. Kenshin led the warm-up, assigned exercises to the students, and then, to the surprise of many, headed not toward them, but to his grandson.
He sat down next to Saigo, who glanced warily at his grandfather, expecting another round of lectures. But instead, Kenshin, with a mysterious look, pulled a shiny box from the wide pocket of his yukata. Inside lay a brand new, latest-model smartphone.
"Saigo, take a look," the old man said, turning the smooth gadget over in his hands with genuine confusion. "My son gave it to me. Said my old one was useless. And I... I don't understand this technology of yours at all. There's only one button, and it's on the side. How do you even turn it on? And what are all these symbols? I've never used one of these."
This was only partly true. Kenshin managed his old phone passably well, but this new device truly baffled him. And this helplessness turned out to be the very key he had been searching for.
Saigo's face changed. There was still no enthusiasm, but the apathy had vanished. He was in his element. This was an environment he knew inside and out.
"That's the fingerprint sensor, Grandpa," he took the phone into his own hands. "You have to touch it with the finger you registered. Like this. And these are the home screens, they have app icons..."
Reluctantly at first, he began to explain, showing where to press and how to adjust the settings. The other students glanced at them curiously, but the moment they slowed their training pace, a stern look from their master, which he shot at them peripherally, forced them to return to their exercises with doubled effort.
Gradually, Saigo came alive. Seeing how clumsily the old man handled modern technology, how he tried to press the screen too hard or couldn't find the right menu item, the boy began to show more emotion. First, it was a condescending shake of the head, then a quiet chuckle, and then a full, lively smile when his grandfather failed to answer a video call yet again.
Kenshin rejoiced inwardly. He was willing to look like a complete novice in his grandson's eyes if it helped bring life back to his face.
It became their new tradition. Their sessions in the corner of the dojo continued. Over time, Saigo began to show up not only when his father brought him. He started coming on his own, after school. Besides helping his grandfather with the phone, he, imperceptibly to himself, began to participate more actively in the dojo's life. At first, he just watched, then he began to mimic the movements, and soon he was standing in the general ranks, showing an astounding diligence and talent that had apparently been dormant in his blood.
Their conversations changed too. They discussed news from the internet, argued about politics, shared funny videos. And one day, Saigo showed his grandfather the game he had been playing all this time. It was a colorful fantasy world, full of adventures and mysteries. Kenshin, to his grandson's surprise, also became interested. And this game became another shared topic, another bridge, connecting two different generations.
Two years passed.
A ringing silence filled the dojo, broken only by the ragged breathing of the two fighters in the center of the hall. Dozens of eyes were riveted to the sparring mat. On one side stood Kenshin Yamamoto. It seemed that in these years he had become a little smaller, drier, and the wrinkles on his face had etched themselves deeper. Opposite him, in a fighting stance, stood Saigo.
The old man looked at his grandson, and his heart filled with pride. In these two years, the boy had changed beyond recognition. He had shot up, grown strong, his shoulders broadened. The insecurity had vanished without a trace. He no longer hid his gaze but looked directly into his grandfather's eyes, and in his amber, almost orange pupils, the fire of competitive spirit burned.
The referee for the match was Takeru. He raised his hand and sharply lowered it.
"Hajime!"
The fight began. Saigo launched himself from his spot like a young tiger—fast, sharp, full of energy. He unleashed a series of rapid strikes on his grandfather, but Kenshin moved like water flowing around stones. He didn't block the attacks head-on, but redirected them, parrying with light, almost imperceptible movements of his wrists, using his grandson's own momentum against him.
Saigo attacked furiously, but his every lunge broke against a wall of experience. Kenshin, however, did not attack; he waited, studied, allowing the youthful energy to expend itself. Finally, when the first, barely noticeable gap appeared in his grandson's attacks, the old man went on the offensive. His movements were not fast, but they were impeccably precise and calculated. One short strike to the solar plexus made Saigo lose his breath. A light sweep—and the youth lost his balance.
Kenshin didn't let him fall. He caught his grandson, spun him, and with a soft but strong push, threw him onto the tatami. The throw was perfect. Saigo crashed onto his back, accepting his defeat.
The silence exploded into applause. Takeru raised Kenshin's hand, declaring him the winner.
Saigo lay on the mat, breathing heavily, and stared at the ceiling. And then he laughed loudly, with all his heart.
"Ha ha ha! Looks like I've still got a long way to go to catch you, old man!" he shouted, and there wasn't a hint of disappointment in his voice, only admiration and excitement.
Kenshin, his eyes closed, smiled in contentment. He felt boundless pride and love. And in that very instant, he felt a strange, leaden heaviness spread through his body. His thoughts tangled, his vision began to blur. The world swam before his eyes, and he collapsed to the floor as if he'd been cut down.
...
He awoke to the smell of antiseptics and the quiet beeping of medical equipment. White ceiling, white walls, white sheets. He was in the hospital. Around his bed stood the people closest to him. His son Takeru, his daughter-in-law Yumi, and, of course, Saigo. Next to them stood a doctor in a white coat.
Yumi was crying quietly, her face buried in her husband's shoulder. Takeru looked at his father with a serious, grim expression, but his eyes betrayed him with a tremor. And Saigo was clinging to his bed, crying nonstop, repeating through his tears, "Grandpa, you're awake! You're awake!"
Kenshin sighed wearily. He understood everything. He could feel how the strength that had once flowed through his veins like a roaring torrent was gone, leaving only emptiness and weakness behind. The old body, having given its last resources to that victorious match, had finally surrendered.
Several days passed. Kenshin lay in the ward, hooked up to IV drips. His grandson kept him company. They chatted enthusiastically about all sorts of nonsense and, as before, played their favorite game on the tablet. The old man had changed greatly. His skin had become pale and thin, like parchment, and his limbs trembled weakly. Because of this tremor in his hands, he often couldn't press the screen correctly, missing at the crucial moment and losing fights he used to clear with ease.
"Dammit!" he would snap angrily when his character fell dead yet again. "Never mind, I'll beat this cursed boss! I'll definitely beat him!"
Saigo saw these changes. He saw how his mighty grandfather was fading, turning into a frail old man. But he diligently hid his distress behind a mask of nonchalance, continuing to joke with him like a friend and tell him about new in-game events.
In the evening, as usual, they said their goodbyes.
"See you tomorrow, Gramps! Don't try to clear the Abyss without me!" Saigo shouted from the doorway.
Kenshin watched him go with a warm gaze and turned his head to the window. Twilight was descending on the city, lighting the first fires. He knew that "tomorrow" might not come for him. Life had almost left this old body. But he was glad. After the death of his beloved Akiko, he thought the rest of his days would be dedicated only to the dojo, to teaching nameless students. He had been completely immersed in routine until his only son gave him a grandson. A grandson who was so much like his younger self—just as stubborn, withdrawn, but with a fire inside. And he, Kenshin, had managed to ignite that fire. These last two years, though strange, full of talk about incomprehensible technology and virtual worlds, had been truly happy.
Suddenly, the tablet screen on the nightstand lit up. A notification from the game. It was a reminder that he still hadn't managed to beat the final, most difficult level of that very Abyss.
With a complex expression on his face, he took the tablet in his trembling hands. He would gather the last of his strength. He would do it.
Hour after hour passed. His fingers barely obeyed, his reaction time failed him, but the old warrior did not give up. He tried again and again, changing tactics, selecting characters, honing his rotation down to the hundredth of a second. And then, as deep night thickened outside the window, after countless attempts, he did it. The final enemy fell. The words "Challenge Completed" shone on the screen.
With his last strength spent, with a sense of accomplished duty, Kenshin fell back onto the pillow. His breathing became shallow, his heart slowed its beat. Life was definitively leaving his body. And the last thing he heard was a quiet, melodic sound from the tablet's speakers—a phrase he had heard hundreds of times in the game, but only now understood its true meaning.
"And may your life be just as full. Ad Astra Abyssoque."
To the stars and the abyss. His journey here was over. A new one was just beginning.