Ryu – 9 years and 8 months
By now, pain is just part of my schedule.
Morning: wake up, test which muscles complain the loudest. Stretch till they calm down.Day: work at Haim's, lift metal that weighs more than my opinions.Evening: footwork, angles, clinch, falling, getting used to being manhandled without panicking.
Repeat for months.
I'm still small. Still nine. Still renting a crappy room with a ceiling stain that watches me sleep.
But I'm not the same idiot who got pinned to a wall and nearly robbed.
My body moves… differently now. Not good. Not smooth. Just less stupid.
The city decides to test that on an ordinary afternoon when all I'm thinking about is bread.
Lower market. Late day. The sun's sliding behind the taller buildings, smearing light over the rooftops like someone got lazy with a brush.
The smell is the usual mix: sweat, spices, trash, too many people trying to sell the same four things.
I've finished my shift at Haim's and I'm heading toward a bread stall that sometimes sells yesterday's loaves cheaper if you show up near closing.
I've got a few coins in my pocket. Actual coins, not imaginary numbers in my notebook.
My bag's slung over one shoulder. My steps are steady, rhythm matching the crowd.
I pass a narrow side street that cuts between two rows of stalls. Out of habit, I glance down it.
Two things jump out immediately:
A man blocking the way.
A boy about my age, pressed back against a wall, shoulders tense.
The man is in his twenties maybe. Thin, but that wiry kind of thin that doesn't mean weak. Jacket too big, hands bare, eyes a little too bright.
The kid has a small satchel clutched to his chest. His mouth is going a mile a minute.
"I told you," the man says, voice low. "I just need to see what's inside. Quick look. You're not hiding anything, right?"
"S'not yours," the boy says. "My dad'll kill me if—"
"So we don't tell him," the man says easily. His hand slides along the wall beside the boy's head. Not touching. Close.
My feet keep walking past the side street.
My brain stops.
Not my problem, the practical part says. You don't know these people. You don't know what's in that bag. Could be nothing. Could be drugs. Could be stolen goods. Walk.
Another part, the one that's been getting louder since I started training, answers:
You know exactly what that body language looks like. You've been on the receiving end.
I slow.
If I ignore this, it'll sit in my head all night, replaying. Training is supposed to be for stuff like this, right? Not just pretty footwork in an alley.
I back up a step and slip into the side street.
The man notices me before I get halfway down.
He glances over his shoulder, then turns his body slightly so he's still blocking the smaller kid but facing me.
Great. Center of attention. My favorite.
"Wrong turn, kid," he says.
"Maybe," I say. "Maybe not."
Up close, he smells like cheap booze and boredom. His eyes flick over me, checking height, weight, posture. There's a smear of something on his jacket sleeve. Sauce, if I'm optimistic.
"You lost?" he asks.
"No," I say. "You?"
He smiles. It doesn't reach his eyes.
"Just talking to my friend here," he says. He pats the wall next to the smaller kid. "Private conversation."
The boy's eyes dart to me. Wide. Scared. He tries to pull his satchel closer. The man's hand tightens on the strap.
"Looks real private," I say. "So private he's trying to fuse with the bricks."
His smile thins.
"This your business?" he asks.
"Maybe," I say. "Depends. Are you buying something from him? Or just stealing slow?"
His gaze sharpens now. Less casual.
"You got a smart mouth," he says.
"Working on it," I say. "People keep trying to fix it for me."
Man's POV:
Two kids in one day. Perfect.
First one's easy. Scared, soft, soft hands. Probably some merchant's brat running an errand. Him, I can scare into dropping the bag. No need for a scene.
Second one… different.
He walks in like he knows exactly how close he is to me, and how close he doesn't want to be. Feet set. Hands loose, but not dangling. Eyes steady.
Not puffed up. Not puffing his chest and playing tough.
That's worse.
Kids who pretend to be tough cry fast when you crack them. Kids who look like this remember where they're standing.
And I've seen that stance before. On grown men who take money to hit people.
Someone's been teaching this brat.
Can I still take him? Probably. I'm bigger, stronger. But trouble with trained kids is they don't always stay where you expect.
Have to be careful.
Or make it loud enough he backs off.
Ryu POV:
I don't take another step forward.
Distance is my friend until it's not.
The narrower kid speaks up, voice shaking. "I don't know him," he blurts, nodding at me. "He just walked in."
"I figured," I say.
"Look," the man says. "Why don't you walk back to your bread or whatever, and I won't have to explain to your parents why your face met the wall."
"I pay my own rent," I say. "My face is my own problem."
He tilts his head, eyes flicking down to my shirt, my hands, then back up.
"Big words for someone so small," he says.
I shrug one shoulder.
"That bag's not yours," I say. "Let it go and I'll annoy you somewhere else another day."
His jaw tightens.
He drops the smile.
"You sure you want to do this?" he asks.
"No," I say. "But here we are."
He moves.
Not a drunk lunge. Not a wild swing.
He steps in fast and straight, hand darting for my shirt.
Old me would've either frozen or tried to slap it away badly.
New me sees the shoulder shift, the weight change.
I angle.
Front foot steps out a bit, back foot pivots. My whole body turns at a slight diagonal instead of backing up.
His hand misses my chest and slides across my arm instead.
I bring my forearm up, frame between us like Kain drilled into me. Bone, not flimsy muscle.
He bumps into it, surprised.
I feel his weight, his direction. He's committed to coming in.
Good.
My other hand stays up near my chin, not flying down like an idiot.
He snarls and grabs for my arm.
I twist, step around his outside, bringing my frame with me so I rotate past him instead of letting him drag me in.
Now I'm almost shoulder-to-shoulder instead of square in front of him.
The narrower kid slips a bit further along the wall, out of immediate range. Good.
The man tries to turn with me. He's stronger. He almost succeeds.
I drive my forehead sideways, not full force, just a short bump into the side of his skull to break his posture.
His head jerks. His grip loosens for half a second.
I don't waste it.
Knee. Inside of his thigh, just above the knee joint.
Not full power—my balance isn't perfect—but solid enough.
His leg buckles slightly. His hand drops from my arm.
He hisses between his teeth.
"That hurt," he says.
"Yeah," I say. "That's the general idea."
He swings then.
A real punch now, anger behind it. Short hook aimed at my cheek.
I see it. Shoulder, hip, everything.
I don't block it straight.
I step again, small angle away from his power hand. My guard soaks part of it; my head moves with the impact, not against it.
Knuckles clip my cheekbone, scrape skin. Pain flares, but my vision doesn't go white.
I throw a short body shot into his ribs in return. It lands, but my power's not great. He grunts more in surprise than pain.
We're too close and the space is cramped.
He reaches for my shirt again, grabbing a fistful of fabric this time.
All right.
Clinch.
I slap his hand off my front with my near arm and immediately bring my forearm up across his collarbone, framing hard.
Head down, forehead pressed against the side of his face so I'm not giving him my jaw for free.
His breath smells like cheap alcohol and something sour.
"Get off," he growls, trying to bull forward.
I drop my weight.
Not much to drop, but every bit counts. Hips back, stance wide. He shoves and gets less than he expected.
I knee the inside of his leg again. Same spot.
He curses properly this time.
His grip loosens further.
I use my free hand to push at his elbow, turning my body with it, trying to spin around him instead of staying square.
We turn half a circle in the narrow street, like a badly choreographed dance.
He almost crashes into the wall. His back touches stone.
For a brief second, we're reversed: him near the wall, me not.
I don't stick around and admire it.
I step back, frame disengaging, hands coming up again. Distance back. Breath heavy.
He blinks.
He looks more surprised than hurt.
"What are you?" he asks. "Some Guard brat?"
"Just a rat with a good teacher," I say.
Behind him, the smaller kid has started inching along the wall, bag clutched tight, eyes huge.
The man glances at him, then at me.
Then he hears it too.
Voices. Closer. The sound of a cart rolling over cobblestone. More steps than just the three of us.
Market's starting to fold in around us.
He could keep going. He might still win if he commits fully.
But it won't be clean. And there'll be witnesses now.
His tongue clicks against his teeth in irritation.
"This isn't worth it," he mutters.
"For you? Probably not," I say.
He gives me a flat look.
"This city chews kids like you," he says. "Training or not."
"I'm planning on chewing back," I say.
He snorts, adjusts his jacket, and steps sideways, out of the narrow street and back into the market flow.
No dramatic exit. No last swing.
Just gone.
My shoulders stay tight for a second longer. Then I let out a breath I didn't notice I was holding.
The smaller kid sags against the wall.
"You crazy?" he says. "He could've killed you."
"Probably," I say. "He still might. Another day."
"You didn't have to—" he starts.
"I know," I say. "You should go. And maybe next time don't cut through here alone with anything people might want."
He swallows, nods quickly.
"Thanks," he mutters, and bolts, ducking into the crowd like a spooked animal.
I stand there a second longer, letting my heartbeat slow.
My cheek throbs. He definitely tagged me. My arms ache from framing, my thigh from throwing knees.
But I'm upright. Breathing. Bag still on my shoulder. Pockets intact.
That's… new.
On the way out of the side street, I catch my reflection in a dirty window.
Messy hair. Cheek already reddening where his punch landed. Eyes too old.
I snort at myself.
"You're not impressive," I tell the glass. "Don't start posing."
But as I step back into the main market, I adjust my stance without thinking.
Not full guard. Just that slight angle in my shoulders, the awareness in my feet, the sense of where people are around me.
I buy the bread. The seller eyes my face, but doesn't comment.
By the time I get home, the bruise on my cheek is darker. I'll need to explain it to Haim tomorrow. Again.
In my room, I sit on the bed, tear off a piece of bread, chew slowly.
Then I pull out my notebook.
Under "Practical Fights," I add a new line:
– Side street, lower market.One hostile adult.Used angles + frame + clinch.Took one solid hit, several grazes.Didn't panic. Didn't lose balance.Outcome: no robbery, no collapse, target disengaged.
Then, under it:
Not strong enough. Not fast enough. But better.
I close the notebook.
Out there, it was quick. Ugly. No clean combos, no perfect textbook moves.
In here, I can dissect it. Learn from it.
One day, people who know Nen will move faster than this man did. Hit harder. Twist space and pressure in ways normal humans can't see.
If I can't handle a sober street thug at nine, I have no business dreaming about Hunters and that exam.
Today wasn't victory.
It was proof.
Proof that the training is real. That the ugly drills in that alley translate into something that matters when someone actually tries to break me.
I lie back, staring at the ceiling stain.
My cheek throbs in time with my heartbeat.
I smile, just a little.
"It worked," I tell the crack in the plaster. "A little."
Tomorrow, I'll tell Kain and Bruk. They'll probably just hit me harder and say, "good, now fix the mistakes."
Which is exactly what I want.