Ryu – 9 years and 10 months
The day is nothing special until it is.
Morning: sore, stretch, eat whatever is cheapest.Day: Haim's workshop, filters, bolts, oil under the nails.Evening is supposed to be training in the alley like always.
Instead, the city throws me a side quest.
I'm cutting through a back street on my way to meet Kain and Bruk. The light's starting to fade, edges of buildings going soft. People are heading home, stalls shutting, voices lower.
I'm thinking about footwork and how much my calves are going to hate me in an hour when I hear it.
A voice. Too low, too calm, in a narrow lane off to my right.
"C'mon. Just let me see what's in the bag. You don't want trouble, do you?"
Another voice, higher. Cracked with nerves. "It's not… it's not yours, I gotta bring it back—"
My feet keep moving.
My head turns.
Of course it's him.
Same guy from months ago. The one who used me to test how hard a wall was. Only now it's clearer just how big he is compared to me.
He's seventeen, easy. Taller by a head and a half, shoulders filled out, long arms with lean muscle from too many fights and too little rest. Scar across one knuckle. Jacket hanging open, hands bare.
He's got some kid pinned near a stack of crates. The boy looks eleven, maybe. Satchel hugged to his chest, eyes wide.
I stop.
Brain does the usual calculation.
He's older. Stronger. More reach. You are small and attached to life. Walk away.
The part of me that has been collecting grudges since I woke up in this world answers:
I trained for this. He didn't. And he's still picking smaller targets.
I set my own bag down in the shadow of a doorway and walk into the lane.
He glances over, annoyed. Then he recognizes me.
His mouth twists.
"You," he says.
"Me," I say.
He looks me up and down, taking in the height difference much more clearly this time. The corner of his mouth curls.
"You still playing hero?" he asks. "You're, what, nine? Ten? You get bored of breathing or something?"
"Breathing's fine," I say. "Watching you rob kids is not."
The smaller boy looks between us like he's watching a particularly bad idea start.
"This your friend?" the guy asks him.
He shakes his head so fast I'm surprised it doesn't fly off. "No, I don't— I don't know him, I swear."
"Lucky you," I say.
The older guy lets go of the satchel for a moment, like he's that confident he doesn't need to hold it.
"Street's full of other paths, brat," he says to me. "Use one."
"Maybe later," I say. "Right now I like this view."
His eyes harden.
"You really want to do this?" he asks. "There's about eight years and a whole lot of beatings between us."
"That's the point," I say. "I want to see if training closes that gap."
He laughs. Short and sharp.
"You got a mouth on you for someone whose head barely reaches my chest," he says.
"Compensation," I say.
Kain POV:
We're late. That's the first problem.
Bruk and I cut through the side street because it's faster. The second problem is that I hear Ryu's voice before I see him.
Too calm. Too steady. Wrong tone for a kid his age.
We edge closer and there it is: him, facing off with a teenager. The guy's at least seventeen. Taller, heavier, reach for days. That kind of street muscle that comes from bad work, not push-ups.
I feel my jaw tighten.
"Age difference is a joke," I mutter. "That boy's got almost a decade on him."
"That boy's also been bullying kids," Bruk says. "Looks like Ryu's correcting the curriculum."
I should stop it.
But I see Ryu's stance. Feet set. Weight balanced. Hands loose, ready. Not puffed up. Not shaking. Just… there.
He asked for real training. Real training needs real tests.
We hang back. Close enough to jump in. Far enough not to spook the moment.
Ryu POV:
The younger kid takes the hint and slides along the wall, clutching his bag. He hesitates.
"Go," I tell him.
He bolts past me, nearly trips, then disappears into the busy main street.
The older guy cracks his neck.
"You got rid of my entertainment," he says. "Now you replace it."
"Upgrade," I say.
He moves.
He doesn't ease in. No feints, no testing jabs. He's used to people folding on the first shove.
He lunges forward, weight heavy on his lead leg, hands snapping out. One for my shirt, one for the back of my neck.
Last time, that worked.
This time, I'm not watching his hands.
I'm watching his feet.
Lead foot stomps down. Hip turns. Shoulders start to roll.
I step off.
Short angle out with my lead foot, back foot pivoting. Whole body turning just enough that his grab slides past my chest instead of through it.
My forearm snaps up across his collarbone, framing hard.
His momentum hits bone and diverts instead of crushing me straight back.
His eyes flicker.
"Hi," I say.
Short right hand into his solar plexus from the inside line.
Not a huge punch. Just clean. Straight. Full body behind it.
My knuckles hit that soft spot under the sternum. Hard.
Air explodes out of him in a shocked grunt. His forward drive stutters.
I don't admire it.
I step sideways, around his lead leg, keeping my frame on him. He tries to clamp onto my shirt; I peel his hand off with a quick strip, elbow glued to my ribs.
His head dips in reflex, trying to protect his middle.
So I change level.
Sharp knee into the inside of his thigh, just above the knee.
My shin hits muscle with a deep, dull thud.
He swears. His leg buckles half a step.
He swings.
It's a hook to my head, fast and heavy. Taller body, longer arm. If it lands clean, I'm kissing stone.
I see the shoulder go. Hip turn. Line of the strike.
I don't block it straight.
I slip.
Back foot pivots, front foot slides. My head moves off the line, guard up to take what's left on the arms.
His knuckles clip my forearm instead of my jaw. Pain buzzes up the bone, but my vision stays clear.
As his arm passes, I step in.
Short hook to the body on his open side. Then a quick, ugly little uppercut under his chin, using my legs more than my arm.
His teeth clack together. His head snaps back.
He staggers.
Not out. But his eyes go wide in a way I like.
"You…" he gasps, backing a half-step. "What the hell have you been doing?"
"Homework," I say.
He roars and charges again.
This time there's less structure. More anger.
He tries to clinch, both arms going wide to crush me.
I'm already framing before he reaches me. Forearm across his chest, head tight against the side of his, not giving up my neck.
He pushes. I drop my weight and circle, feet moving, never staying dead in front of him.
We turn, half-dance, half-wrestle. He's stronger, but he's slipping. His balance is cracked; his breathing is off.
Kain's drills play in my head like a quiet voice.
Hips back. Frame strong. Move your feet in close, not just far away.
I give him a little resistance, then suddenly let it go. He stumbles a step past me, catching himself on the crates.
I don't let him reset.
Low kick again to the same thigh. Then another body shot, digging into the floating ribs this time.
He croaks, clutching his side, one knee almost hitting the ground.
I step back just out of arm's reach, hands still up.
"That's enough," I say.
He wheezes.
"You're nine," he spits. "You shouldn't move like that."
"That's kind of the point," I say. "You shouldn't be cornering kids either, but here we are."
Bruk POV:
He completely outclassed him.
Not in power. The older one still hits harder. Not in size. That gap's ridiculous.
In thinking.
Every time the big idiot committed, the kid was already sliding off. Angle, frame, hit, exit. No waste. No showing off.
He picked the right targets. Body. Legs. Balance. He didn't chase the head until it came to him. That's not normal nine-year-old instinct. That's drilled, and then sharpened by a brain that actually paid attention.
And he stopped.
He could keep going. I see it. Openings everywhere: knee to the face, stomp on the foot, more shots to the ribs.
He chose not to. Drew a line in his own head.
That matters almost as much as how well he fought.
Ryu POV:
He stares at me from half-kneeling, one hand on the crates, one arm wrapped around his middle.
"If you get up and keep going," I say quietly, "I'll keep going too. I don't know when I'll stop. You might not like finding out."
He glares, cheeks flushed, breath ragged.
"You think you're some kind of prodigy?" he pants. "You're just a freak kid who learned tricks too early."
"Maybe," I say. "But you're the one who can't handle someone half your size and age."
He spits onto the cobblestone. "You're dead when you're older. People like you attract the wrong eyes."
"Probably," I say. "But it won't be you that kills me."
We stare at each other for a few seconds.
He doesn't rise.
Good.
I take two steps back, never turning my back fully. When I'm at the mouth of the lane again, I finally turn, grab my bag from the doorway, and head toward the main street.
Heart still beating fast. Body humming.
Not from fear.
From the fact that all those hours in the alley just got a field test. And passed.
Kain and Bruk are waiting where the lane spills back into the busier road.
They don't pretend they didn't watch.
Kain's eyes flick to my hands, my face, my stance. Quick check for injuries, posture, stupid pride.
"You know you just took apart a seventeen-year-old with almost a decade on you," he says. Out loud this time. "That doesn't worry you?"
"It would worry me more if I hadn't been training," I say. "Or if he was a good person."
Bruk snorts.
"That's not normal," Kain says. "Nine-year-olds aren't supposed to solve eight-year gaps with footwork and stubbornness."
"I'll try to be more average next time," I say.
"Don't," he says. "Just don't get stupid because it worked once."
"I know he was still human," I say. "No weapons. No friends. No tricks. Just bad habits and worse morals."
"Good," he says.
"I'm not confusing the tiers," I say. "I just… needed to know where I stand against our level."
"And?" Bruk asks.
"And I stand," I say. "That's new."
Kain's mouth twitches.
"Hands up," he says.
I sigh.
"No 'congratulations, your combat sense is remarkable for a tiny freak'?" I ask.
"That was the congratulations," Bruk says.
"It is remarkable," Kain adds quietly. "Your head's keeping up with your body. That's rare. Don't waste it."
Warmth flickers in my chest at that. I pretend I don't feel it.
I drop my bag near the alley we actually train in, kick my boots off, and raise my hands.
Revenge or not, seventeen-year-olds or not, I'm not done.
If a nine-year-old can do this to a normal teenager, then a nineteen-year-old version of me better be able to do it to something much worse.
That's the whole point.