Balance work is stupid.
That's his first thought every morning when he stands on one leg next to his bed with his eyes closed and counts slowly to sixty.
Left leg.Right leg.Repeat.
At the beginning, he wobbled like a broken chair and almost fell face-first into the wall more than once.
Now he still wobbles. Just less.
After three months of doing it every morning and walking home slowly every evening, feeling every step like an idiot, he's sure of one thing:
The old man was right.
His body feels… cleaner. Movements he used to force now just happen. His steps land more quietly. He notices when his weight is slightly off and fixes it without thinking.
Kain noticed first.
"Your shadow looks different," Kain says one evening.
Ryu blinks. "My what?"
"Your shadow," Kain repeats. "You move smoother. Less extra shaking."
"That's a creepy way to say that," Ryu says.
Kain circles him once as they warm up. "You've been doing something," he says. "What?"
"Homework," Ryu says.
"From school?" Bruk asks.
"From the old man," Ryu says.
Bruk grunts. "Of course."
They make him show it.
So he stands in the alley on one leg, closes his eyes and just… stays there while Kain pokes his shoulder lightly to test his balance.
"Last time I did this to you, you almost fell on your face," Kain says.
"Good times," Ryu says.
"Now you correct with your hip, not your arms," Kain says. "Who taught you that?"
Ryu shrugs without moving his foot. "He told me to stop letting my limbs be the first to panic."
Kain snorts. "Sounds like him."
Training with them feels different now too.
Same drills. Same angles. Same clinch work.
But his feet adjust faster. His guard snaps back in place quicker after a parry. He recovers his stance faster when he stumbles.
"You're harder to shove around," Bruk says after a clinch round. "Annoying."
"Thank you," Ryu says.
"That wasn't praise," Bruk says.
It was.
Once a week, he goes back to the shop.
The first time after the three-month mark, the bell rings, and the old man doesn't even look up.
"Door's still dramatic," Ryu says.
"Legs still attached?" the old man asks.
"So far," Ryu says.
"Good. Stand," the old man says. "Same place."
Ryu walks to the worn patch of floor and takes his usual stance. Feet under him, shoulders loose, spine straight.
"Eyes closed," the old man says. "One leg."
Left leg up.
He feels the small shifts inside his body. Muscles along his shin working. Tiny corrections in his hips. Not perfect, but not chaos.
Something taps his shoulder.
He adjusts without opening his eyes.
Another tap, this time lower. He shifts again.
"Other leg," the old man says.
They repeat it.
When Ryu opens his eyes, the old man gives a small nod.
"Acceptable," he says.
"That's the highest praise I'm getting, isn't it," Ryu says.
"For this stage," the old man says.
He walks a slow circle around him like last time.
"Arms heavy?" he asks.
"A little," Ryu says. "Workshop was busy today."
"Good," the old man says. "Real tired is better than fake fresh."
He stops in front of Ryu.
"Walk," he says. "Line down, line back. Normal pace."
Ryu walks the invisible line on the floor and comes back.
"Again," the old man says. "But this time, imagine your head is being pulled up by a string. Don't stretch. Just don't sink."
Ryu walks again. It feels strange at first, then better. His steps land softer.
"You heel-strike less now," the old man says. "That's good. Less noise. Less shock through the joints."
"Is this the part where you tell me I passed the test and we do real training now?" Ryu asks.
The old man raises an eyebrow. "That was real training."
Ryu sighs. "Actual punching, then."
"Impatient," the old man says. "Fine. Hands up."
Ryu brings his guard up.
"Not your 'I'm in a fight' guard," the old man says. "Your 'I'm not sure yet but I'm ready' guard. The one you use when nothing has happened but you know it might."
Ryu adjusts. Slightly lower. Elbows comfortable. Weight balanced.
The old man nods.
"Hit me," he says.
"Again?" Ryu asks. "Last time went great for my ego."
"This time, think about your feet, not your fists," the old man says. "If your feet are wrong, your hands are useless."
Ryu steps in and throws a jab.
It misses by a small margin again, but he feels something different: he doesn't fall into the punch as much. When his fist passes empty air, his balance is still under him.
He adds a cross. A low step. A body shot.
The old man shifts around each one with light steps and small tilts of his body, but his eyes are on Ryu's feet, not his fists.
"You stop yourself better now," he says. "Before, when you missed, you took half a step too far. Now it's a quarter."
"Quarter is still a miss," Ryu says.
"Quarter is the start of control," the old man says. "Again."
They repeat it. Over and over. Ryu's shoulders heat up. His lungs start working harder. Sweat sticks his shirt to his back.
"Stop leaning forward when you think you see an opening," the old man says. "If the opening is real, you don't need to throw your head at it. If it's fake, you're giving them a target."
"That's Kain's bad habit, not mine," Ryu says.
"You learned from him," the old man says. "You inherited his tilt. Fix it or you'll eat something sharp one day."
They switch.
"Now defense," the old man says. "I attack, you don't die. No counters. Just survive."
"Comforting instructions," Ryu says.
The old man moves.
Not fast, not slow. Just… constant.
Short jabs toward his guard, light hooks aimed at his shoulders, taps toward his ribs and forehead. None of them are full power. All of them are precise.
Ryu blocks, parries, shifts his head, uses his feet. A few shots get through and slap against his arms or sides.
"Stop trying to catch everything," the old man says. "Some attacks are tests. Some are real. Learn to feel which ones matter."
"That's easy," Ryu says between breaths. "The ones that hurt."
"That's one way," the old man says. "Not the best one."
By the time he says "enough," Ryu's breathing is heavier, but he's not panicking. His legs feel stable. His guard, for once, doesn't feel like random flailing.
"Better," the old man says. "Still holes everywhere, but at least the holes are smaller."
"Glad my holes are improving," Ryu says. "That sounded better in my head."
"Nothing in your head sounds good," the old man says. "Now sit."
There's a small stool near the counter. Ryu sits. The old man leans back against the wood.
"You know what I'm doing?" the old man asks.
"Humiliating me in slow motion?" Ryu says.
"Building foundations," the old man says. "You came here with street survival and half-learned basics. That's useful, but messy. We're cleaning that up."
"By making me walk in lines and stand on one leg?" Ryu asks.
"By teaching your body to tell the truth," the old man says. "Most fighters lie to themselves. They think they're balanced when they're leaning. Think they're fast when they're just rushing. Think they're strong when they're just tense."
He looks at Ryu's hands again.
"You're young," he says. "That's your advantage. Your habits aren't fully set yet. We can still change them without breaking you."
"We?" Ryu asks.
"I say 'we' to make you feel involved," the old man says. "It's mostly me."
Ryu huffs a tired laugh.
"So what now?" he asks. "More balance and slow walking?"
"Yes," the old man says. "Plus one more thing."
He straightens a little.
"From now on," he says, "whenever you walk anywhere, you pay attention to where your center is. Not your chest. Not your head. Here."
He taps his own lower stomach.
"This is the point you move from," he says. "Everything else follows. If this part is lost, you are lost."
Ryu files it away. Center. Core. Whatever name he wants to give it.
"You're old enough now to carry this idea," the old man says. "Use it when you walk. Use it when you lift. Use it when Kain tries to knock you over."
"He'll be thrilled," Ryu says.
"Good," the old man says. "Annoying him is a side benefit."
Ryu stands. His legs feel tired, but not shaky.
"Same homework?" he asks.
"Same homework," the old man says. "Plus what I just told you. And when you fight with your alley teachers, don't show them everything. They're not training dummies. They're your testing ground."
"So keep some things hidden," Ryu says.
"Always," the old man says.
Ryu walks to the door.
"Old man," he says, hand on the handle. "If I keep doing this for years… what does that make me?"
The old man looks at him for a long second.
"Harder to kill," he says. "We'll discuss the rest when we get there."
It's not dramatic. Not a promise of glory. Just a simple line.
Harder to kill.
That's enough for now.
Ryu steps out. The bell rings behind him.
He starts down the street.
His steps are slow at first. Not because he's tired, but because he's paying attention.
Where his weight lands. How his center moves. How his shoulders relax or tense.
Same city. Same slope. Same noise.
But his body is starting to feel different.
Not strong.
Not yet.
Just… more under his control.
And that's the whole point.