Ryu – 11 years and 7 months
The tape sticks to the floor in a simple cross.
Ryu stands at the center, toes just over the intersection, feeling ridiculous.
Bare wood on either side. Two cheap gray strips under his feet. That's it.
The old man crosses his arms and tilts his head.
"Which way do you want to move?" he asks.
"Out the door," Ryu says.
"Pick something less honest," the old man says.
"Forward," Ryu says.
The old man taps the tape in front of him with his toes.
"You move along this," he says. "Small steps. Center first, not feet. No reaching with your head."
He taps Ryu's lower stomach again, a short, firm knock.
"Move this," he says. "Then the rest."
He steps back.
"Show me."
Ryu takes a small step forward. He tries to start from his middle like he's been told: tighten his core slightly, shift his weight, then let his front foot slide out and plant soft.
His back foot follows, returning him to a stable stance.
It feels slow, but clean.
"Too much heel," the old man says. "Land ball first, then share the load. Again."
They repeat it.
Forward. Back. Forward. Back.
Ryu focuses on not bobbing, not leaning, not flapping his arms. Each correction hits a different part of his body.
"Don't let your shoulders lead," the old man says. "You're not dragging your center with your upper body. Other way around."
After a while, the old man lifts a hand.
"Side," he says. "Left and right. No crossing your feet."
Ryu sidesteps along the horizontal tape. His hips want to twist. He forces them to move as little as possible, sliding his feet while staying mostly square to an invisible opponent.
It feels clumsy.
"Better than last week," the old man says. "You're not doing a dance anymore."
"How does this help in an actual fight?" Ryu asks. "Besides making me walk like a tutorial."
The old man steps closer, feet landing exactly on the tape lines without looking.
"Imagine someone rushes you straight," he says. "If you only have forward and back, you collide or retreat. Two bad choices."
He nudges the side tape with his foot.
"If you can add even half a step to the side at the right moment, you change the situation," he says. "Their whole body commits to where you were. Your center is now where they don't want it."
He nods at the cross.
"Hongan-ryu wants your line stable," he says. "Wants theirs crooked. These drills teach your feet to find that automatically."
"So this is just… entry and exit?" Ryu says. "Good in, good out."
"That's most of fighting," the old man says. "Idiots think it's about hands. Hands are just what happens after you move right."
He steps into the cross himself and moves through a pattern.
Forward step. Diagonal step. Side step. Back. Each one is small. His shoulders don't roll, his head doesn't bob, his feet land quiet.
Ryu watches the way his weight flows. No jerks. No big shifts.
"Now we add hands," the old man says. "Jab only. One punch per step. Not a combo machine."
Ryu lifts his guard. His forearms are still a little sore from the last session, but his legs feel active, ready.
"Forward step, jab," the old man says. "Then reset. Don't chase. Don't lean."
Ryu steps forward. He shifts his center, lets his lead foot touch down, then snaps a jab out and brings it back sharp.
It feels connected. When he tries one where his chest jumps ahead of his hips, it feels weak.
The old man's eyes latch onto that one.
"Too much chest," he says. "You're throwing your upper body forward and hoping your legs catch up. Again. Center first."
They go through it again and again.
Forward with jab. Back with high guard. Side-step with jab to an imaginary target. Each time the old man corrects in short, precise comments.
"Arm went before feet.""You're dropping your hand after contact.""Don't stare at where your fist lands. Look at what they can hit next."
Sweat builds along Ryu's temples. His shirt sticks to his back. His breathing stays steady, but his shoulders feel heavier.
Eventually the old man raises his hand.
"Enough," he says. "Now we see if you can use the lines under pressure."
He steps into range and lifts his own guard. His hands hang loose but ready, elbows close, chin tucked.
"Same cross," he says. "I jab at your head and chest. You use step and guard only. No counters. Your job is to not be where my fist wants you."
Ryu adjusts his feet on the tape and tightens his jaw.
"This sounds familiar," he says.
"Good," the old man says. "Familiar means you might survive it."
First jab: straight at his forehead. Ryu stays centered and blocks, forearms absorbing the impact with a small shock in his shoulders.
"Don't eat everything," the old man says. "Move."
Second jab: toward his sternum. Ryu steps back along the forward tape, just enough that the fist falls short.
Third jab: slightly to his right. Ryu steps along the side tape, shifting his upper body a bit. The fist slides past his cheek.
As he does, he sees it: the old man's torso is open for a brief moment on the opposite side. A small gap. Clear line from his own shoulder to those ribs.
His knuckles flex slightly without thinking.
He doesn't throw.
The old man's eyes narrow for a split second, noticing where Ryu was looking.
"Good," he says. "You saw it."
"Didn't take it," Ryu says.
"Correct," the old man says. "First you learn to see chances. Then you learn which ones to take. Most people reverse that and end up on the ground."
They repeat the pattern.
Jab. Step back. Jab. Sidestep. Jab. Block in place. Ryu feels his feet starting to find the lines faster. Less forced. More natural.
His lungs work harder now. Sweat rolls down his jawline. His hands stay up anyway.
Finally the old man drops his guard.
"Enough," he says. "You're starting to move like you believe your center exists. That's something."
Ryu lowers his hands slowly, shaking them out once to release some tension.
"So that's line," he says. "Axis keeps me up. Line gets me in and out."
"More or less," the old man says. "Now we work on break."
He points at the chalk square.
"Back in," he says. "This time, the job's different."
Ryu steps into the square again. His legs aren't thrilled, but they obey.
"Rules?" he asks.
"You don't leave the square," the old man says. "You don't throw full punches. You don't kick hard. Your job is to make me take a clear step to recover my balance. If my foot has to move because of something you did, that's your win."
Ryu looks at the man's stance. Relaxed. Weight evenly spread. No obvious hole.
"How am I supposed to move you without just hitting you?" he asks.
"Axis. Line. Break," the old man says. "You use your line against mine. Feet, shoulders, hips. You don't start with damage. You start with control."
He steps into range. Closer than before. Close enough that Ryu can see the fine white scars across his knuckles.
Ryu swallows once and lifts his hands.
He tries first with a lazy foot nudge at the old man's shin. Nothing. The old man barely shifts.
He bumps his shoulder into the man's chest. The old man takes it like a wall. No give.
"Stop trying to move everything," the old man says. "Pick a point. Wait for the moment. Then hit that point with your weight, not your ego."
Ryu watches more carefully.
The old man's weight isn't perfectly even all the time. A little more settles on the front leg when he leans in. The right shoulder sometimes hangs a bit farther forward.
Ryu waits for one of those moments.
When the old man's front foot carries a bit more weight, Ryu taps the outside of that foot with his own while giving a small pull on the sleeve and a short push on the shoulder.
It's not clean, but the structure changes. The old man's back foot lifts and sets again.
"That's it," the old man says. "That's break. You don't need to throw him across the room. You just need his center somewhere he didn't plan for."
"And then I hit," Ryu says quietly.
"If the situation says you can," the old man says. "Sometimes you hit. Sometimes you throw. Sometimes you walk away before someone important looks over."
They run the drill.
Short bumps. Foot taps. Sleeve pulls. Most of them do nothing. The old man barely shifts.
But a few connect with the right timing. Each time, there's a small loss of stability. A recovery step. A tilt.
Every time that happens, Ryu feels a click in his head. An opening where a punch to the jaw or a knee to the thigh would matter a lot more.
"This is where Hongan-ryu lives," the old man says. "In the small breaks. Big openings are rare. Everyone sees those. You make your own smaller ones."
By the end, Ryu's legs feel like they're full of sand. His breathing is steady but heavy. Sweat has soaked through his collar.
He steps out of the box, bare feet slapping quietly on the wood. His hands rest on his hips for a second while he catches his breath.
"So Hongan-ryu is…" he starts.
The old man finishes without drama.
"Axis: keep yourself standing," he says. "Line: move in and out on good terms. Break: ruin their stance so whatever you do next matters more."
Ryu lifts his head.
"Does this work against people like you?" he asks.
The old man looks at him for a moment, eyes steady, no smile.
"I use it," he says. "I'm still walking. Against people at my level, it's one tool. Against most of the world, it's already more discipline than they have."
Ryu thinks of something else. Not normal fighters. Not pit thugs. People who bend rules. People who feel like they're playing a different game entirely.
"What about people who fight… different?" he asks. "The ones who don't move like normal."
The old man doesn't flinch. His face doesn't change much, but there's a tiny pause before he answers.
"People like that still stand on something," he says. "They still weigh something. They still have joints. If your own base is a mess, nothing else you learn will save you against them. Hongan-ryu gives you a base. After that, you're on your own."
It's not comforting. It's not depressing either.
It's just true.
Ryu nods once.
Later, when he steps outside, the air feels cooler on his sweat-damp skin. The street slopes down toward the cheaper part of town. His feet find the ground with a new kind of awareness.
Forward. Back. Side. Center first.
In the alley that evening, when Kain steps in and throws a straight punch at his head, Ryu doesn't panic.
He shifts his weight, steps slightly off the line, and lets the fist pass by his cheek. For a brief instant, Kain's ribs are right there.
Open.
Axis. Line. Break, Ryu thinks.
He doesn't take the shot this time.
But he knows he could.