I woke up on the stone floor with my mouth open and my cheek numb.
For a few seconds I didn't know where I was. The lantern flame above me swayed slightly, shadow stretching and shrinking across the ceiling. My tongue felt thick. Dry. When I swallowed, my throat burned.
I tried to move my right arm.
Pain shot through my shoulder, sharp enough that my vision dimmed. I hissed and pulled the arm back against my chest, breathing shallowly until the pain settled into something duller, heavier.
Footsteps.
I rolled onto my side, pushing myself upright with my good arm just as the door opened.
The man from yesterday stepped in carrying a bucket.
He set it down in front of me and kicked it gently.
Water sloshed.
"Drink," he said.
I didn't hesitate. I grabbed the bucket with both hands—bad shoulder screaming—and drank until my stomach cramped. Cold water spilled down my chin and neck. I wiped my mouth with the back of my wrist.
"Stand."
I did.
Slowly this time. Carefully. I felt every bruise as I straightened, every pulled muscle complaining. My legs were stiff, heavy, like they'd rusted overnight.
He circled me once, eyes tracking my posture.
"Dislocated yesterday," he said, nodding at my shoulder. "You popped it back in badly."
I clenched my jaw.
"Again."
He stepped in and struck my shoulder with the heel of his palm.
The joint screamed and then—
click.
Something slid into place.
I staggered, biting back a sound, sweat breaking out across my back. The pain changed immediately—sharper for a second, then cleaner. Still bad. But aligned.
"Better," he said. "You won't favor it as much now."
I hated that he was right.
He stepped back and stripped off his jacket, tossing it aside. Underneath, his arms were thick with old scars—long white lines, puckered marks, burns. The body of someone who'd been cut apart and put back together too many times.
"Today," he said, "we see how you respond when your body is already failing."
My stomach tightened.
He raised a finger.
"Activate your eyes."
I did.
The Sharingan flared, the familiar pressure blooming behind my eyes. The room sharpened instantly—the flicker of flame, the way dust motes drifted lazily in the air, the subtle shift in his stance as he prepared to move.
"Good," he said. "Now keep them on."
He came at me.
---
He didn't attack fast.
That was the worst part.
Each step was deliberate. Each movement measured. He let me see everything—the angle of his shoulders, the way his hips turned before a strike, the tension in his calves before he shifted weight.
He wanted me to anticipate.
I struck first.
A straight punch to the chest, putting everything I had into it. My knuckles sank into muscle. It felt like hitting packed earth. The force traveled back up my arm and rattled my teeth.
He barely moved.
His counter was immediate.
A short hook to my ribs. No wind-up. Just impact.
Air exploded out of me. I folded instinctively, spine curving, vision tunneling. Before I could recover, his knee drove into my thigh.
My leg buckled.
I caught myself on one knee, gasping, saliva stringing from my lips. My ears rang. The world pulsed in and out with my heartbeat.
"Too much power," he said. "No intent."
He kicked me.
Not hard enough to break anything. Hard enough to knock me flat on my back.
Stone slammed into my spine.
I lay there, chest heaving, eyes locked on the ceiling.
"Up."
I rolled, pushed, stood.
My legs shook.
This time, I didn't strike.
I waited.
He moved in again, faster now. His fist shot toward my face. I leaned back, barely enough, feeling the rush of air brush my nose. My counter came low, palm driving toward his stomach.
He deflected it easily, redirecting my arm and stepping inside my reach. His shoulder slammed into my chest and drove me backward. The wall caught me hard.
My breath left me in a ragged gasp.
Before I could slide down, his forearm pressed against my throat.
Not choking.
Pinning.
I felt the pressure against my windpipe, just enough that every breath whistled painfully. My hands came up instinctively, fingers digging into his arm. His skin was rough, warm.
"Look at me," he said.
I forced my eyes to focus on his face.
"What do you see?" he asked.
The Sharingan showed me everything—micro-movements, muscle tension, the exact angle where his balance rested. The places where he was strong. The places where he was not.
"Your center is forward," I rasped. "Your left foot is light."
He released me and stepped back.
I slid down the wall and sucked in air greedily, lungs burning.
"Good," he said. "Then why didn't you take it?"
I didn't answer.
Because I'd been afraid. Because the pain was louder than the information. Because a part of me still hesitated to commit.
He didn't wait.
He attacked again.
This time I moved sideways instead of back. His strike skimmed past me. I stepped into his space and slammed my elbow toward his ribs, rotating my hips the way he'd shown me yesterday.
Impact.
Real this time.
He grunted.
I followed immediately, driving my knee upward.
He blocked it with his thigh, muscles tensing like iron cables. The shock traveled through my leg and made my teeth clack together. He countered with a short punch to my shoulder—the bad one.
White-hot pain exploded.
I cried out before I could stop myself.
He didn't let up.
Strike after strike, not full force but relentless—ribs, thigh, shoulder, stomach. Each hit landed with precision, compounding the damage, taking something small away each time.
Breath. Balance. Strength.
I retreated instinctively, back hitting the wall again.
"Stop backing up," he said sharply. "You give ground, you lose control."
He stepped in and grabbed my collar, yanking me forward. His knee drove up into my stomach.
Once.
Twice.
On the third, I twisted.
The knee glanced off my hip instead of my gut. I latched onto his leg, shoulder screaming as I put weight on it, and shoved sideways.
He stumbled.
Just a fraction.
That fraction mattered.
I surged forward, ramming my shoulder into his chest and driving him back instead. We hit the opposite wall hard. The impact rattled my skull. I felt his breath leave him in a sharp exhale.
I didn't stop.
I drove my forearm into his throat—not pinning this time, striking. He jerked back, coughing, hands coming up instinctively.
I struck his knee.
Hard.
He went down on one leg.
I was on him immediately, knee slamming into his chest, hands closing around his throat.
For a heartbeat, the room went very quiet.
I could feel his pulse under my fingers. Strong. Steady. I knew exactly how much pressure it would take. The Sharingan showed me the angle, the resistance, the moment where cartilage would fail.
My hands trembled.
He looked up at me.
Not angry.
Not afraid.
Expectant.
"Do it," he said hoarsely.
My chest felt tight. My ears rang. Sweat dripped from my chin onto his jacket.
I didn't.
I released him and rolled away, gasping.
He laughed.
A short, sharp sound.
"Good," he said, climbing to his feet. "That's restraint."
He paused, then added, "And fear."
I stayed on the floor, chest heaving, staring at the ceiling again.
"How do I know the difference?" I asked.
He wiped blood from his throat with the back of his hand.
"When you stop asking," he said.
---
They didn't let me rest long.
An hour, maybe. Enough time for my muscles to stiffen and my bruises to settle into something deeper.
Then they brought weapons.
Wooden at first.
Bokken.
He tossed one at my feet. I picked it up with my good hand, testing the weight. The grip was rough, worn smooth by countless hands.
"Stances," he said.
We moved slowly at first. Step. Turn. Guard. He corrected me with taps of the bokken—knuckles, ribs, thighs. Each mistake earned a sharp reminder.
"Too wide."
Tap.
"Too high."
Tap.
"Stop watching the weapon. Watch the body."
Tap.
Sweat soaked my clothes. My arms burned. My grip slipped as my hands cramped.
Then he sped up.
The bokken cracked against mine again and again, vibrations rattling up my arms. He pressed relentlessly, forcing me back, cutting angles, punishing hesitation.
I missed a block.
The wooden blade slammed into my ribs hard enough to make me grunt. I adjusted too slowly after.
The next strike caught my shoulder.
Pain flared.
I growled and swung wildly.
He disarmed me in one smooth motion. The bokken went skittering across the floor. His foot swept my legs out from under me and I hit the ground hard.
He planted the tip of the wooden blade against my throat.
"Dead," he said.
He stepped back and kicked the weapon toward me.
"Again."
By the time they finally stopped, my hands were bleeding from splinters and friction. My arms shook uncontrollably. My vision pulsed at the edges, Sharingan burning like hot coals behind my eyes.
I collapsed where I stood.
The stone floor felt almost warm now.
As the door closed and footsteps faded, I lay there staring at my hands.
They were trembling.
But when I imagined the next strike—how to angle it, where to place my weight—the shaking slowed.
I understood something then.
My body was learning faster than my mind.
And once it finished learning—
There would be no going back.