Chapter 8: Welcome to Hell

My alarm screams. I'm already awake. I've been staring at the ceiling for an hour, my ribs aching, my shoulder throbbing from where she grabbed me.

Is this a trap?

I'm betting... yeah. 50/50. Either she's going to train me, or her 'security' is going to tie me in a sack and drop me in Tokyo Bay.

...I'm still going.

I pull on a-t-shirt and some old sweatpants, grab a towel and a spare shirt like she said, and head out into the pre-dawn cold.

The location pin is in the middle of nowhere. A part of the city full of abandoned warehouses and rusty fences. I finally find the place. It's an old dojo, just like the map said. The wood is rotting, and the windows are papered over.

It looks completely dead.

I slide the heavy wooden door open. The hinges creak so loud it sounds like a scream.

It's dark inside. The only light is from the rising sun filtering through the dusty, broken windows. The air smells like old wood, sweat, and... something else. Something clean.

"You're late."

I jump. My heart almost punches through my (already broken) ribs.

Ayako Katsumi is standing in the center of the vast, matted floor.

She's not in her uniform.

She's wearing a simple black, sleeveless training top and loose-fitting black hakama pants tied at the ankles. Her long, beautiful hair is tied back in a high, severe ponytail.

She looks... She looks terrifying.

The school-goddess-mask is completely gone. There's no politeness, no distant calm. Her eyes are flat, dark, and hard as stone. This isn't Ayako Katsumi, Class President. This is someone else.

"I'm... five minutes early," I say, my voice embarrassingly shaky.

"5:55 AM is 'on time'. 6:00 AM is 'late'. 5:50 AM is 'early'. You are on time. Just barely."

She motions to the floor. "Put your bag down. Warm up. You have two minutes."

"Warm up? We're just...?"

"Do not waste my time with questions."

Her voice is so cold it makes my skin prickle.

I drop my bag and start stretching my arms, my shoulder screaming in protest. "Look, my ribs are still—"

"I am aware of your injuries." She picks up a long, smooth wooden staff—a bo—from a rack on the wall. "They are a result of your own incompetence. You will learn to fight around your weaknesses, not complain about them."

She steps onto the mat. "Two minutes are up. Attack me."

I blink. "What? With that thing? You're insane."

"Attack me, Minatawa-kun. Or I will end this session, and you can go back to being beaten up by street trash."

My blood boils. That old, familiar anger surges up. "Fine!"

I charge her.

I'm fast. I'm strong. I throw my "predictable" right hook, just to spite her.

She doesn't move.

At the last second, she pivots. The bo staff moves like a blur. It's not a big swing. It's a tap.

WHACK.

It connects with my injured ribs.

Pain explodes through my entire body. It's so intense, so sharp, my vision goes white. I collapse to my knees, gagging, all the air forced out of my lungs.

"You are angry," she states, her voice bored. She's just standing there, staff resting on her shoulder. "Your anger makes you sloppy. You attack the obvious target with the obvious move. Your opponent knows exactly what you will do before you do."

I'm still on the floor, trying to breathe. "You... you hit my broken ribs..."

"Yes. It was your most obvious weak point. I attacked it. Your opponent will do the same."

She pokes me in the shoulder with the staff. "Get up."

I stagger to my feet, my whole body shaking. I'm furious now. "You crazy—"

I lunge again, this time leading with my left, trying to be "unpredictable."

WHACK.

This time, the staff hits the back of my knee. My leg buckles, and I go down. Hard.

"You are off balance. Your footwork is nonexistent. You are just... falling forward and hoping you connect."

"Shut up!" I roar, sweeping my leg out to try and trip her.

She just... steps over it. Effortlessly.

THWACK.

The staff connects with my collarbone. I yell out and fall back.

This goes on for... I don't know. An hour? It feels like a lifetime.

I don't land a single hit. Not one. I don't even touch her.

She's not even trying. She's not even sweating. She's just... dismantling me.

She hits my ribs. My knees. My elbows. My shoulders. She's not hitting me hard enough to break anything new, but just hard enough to make every single part of my body scream in agony.

Finally, I'm just lying on the mat, a useless, gasping heap of bruises. I can't get up. I can't even move.

She stands over me, ponytail still perfect, not even breathing hard.

"This is you, Minatawa-kun," she says, her voice quiet. "This is your 'strength'. You are a brawler. You win against amateurs because you have a high tolerance for pain and you are too stubborn to fall."

She taps the staff on the floor next to my head. "Against a professional? Against someone who knows how to fight? You are a toy. You are nothing."

I just lie there, defeated. She's right.

She's absolutely, 100% right.

She walks over to a corner and puts the bo staff back on the rack. She grabs a water bottle and takes a small, delicate sip.

Then she looks at me.

"Get up," she commands.

"I can't," I wheeze.

"I did not say 'you may'. I said 'get up'."

Somehow, my muscles obey. I roll over, pushing myself up with shaking arms. It takes a full minute, but I get to my feet. I'm swaying, my vision blurry.

"You're a monster," I gasp out.

"I am a realist," she counters. "You are a 'tiger in a cage,' remember? The problem is, you've never met a real tiger. Now you have."

She picks up her bag. "You used your towel and change of clothes, I assume?"

I look down. I'm drenched in sweat. My shirt is clinging to me. "...Yeah."

"Good. Be here tomorrow. 6 AM."

She starts to walk out.

"Wait... tomorrow?" I call out, my voice full of disbelief. "Tomorrow's Sunday!"

She pauses at the door, the morning light framing her.

"Yes," she says, not even looking back. "Welcome to your new life, Minatawa-kun. Hell has just begun."

The door slides shut, leaving me alone in the dusty, quiet dojo, my entire body a symphony of pain.

And I find myself... smiling.