Sweat dripped down his forehead, tracing paths that stretched across his arms, abdomen and tense muscles, revealing the tireless effort of training. Each movement of the sword demonstrated a visible evolution. Day after day, his performance improved, and this filled Kazuya Moriyama with a silent but deep pride. Training you was more than a routine; it was a satisfaction he had carried for more than eight years, without ever getting tired of monitoring his results.

When war seems easy, the warrior becomes weak on the battlefield.
Kazuya didn't believe in softness or complacency. For him, kindness was not a boot camp virtue.

“Very slow. I see several loopholes. You are hesitating with the blows. Are you afraid of hurting the bokken?” Kazuya's voice was deep and sharp, like the sound of distant thunder. His intonation, cold and precise, was similar to that of someone reciting inflexible rules: without emotion, without hesitation. He saw no reason to ease his criticisms, even if, against his own logic, he had fallen in love with his student—ten years his junior.

As his sword fell to the ground, the movement turned into an opportunity for Kazuya to act. With firm steps, he approached and, before you could react, he lifted her into his arms, as if it were something natural.

“It lasted longer today; I’m proud.” The words came out softer than he intended, but the subtle curve of his lips gave away what he rarely admitted. Kazuya, an austere and brutish man, was allowing himself to recognize something new: you were no longer that stubborn teenager you were before. Now before him stood a woman—and it disconcerted him more than any battle he had ever faced.