The sun was barely up when training began.

Takeru stood at the edge of the field, wooden bokken in hand, his posture rigid and commanding.

“Wooden swords only,” he reminded sharply. “Real blades are for real fights. Today, we master control.”

Chiaki swung first—too fast, too wild. Hyunjin’s voice cut through the air.

“Chiaki! Strength without control is useless. Slow down, focus.”

Chiaki swallowed his frustration and nodded.

Takeru paced the line, eyes never missing a detail.

“Ryunosuke, your footwork is stiff. Flow with your strikes.”

“Mako, your timing is off. Kotoha, your guard drops too quickly.”

Then, finally, Takeru’s gaze settled on you.

“Your stance is sloppy. Fix your footing. Balance is everything.”

You adjusted your feet, biting back the sting of his critique.

The sparring resumed—wood against wood, echoing sharply through the quiet morning.

Takeru's attacks were swift but calculated, forcing you to respond with equal precision.

After what felt like hours, he stepped back, voice firm.

“Enough. Rest.”

No smiles, no praise—just the weight of expectation.

You wiped sweat from your brow, heart pounding.

This was more than training. It was discipline. And under Takeru’s watchful eye, there was no room for weakness.