The sun was barely peeking over the eastern mountains, painting the morning sky in vibrant streaks of orange and purple.
Ren stood at the base of the massive stone staircase leading up to the dojo, a thick wooden yoke balanced across his shoulders.
Hanging from each end of the yoke was a heavy, iron-banded wooden bucket filled to the absolute brim with freezing river water.
For a normal human, carrying nearly eighty pounds of water up thousands of uneven stone steps was an act of extreme physical torture.
For Ren, with a Power Level of 61, the weight was completely negligible.
He could have balanced a compact car on his shoulders without his knees buckling.
But the physical weight was not the challenge.
“Start climbing,” Bang’s voice echoed in his memory from the briefing the old man had given him thirty minutes ago.
“If you spill a single drop before you reach the courtyard basins, you will return to the river and start again.”
Ren took his first step.
He moved quickly, his dense leg muscles propelling him up the stairs with explosive, efficient force.
But the moment his foot slammed against the stone, the kinetic shockwave traveled up his spine, into the yoke, and violently shook the buckets.
Water sloshed over the edges, splashing loudly onto the steps.
Ren froze, gritting his teeth.
“Damn it.”
He didn’t have to carry the half-empty buckets to the top.
He turned around, walked back down to the riverbank, and refilled them.
His second attempt was slower.
He deliberately muted his own strength, placing his feet with careful hesitation.
But the Saiyan biology was inherently coiled, built for explosive, jagged bursts of violence.
When he shifted his weight to climb the next step, his hips snapped with too much torque.
The water rocked violently, spilling over the iron rims once again.
Ren let out a heavy sigh, the cold morning air pluming from his mouth.
It was maddening.
He had fought a massive subterranean spider and shattered a biological tank, yet he was being completely defeated by a bucket of water.
“You move like a frightened deer, rookie.”
Ren looked up.
Standing a few dozen steps above him, leaning casually against a bamboo stalk, was a young man wearing a crisp, white martial arts gi.
He had a prominent, slightly goofy face, and his blonde hair was tied in a small, ridiculous topknot.
“Who are you?” Ren asked, keeping his voice polite.
The young man puffed out his chest, placing his hands on his hips.
“I am Charanko!
The number one disciple of the Silver Fang dojo!”
Ren blinked.
Ah.
Charanko.
He remembered him from the manga.
Ren activated his scouter system anyways to see his power level.
The digital overlay flickered and instantly locked in.
[Charanko]
[Power Level: 9]
Ren had to bite the inside of his cheek to suppress a laugh.
Nine.
He was barely stronger than the average civilian.
He wouldn’t even qualify for the physical standards of the C-Class Hero Exam.
“Number one disciple?” Ren asked, “Are there others?”
Charanko’s arrogant posture faltered for a fraction of a second, a shadow of deep insecurity crossing his face before he forced the bravado back up.
“I am the only one left who possesses the true spirit of the martial arts!” Charanko declared loudly, pointing a finger at Ren.
“The others lacked the iron will required to survive Master Bang’s teachings!
So if you think you can just walk in here and take my spot, you have another thing coming, janitor!”
Ren of course knew the truth.
Vaguely.
The others hadn’t lacked iron will; they had been violently hospitalized by Garou.
Charanko had either hidden, survived by pure luck, or stubbornly refused to quit even after being beaten to a pulp.
Despite his abysmal Power Level, the kid had heart.
“I’m not trying to take your spot, Charanko-senpai,” Ren said, respectfully attaching the honorific.
“I’m just trying to learn.”
Charanko looked taken aback by the immediate display of respect.
He coughed into his fist, awkwardly adjusting his belt.
“A-Ahem.
Well, good.
Just remember the hierarchy.
And you’re doing it wrong, by the way.
You’re fighting the water.
You have to carry it like it’s a part of you.”
Charanko turned and walked back up the stairs, completely failing to elaborate on his cryptic advice.
Ren stared at the rippling surface of the water in the buckets.
“Carry it like it’s a part of me,” Ren murmured.
He closed his eyes.
The physical approach wasn’t working.
If he relied purely on his muscles, his Saiyan instincts would always prioritize explosive tension over fluid balance.
He had to use the internal spark.
Ren took a deep breath, reaching into the center of his stomach.
The pressurized heat was there.
He pulled it up, but instead of forcing it into a concentrated, armor-piercing point in his fist, he spread it out.
He circulated the Ki through his entire body – down his legs, up his spine, and across his shoulders.
He used the spiritual energy as an internal gyroscope, a flowing current that constantly stabilized his shifting center of gravity.
A faint, nearly invisible heat haze radiated from his skin.
Ren opened his eyes and took a step.
His foot touched the stone.
The impact was entirely absorbed by the flowing current of Ki inside him, spreading the kinetic shockwave evenly across his entire frame before it could reach the wooden yoke.
The water in the buckets barely vibrated.
Ren took another step.
Then another.
He began to climb the mountain.
He didn’t walk; he glided.
His heavy combat boots touched the ancient stone steps with the silence of a falling leaf.
The furious, jagged tension of his alien biology was temporarily suppressed, overridden by the continuous, unbroken flow of the energy circulating through his veins.
Thirty minutes later, Ren crested the final step and walked into the dojo courtyard.
Bang was sitting on the veranda, eyes closed, seemingly meditating in the morning sun.
Charanko was in the center of the white gravel, aggressively performing a series of punches and kicks that looked horribly unrefined to Ren’s enhanced eyes.
Ren walked past Charanko, heading straight for the massive stone basins lining the edge of the courtyard.
He tilted his shoulders, letting the yoke dip, and poured the buckets into the basin.
The water cascaded smoothly, entirely full.
He hadn’t spilled a single drop.
Bang opened one eye.
The old master didn’t say a word.
He simply reached out and picked up a long, bamboo broom resting against the wall.
He tossed it through the air.
Ren caught the broom smoothly with one hand, letting the kinetic energy of the catch ripple through his body and dissipate into the gravel beneath his boots.
“The courtyard needs sweeping,” Bang said softly, taking a sip of his tea.
“Sweep exactly as I showed you yesterday.”
“Yes, Master,” Ren bowed.
He stepped into the gravel.
Sweeping wasn’t about cleaning; it was about footwork.
Bang had demonstrated the motion once the day before, and Ren had used his 61-point processing speed to memorize every microscopic shift of the old man’s hips and ankles.
Ren began to sweep.
He fell into the stance, his knees bent slightly.
Push, circle, pull.
Step, pivot, flow.
As he moved across the courtyard, the continuous circulation of Ki inside his body began to naturally synchronize with the physical movements.
The sweeping motion wasn’t rigid.
It was continuous.
The water stream.
Up on the veranda, Bang lowered his teacup.
The old master’s piercing blue eyes were locked onto Ren.
To Charanko, Ren just looked like a janitor doing a decent job cleaning the gravel.
But to an S-Class grandmaster, the truth was blindingly obvious.
Bang saw the subtle, almost imperceptible heat haze radiating from the young man’s frame.
He saw the terrifyingly dense musculature moving with a sudden, localized fluidity.
He is cultivating his internal energy, Bang thought, deeply astounded.
He arrived as a crude, jagged rock.
Yet in a single day, simply by carrying water and sweeping stones, he is unconsciously teaching himself the fundamental breathing rhythm of the Water Stream.
Bang closed his eyes, a heavy wave of nostalgia washing over him.
The last time he had seen a raw talent adapt to the flow this quickly, the boy had been a prodigy with wild, spiky silver hair.
Garou…
Bang thought, his heart aching.
“Charanko!” Bang barked suddenly, his raspy voice echoing through the courtyard.
Charanko froze mid-kick, stumbling slightly before standing at attention.
“Yes, Master!”
“Your form is sloppy.
Your hips are stiff,” Bang scolded gently.
“Watch Ren.
Watch how he anchors his center of gravity before he commits to the sweep.
You might learn something.”
Charanko looked at Ren, his jaw dropping in absolute indignation.
“Watch the janitor?!
But Master, I’ve been here for months!”
“Time spent doing something incorrectly is just time wasted, my boy,” Bang replied, returning to his tea.
Ren continued sweeping, keeping his head down and his face perfectly neutral.
But inside, his heart was soaring.
He was feeling the flow.
The massive well of raw power granted by his Saiyan bloodline was finally being placed under a harness.
The efficiency of his power was multiplying.
The true martial arts journey had begun.