A full month had passed since Ren first walked through the wooden gates of the Silver Fang dojo.
The routine was brutal, monotonous, and completely devoid of any direct martial arts instruction.
Every morning before dawn, Ren carried water up the mountain.
He chopped massive piles of firewood using a rusted, severely dulled axe.
He swept the vast white gravel of the courtyard until his hands developed thick, permanent calluses.
And throughout every single task, he focused entirely on the flow.
He kept the spark of Ki in his stomach ignited at all times, circulating it continuously through his limbs to stabilize his center of gravity.
He stopped fighting the physical weight of his chores and started moving with them, allowing the kinetic energy to pass through him like water over a smooth stone.
His Power Level did not increase much, rising up to 62 from the sheer, continuous conditioning of his dense muscles, but his true growth was entirely invisible to the scanner.
“Haa!
Hya!
Take that!”
Ren paused his sweeping, leaning casually against the bamboo handle of his broom.
In the center of the courtyard, Charanko was aggressively striking a wooden training dummy.
The young man was drenched in sweat, his face red with exertion as he threw a flurry of rapid, disjointed punches.
Ren watched quietly, his ocular system confirming what he already knew.
Charanko’s Power Level remained at a stagnant 9.
He had heart, and he clearly practiced for hours every day, but his body lacked the foundational density required to generate true destructive force.
Worse, his movements were rigid, powered by frustration rather than technique.
Up on the veranda, Bang sat with his ever-present cup of green tea, his eyes half-closed.
“Charanko,” Bang said, his voice cutting through the crisp morning air.
“You are striking the wood as if it insulted your ancestors.
Anger makes the muscles rigid.
Rigidity shatters bone.
You must flow around the impact.”
Charanko stopped, panting heavily, and wiped his forehead with the sleeve of his gi.
“But Master!
If I don’t hit it with everything I have, how am I supposed to damage a monster?”
“By using the monster’s own strength against it,” Bang replied simply.
The old master took a slow sip of his tea and opened his eyes, shifting his gaze toward Ren.
“Ren.
Put the broom down.”
Ren immediately complied, resting the broom against the wooden pillars of the main hall.
He stepped onto the gravel, his hands at his sides.
“Charanko,” Bang commanded.
“Spar with the janitor.”
Both young men froze.
Charanko looked at Ren, his eyes widening in a mix of indignation and sudden nervousness.
“Master?
You want me, the top disciple, to spar with the guy who cleans the koi ponds?”
“I do,” Bang said smoothly.
He looked directly into Ren’s eyes, his piercing blue gaze carrying an unspoken, terrifying warning.
“And Ren.
You are to defend yourself only.
You will not throw a single strike.
You will not counter.
If you break a single bone in Charanko’s body, or leave a single bruise on his skin, I will throw you off this mountain myself.
Understood?”
Ren swallowed dryly.
“Understood, Master Bang.”
It was a trap.
Bang wasn’t testing Charanko; he was testing Ren.
The old master had sensed the terrifying, coiled power hidden beneath Ren’s humble janitor facade.
He wanted to see if the wild beast could actually be tamed.
Ren stepped into the center of the courtyard, facing the top disciple.
He didn’t drop into a traditional fighting stance.
He simply stood with his feet shoulder-width apart, exactly the posture he used before sweeping the gravel.
He closed his eyes for a fraction of a second, digging deep into his stomach.
He ignited the Ki, spreading the flowing heat through his chest, down his arms, and into his legs.
“I won’t hold it against you if you want to back out, rookie,” Charanko said, raising his fists and bouncing on his toes.
“I’ve been training under Master Bang for a long time.
I don’t want to hurt you.”
“I’m ready, Charanko-senpai,” Ren replied evenly.
Charanko let out a loud battle cry and charged.
To Ren, with a processing speed associated with a Power Level of 62, Charanko’s sprint looked like it was happening in slow motion.
He could see the exact angle of Charanko’s shoulders, the telegraphing of his hips, and the uneven distribution of his weight.
Charanko threw a heavy, looping right hook aimed squarely at Ren’s jaw.
Ren’s Saiyan biology instantly violently reacted.
The alien DNA in his blood recognized an incoming attack and screamed for dominance.
His muscles instinctively coiled tight like braided steel, demanding that he duck beneath the clumsy punch and drive his fist straight through Charanko’s ribs.
It was a feral, predatory reflex built to annihilate weakness.
Ren had to actively fight his own body to suppress the counterattack.
He unclenched his jaw, forced his muscles to relax, and called upon the endless sweeping of the courtyard.
Push, circle, pull.
Ren didn’t block.
As Charanko’s fist closed in, Ren raised his left hand and gently caught the outside of Charanko’s wrist.
Ren didn’t grip the wrist.
He simply used his palm as a guiding surface.
He stepped back with his right foot, pivoting his hips exactly as he did when sweeping a heavy pile of gravel, and guided Charanko’s arm in a wide, circular motion downward.
The kinetic force of Charanko’s own punch dragged the young man forward.
With nothing but empty air to hit, and his momentum completely hijacked, Charanko stumbled wildly past Ren and crashed face-first into the white gravel.
Silence fell over the courtyard.
Charanko groaned, spitting a mouthful of dust, and scrambled back to his feet.
His face was entirely flushed with embarrassment.
“Lucky catch!” Charanko yelled, dropping back into his stance.
“Let’s see you do that again!”
Charanko rushed in, this time unleashing a rapid flurry of straight punches and low kicks.
Ren stood his ground, the Ki flowing continuously through his veins, acting as a hyper-sensitive radar.
He didn’t look at Charanko’s fists; he looked at the center of the boy’s chest, tracking his core balance.
Every time Charanko threw a strike, Ren’s hands moved with a fluid, mesmerizing grace.
He brushed a punch to the left, letting it sail past his ear.
He hooked his ankle around Charanko’s sweeping kick, absorbing the momentum and gently setting the boy’s foot back down on the ground.
It was agonizing.
Every single parry required Ren to manually throttle his raw strength from a 62 down to Charanko’s level.
If he miscalculated his applied force by a single millimeter, he would accidentally snap Charanko’s arm in half like a dry twig.
Sweat began to pour down Ren’s face, not from physical exertion, but from the immense, suffocating psychological strain of pure restraint.
“Stand still!” Charanko roared, completely winded, throwing a desperate, flying knee toward Ren’s chest.
Ren didn’t step back.
He stepped in.
He placed both of his palms flat against Charanko’s airborne knee.
He didn’t push.
He simply acted as a ramp.
He guided the upward momentum of the knee over his own shoulder, effortlessly flipping Charanko upside down in mid-air.
Ren then gently caught the collar of Charanko’s gi, guiding his fall so the boy landed flat on his back in the gravel without any damaging impact.
Charanko lay there, staring up at the sky, his chest heaving violently.
He was completely out of breath, entirely exhausted by his own misdirected energy.
Ren took two steps back, his own breathing heavy, his hands trembling slightly as he forced his Saiyan instincts to finally stand down.
Up on the veranda, Bang set his empty teacup down.
The sharp clink of the porcelain against the wood echoed through the quiet courtyard.
“Enough,” Bang announced, slowly standing up.
Charanko pushed himself up to a sitting position, hanging his head in absolute defeat.
“I’m sorry, Master.
I…
I couldn’t even touch him.”
“There is no shame in being outmaneuvered, Charanko,” Bang said gently, walking down the wooden steps.
“You lack the physical foundation, but your spirit remained unbroken until your stamina failed.
Go inside and rest.”
Charanko nodded weakly, picking himself up and trudging toward the student barracks, casting one final, bewildered look at the janitor who had just dismantled him without throwing a single punch.
Once Charanko disappeared behind the sliding paper doors, Bang stopped a few feet away from Ren.
The old master’s face was completely unreadable.
“You were sweating,” Bang observed calmly.
“He was striking you with the force of a gentle breeze, yet you look as though you were holding up a collapsing building.”
Ren wiped his forehead with the back of his hand.
“I was fighting myself, Master.
My instincts…
they wanted to destroy him.”
Bang nodded slowly, a profound understanding in his eyes.
“Power without discipline is a curse,” Bang said, his voice dropping into a solemn register.
“It turns men into monsters.
I have seen it happen to the most gifted prodigy this dojo has ever known.
He allowed the beast inside him to take the reins.”
Ren knew exactly who Bang was talking about.
Garou.
“I will not let that happen to me,” Ren said, his voice hard with conviction.
“I will control it.”
Bang looked at Ren’s calloused hands, noting the perfect, unbroken flow of unseen energy still radiating from the young man’s stance.
The old master let out a quiet sigh, finally making his decision.
“The sweeping is done, Ren,” Bang said.
Ren’s heart stopped.
Had he failed?
Had Bang seen too much of the feral beast inside him?
Bang turned his back, walking slowly toward the center of the courtyard.
“Go to the supply closet in the western hall,” Bang commanded over his shoulder.
“You will find a clean white gi on the second shelf.
Put it on, and return here.
We begin the first kata of the Water Stream Rock Smashing Fist before noon.”
Ren stood completely frozen for a second, the words echoing in his mind.
A massive, genuine smile broke across his face.
He bowed so deeply his forehead nearly touched the white gravel.
“Yes, Master Bang!” Ren shouted.
The janitor days were officially over.
He had proven his restraint.
He had earned his place.
The true preparation for the apocalypse was about to begin.