The old dojo door creaked open, its hinges groaning like a warning.
Andrew stepped inside, his voice steady despite the tightness in his chest.
"Uncle… I'm ready for training."
The dojo answered with silence.
Dust drifted through the air, caught in thin beams of morning light. The wooden floor bore countless scars—scratches, dents, darkened patches where sweat and effort had soaked in long ago.
At the center of the room stood Ryo.
His arms were folded, posture relaxed, but his eyes were sharp—alert in a way that made Andrew feel like every movement was being measured.
"Come in," Ryo said.
Andrew took a slow breath and stepped forward. The floor felt cold beneath his feet, grounding him. The moment he crossed fully inside, the air changed—heavier, denser, as if the dojo itself were watching.
Ryo studied him for a long moment.
"Before we begin real training," Ryo said calmly, "we fight."
Andrew stiffened.
"F-fight?"
Ryo nodded once.
"A match," he clarified. "I need to see what kind of foundation you're standing on."
Andrew's throat tightened. His instincts screamed at him to hesitate—but he clenched his fists instead, nails pressing into his palms.
"…Okay," he said.
Ryo stepped back, rolling his shoulders once before settling into a loose stance. He didn't look aggressive. If anything, he looked bored.
"No techniques," Ryo said. "No power. No thinking."
His gaze locked onto Andrew's.
"Just instinct," he finished.
"Come at me."
Andrew stepped onto the worn fighting mat, its surface rough beneath his bare feet. He planted them carefully, feeling the uneven fibers, grounding himself. His shoulders loosened. His breathing slowed.
Across from him, Ryo stood relaxed—almost casual—but Andrew could feel the pressure in the air.
He lifted his gaze.
"Uncle," Andrew said, voice steady despite the pounding in his chest, "you attack first."
For a brief moment, Ryo's eyes widened.
"…Interesting," he murmured.
Then a slow, knowing smile curved across his face.
"If that's what you want," Ryo said.
He moved.
There was no warning—no shift in stance, no buildup. One moment Ryo stood still, the next he had crossed the distance in a single step. His foot snapped forward, a sharp front kick aimed straight at Andrew's chest.
Fast.
Clean.
Precise.
Andrew's breath caught.
But his body moved before his thoughts could catch up.
He raised both arms, forearms slamming together as his hands locked around Ryo's ankle. The impact hit like a hammer, rattling through his bones and shooting up his arms. His feet slid back half a step, mat fibers burning against his soles—but he held.
The dojo went silent.
Ryo slowly withdrew his leg and stepped back, eyes fixed on Andrew as if seeing him for the first time.
"Tell me something," Ryo said calmly.
"If you've never fought before… how did you stop that kick?"
Andrew released his grip. His hands trembled now that the moment had passed, fingers tingling from the shock.
"I didn't know I could," he admitted quietly.
"But… last summer, I trained in self-defense."
Ryo raised an eyebrow.
"With who?"
"A friend," Andrew replied. "She's in my school's karate club. I watched at first. Learned footwork. Blocking. Balance."
He hesitated.
"Eventually, she started teaching me."
Ryo nodded slowly, absorbing the answer.
"So that's it," he murmured. "Your body remembers what your mind doubts."
Andrew stared at his hands again, flexing his fingers.
"I was scared back then," he said. "I didn't want to fight. I just wanted to stop running."
He swallowed.
"So I trained enough to protect myself… not enough to hurt anyone."
Ryo's lips curved into a faint, approving smile.
"That explains a lot."
He stepped back into position, his posture shifting—lighter, sharper, more deliberate. The air around him felt different now. Focused.
"Good," Ryo said.
"Then we don't start from zero."
His eyes locked onto Andrew's.
"We start from truth."
Andrew straightened, shoulders squared, feet planted. The fear was still there—but it no longer ruled him. Something new settled into his bones.
Confidence.
The real training…
had officially begun.Ryo began to pace slowly across the dojo, his footsteps echoing softly against the aged wooden floor. Each step was deliberate, measured—like a ritual older than the building itself.
"Nature-based fighting styles," he said at last, "are no different from any other art."
Andrew stood still, eyes following him, ears straining to catch every word.
"They are born from observation," Ryo continued. "From watching how the world survives."
He gestured toward the cracked windows.
"The wind that never stops moving. The fire that destroys… yet gives birth to new life. The earth that endures every strike. The water that yields, adapts, and overwhelms."
He stopped directly in front of Andrew.
"Your style," Ryo said, voice firm and absolute, "is Phoenix."
Andrew's breath caught in his chest.
"The Phoenix Style is balance," Ryo explained. "Offense and defense. Destruction and protection. Power and restraint."
He raised his arms and moved—slowly at first. One arm flowed into a guarding position, elbow angled just enough to deflect. The other followed in a smooth, controlled strike, the motion circular rather than rigid.
There was no wasted movement. No hesitation.
"That balance," Ryo said, completing the motion, "is what makes it dangerous."
Andrew nodded, his gaze locked on every detail—stance, posture, breath.
"If you focus only on attack," Ryo went on, "you burn too bright and consume yourself."
He shifted his weight, stance tightening.
"If you focus only on defense, you survive… but you never rise."
He met Andrew's eyes.
"The Phoenix does both," he said. "It fights. It falls. And when the world believes it is finished…"
He stepped forward.
"It rises again—stronger."
Andrew clenched his fists, feeling the words settle somewhere deep in his chest. Memories flashed through him—fear, running, being pushed down.
Not anymore.
"That is why," Ryo finished, his voice low, "this style was forbidden."
He lowered his arms.
"Because those who mastered it could not be easily controlled. They could not be crushed. No matter how many times they were knocked down."
Silence filled the dojo.
Dust drifted through a beam of sunlight. The floor creaked faintly beneath Andrew's feet as he shifted his weight.
Something inside him settled—not excitement, not fear—but resolve.
For the first time, the path before him felt real.
And he knew—
this style was not about never falling.
It was about always rising.