Training

Doppo Orochi pov: I received the call one afternoon, in between training sessions at my dojo. The voice on the other end belonged to a refined-sounding man—polished, well-spoken, and obviously accustomed to getting what he wanted. He introduced himself as the assistant to a wealthy client, a woman with a significant reputation.

They wanted me to train their child.

At first, I dismissed it without a second thought. "I'm not in the business of babysitting," I said bluntly, the edge of a chuckle in my voice. "If she wants her kid to train under me, tell her to bring him here like everyone else."

The assistant didn't hesitate. "It's not that simple, Orochi-sensei. The child is only six months old."

I paused, eyebrows raising in surprise. Six months old? I had trained students of all ages, from wide-eyed beginners to seasoned fighters, but I had never heard a request like this before. I couldn't help but laugh at the absurdity of it. "A six-month-old? What am I supposed to do, teach him how to crawl properly?" I asked, a hint of sarcasm in my tone. "Let me guess—he's probably still in diapers and can't even walk."

But the assistant's voice remained steady. "He's not an ordinary child, Orochi-sensei. His name is Baki Hanma."

The dojo fell silent. I felt my expression harden, the amusement quickly fading as that name hung in the air. Baki Hanma. The son of Yuujiro Hanma—the "Strongest Creature on Earth." The man who embodied raw power and sheer dominance. I had fought many opponents in my life, faced numerous challenges, but there was no one quite like Yuujiro. The mere mention of his name stirred memories of our encounter; the thrill, the fear, and the unmistakable feeling of being dwarfed by something inhuman.

So, this child was his son.

The situation had changed. I leaned back against the wall, rubbing my chin thoughtfully. Training a six-month-old still sounded ridiculous, but if the child was Yuujiro's blood, there was a certain weight to the request that couldn't be ignored. Still, it was hard to picture myself trying to teach martial arts to a baby. The thought was almost comical.

I decided to humor them. "So, why exactly does she want me to train him? Surely a baby isn't getting into street fights already."

The assistant's tone shifted slightly, a note of urgency entering his voice. "The boy's mother, Emi Akezawa, believes that Baki is destined for greatness, and she wants to begin his training early. She mentioned your name specifically, as well as Gouki Shibukawa and Izou Motobe. She wants the best martial artists in Japan to oversee his development."

I let out a slow breath, the weight of the request sinking in. Emi Akezawa was serious. She was no fool if she had sought out people like Shibukawa and Motobe. She wasn't just looking for someone to give her kid a head start—she wanted Baki to be forged into a weapon, one capable of standing against even his own father someday. I couldn't deny that a certain curiosity stirred within me. Could a child that young really show signs of greatness?

I still wasn't sure how I felt about it. Part of me wanted to turn the offer down out of principle; after all, I had built my career and reputation training adults, true fighters who came seeking strength. But another part of me—the martial artist always striving for the perfect fist—couldn't help but wonder. If this child had even a fraction of Yuujiro's potential, what could he become under the right guidance?

There was a challenge here. One that didn't come in the form of an opponent in the ring, but rather a test of my own skills as a teacher and martial artist. Training Baki Hanma could be the ultimate opportunity to see if I could shape raw potential into something extraordinary, even at such a young age.

The assistant interrupted my thoughts. "Orochi-sensei, we're prepared to offer you any compensation you require, and the training will take place at the Hanma residence. The conditions will be tailored to your needs."

I waved a hand, dismissing the mention of money. "It's not about the compensation," I replied, my voice growing firm. "Tell Emi Akezawa that I'll come. I want to see this kid for myself. But understand this: if I don't see anything worth training, I'll leave. I don't care if he's Yuujiro Hanma's son or the Emperor of Japan."

The assistant agreed, and after a brief exchange of details, the call ended. I stood in the quiet dojo, my mind buzzing with anticipation and skepticism. I would see Baki Hanma soon enough, and then I would know whether this child was truly worthy of the effort—or if this was just another delusion from a mother driven by ambition.

As I turned my attention back to the dojo, a thought lingered. If Baki is anything like his father, this will be the most challenging student I've ever faced. And for the first time in a long while, I felt that familiar thrill of uncertainty—a chance to push beyond what I thought was possible, to pursue that lifelong journey toward the perfect fist.

Baki Pov

It had been a week since the incident with my father, and today was the day I was to meet my new trainers. I could hardly believe how quickly things had changed—one moment, I was lying in a hospital bed, still reeling from Yuujiro's overwhelming power, and the next, I was about to stand in front of some of Japan's most legendary martial artists. The anticipation stirred something in me, a mix of excitement and nervousness.

I was just a child—not even a year old—but I could feel that my life was accelerating, driven by the relentless pace set by my mother and the shadow of my father's expectations. Was I really ready for this?

Emi came to get me, her expression one of thinly veiled excitement. There was an intensity in her eyes that I had come to recognize whenever she spoke about my training. She wasn't just pleased—she was thrilled. This was the next step in her grand plan, and I was the central piece. As we walked down the hall toward the training room, I tried to steel myself. What kind of tests would they put me through? How would these legendary men react to a child as young as me?

The doors to the training room loomed ahead, and when we stepped inside, I could feel the shift in the air. There was a palpable tension, almost like an unspoken challenge that hung over the room. The three masters were standing apart from each other, each exuding a distinct aura of authority and power. It was as though they were silently sizing one another up, as if a fight could break out at any moment.

But the moment I stepped into the room, all three of them turned their focus toward me. Their eyes bore into me with an intensity that made me feel small, even though my body was already stronger than most adults. So, this is what it feels like to be scrutinized by legends.

I recognized them from the stories I'd heard and the research I'd done in my previous life: Doppo Orochi, the "Tiger Killer," whose sheer presence was like that of a veteran warrior who had seen countless battles; Gouki Shibukawa, the jujutsu master with eyes that seemed to see right through me, as if dissecting my strengths and weaknesses with a single glance; and Izou Motobe, the traditionalist who looked as though he could spring into action at any second, his stance firm yet relaxed.

Emi's voice broke the silence. "These are your new trainers, Baki," she said, her tone firm and full of pride. "They are the best martial artists in Japan, and you will learn from them." She looked at me, as if expecting a reaction, but my mind was still reeling from the sudden shift. This wasn't just training—this was a whole new world I was about to enter.

Doppo Orochi took a step forward, his expression skeptical as he looked down at me. "So, you're the one they've been talking about," he said, his voice gruff but not unkind. "Baki Hanma, huh? I've heard about your father." His eyes seemed to search mine for something—resolve, perhaps, or the faintest sign of the infamous Hanma spirit. "If you've got even half of his potential, this might actually be interesting."

I swallowed, trying to keep my composure. "I… I want to learn," I said, my voice coming out quieter than I intended. "I want to become strong." The words hung in the air, and I could feel the weight of their expectations pressing down on me. I was just a child—a mere six-month-old in their eyes—but I had to make them see that I was more than that. I had to prove that I was serious.

Gouki Shibukawa let out a small chuckle, a sound that seemed to resonate with a mix of amusement and disbelief. "Ha, a brat of six months wants to be strong," he said, his voice dripping with skepticism. He folded his arms, his gaze hardening as if trying to pierce through me, see beyond the child in front of him. "Tell me, boy, do you even know what it means to be strong?"

His words stung, but they also lit a fire in me. I could feel a surge of defiance rising up, a determination that seemed to come from somewhere deep inside—deeper than I thought possible for someone my age. It wasn't just pride; it was a kind of confidence that had been lying dormant, waiting for a moment like this. I didn't know if it came from this new life as Baki Hanma or if it was something that had been inside me all along, but it pushed me to step forward, to stand taller.

I met Shibukawa's gaze without flinching. "Teach me then," I said, my voice stronger than before. "All three of you. Train me, push me, and judge me after."

The room fell silent, and for a moment, I wondered if I had gone too far—if my words had come off as arrogant or naïve. I was, after all, asking three of the greatest martial artists in Japan to put their skills to the test on a child. But I could see something shift in Shibukawa's expression. The amusement was still there, but his eyes held a glint of interest. It was as if he hadn't expected me to respond so boldly.

Doppo Orochi's gruff voice broke the silence. "Well, the kid's got some guts," he said, his lips curling into a faint smile. "But guts alone won't make you strong. If you're serious about this, you'd better be prepared for the real thing. There won't be any special treatment just because you're young."

I nodded, my heartbeat quickening. "I don't want special treatment."

Izou Motobe, who had been quietly observing the exchange, finally spoke up. His voice was calm, but there was a sharp edge to his words. "You may not want special treatment, but you'll need to earn our respect first," he said. "Strength isn't just about physical power. It's about endurance, technique, and the will to keep moving forward even when your body is screaming at you to stop." He took a step forward, his eyes never leaving mine. "Show us that you're worth our time."

I felt my hands clench into fists at my sides. I could sense the challenge behind Motobe's words. He wasn't just testing me—he was setting the bar. If I was going to gain their respect, I had to prove that I was more than just a child with big ambitions. I had to show them that I was ready to suffer for it.

Emi watched silently from the side, a hint of pride in her eyes. I knew that, to her, this was a victory. I was already standing up to the masters, showing that I had the will to push myself. But I wasn't doing this for her approval. I was doing it for myself. To make sure I would never be helpless again—not like I was with Yuujiro.

Shibukawa gave a slight nod, as if coming to a decision. "Alright, brat," he said. "Let's see what you've got. We'll start with something simple." He raised a hand and motioned for me to come closer. "Try to hit me."

His challenge seemed almost dismissive, as if he expected me to fail before I even tried. But I took a deep breath and shifted into a basic fighting stance. I was aware that my form was imperfect, that my movements weren't refined like theirs, but I wasn't going to back down.

I launched myself at Shibukawa, my small fist cutting through the air. But before I could even register what had happened, he had sidestepped me effortlessly, his hand darting out to grab my wrist. In a fluid motion, he twisted and sent me sprawling to the floor, my back hitting the mat hard enough to knock the breath out of me.

I gasped, struggling to recover, but Shibukawa's voice reached me again, calm and almost teasing. "Strength without technique is nothing," he said. "You have to think before you move, anticipate before you act."

I pushed myself back up, refusing to stay down. "Again," I said, my voice shaky but determined.

This time, Shibukawa didn't wait for me to attack. He stepped forward and lashed out with a strike of his own, aiming for my torso. I reacted on instinct, trying to block, but his fist slipped through my guard with ease, and I found myself on the ground once more. It was humiliating, but I could see the purpose behind his attacks—he wasn't trying to hurt me; he was testing my instincts, seeing if I had any natural aptitude for combat.

Doppo crossed his arms and nodded in approval. "He's not giving up," he said, almost as if he were talking to himself. "That's a good start."

Izou Motobe's voice was more critical. "Not giving up isn't enough," he said. "He needs to learn quickly if he wants to survive."

Emi, still watching from the sidelines, spoke up for the first time since the training began. "He'll learn," she said confidently. "And he'll be stronger than all of you."

There was a moment of silence as the masters processed her words. Then, Shibukawa let out another chuckle. "He has a long way to go before that," he said. "But if he's willing to suffer, then we might just have something to work with."

I forced myself to my feet once more, my body aching but my resolve unwavering. This was the beginning—the first step toward a long and grueling path. I didn't know if I could ever be strong enough to face Yujiro, but I would make sure that I would never stop moving forward.

"Come at me again," Shibukawa said, his stance relaxed but ready. "And this time, think before you act."