Training2

It had been a month since my training began. One month of being thrown, twisted, bruised, and exhausted. One month of grueling sessions that would have broken most adults, let alone a six-month-old infant. But this wasn't an ordinary world, and I wasn't just any child—I was Baki Hanma, and I had no choice but to endure.

The training was brutal, but I adapted quickly. It was as if my body responded to every challenge with a kind of innate understanding, a muscle memory that guided me through the techniques. Maybe it was "Baki logic" at work—where things that defy the rules of nature somehow made perfect sense in this world—or maybe it was because I had access to the best of everything: nutritionists, trainers, and resources beyond anything I could have imagined. Either way, my strength had increased far beyond what anyone would expect from someone my age. My muscles were more defined, my reflexes sharper, and my movements had gained a fluidity that hadn't been there before.

The three masters—Doppo Orochi, Gouki Shibukawa, and Izou Motobe—had begun to take me seriously. At first, there was skepticism in their eyes. They saw a child, albeit one with an iron will, but still just a child. Now, they watched me with something closer to respect. They were no longer holding back in their training sessions; I was being treated like a real disciple, one who could take the pain and keep coming back for more.

Shibukawa, in particular, had taken a liking to testing my resolve. His favorite exercise was to throw me to the ground repeatedly, correcting my form each time, making me get up and try again. He said that the most important thing for a fighter was to learn how to fall and get back up, over and over, until the act became second nature. I had become used to the feeling of the mat slamming against my back, the sharp jolt that traveled through my bones, the taste of blood when I bit my tongue. It was all part of the process—part of learning what it meant to be strong.

"Not bad, kid," Shibukawa said one day, after another round of falls and counterattacks. "You're learning faster than I expected. But don't get cocky." He raised a hand, motioning for me to get back into stance. "We're just getting started."

Doppo was different in his approach. He had me doing strength exercises that pushed my limits, making me hold stances until my muscles trembled and my legs felt like they would give out. "Karate isn't just about hitting hard," he would say, his voice gruff but encouraging. "It's about controlling your body, your breathing, your mind. If your body fails, your spirit must still hold steady."

There were days when the pain became almost unbearable, when my body screamed at me to stop. But each time, I forced myself to push through it. I couldn't afford to be weak. The image of Yuujiro's overwhelming presence loomed over me constantly, reminding me of how far I still had to go.

Motobe's training sessions were more methodical. He focused on traditional martial arts techniques, making me practice the same movements over and over with a precision that felt maddeningly repetitive. He was a perfectionist, and he wasn't satisfied until every strike, every stance, was flawless. "Details matter, Baki," he would say, his voice calm but firm. "Your foundation must be perfect. If you rush through the basics, you'll never master the advanced."

As the weeks passed, I noticed subtle changes in the way they spoke to me. There was a sense of acknowledgment in their words, a shift from mere instruction to something closer to mentorship. They no longer looked at me as a child who was simply trying to keep up. They saw a student—a real disciple—worthy of their time and effort.

The respect wasn't given freely; it had to be earned, through every fall, every drop of sweat, and every bruise that covered my small frame. I wasn't naïve enough to believe I had gained their full approval, but the fact that they were pushing me harder, challenging me more, meant I had made progress. It was a small victory, but it fueled me.

Izou Motobe pov:

The sake was smooth, with a warmth that spread through my chest as I took another sip. Doppo and I sat across from each other at a small table in the corner of the bar, the light dim and the atmosphere relaxed. It was rare for us to share quiet moments like these—away from the dojo, away from the constant training and intensity. But even now, my thoughts drifted back to Baki. It had been a month since the training began, and the boy had already surpassed our expectations in many ways.

He was extraordinary, a prodigy who showed an impressive level of grit and adaptability, despite being only six months old. I wouldn't have believed it myself had I not seen it firsthand. His rapid growth had sparked something within me—a thought that I hadn't been able to shake. Baki was learning the basics of hand-to-hand combat quickly, but what if I introduced him to the world of weapons? His potential was limitless, and I wondered how far he could go if he mastered not just martial arts, but also the weapons of the ancient warriors.

"Doppo," I began, breaking the comfortable silence between us. "What do you think about Baki?"

Doppo took a sip of his sake, his expression contemplative. "He's something else, isn't he?" There was a hint of a smile on his lips, a mix of admiration and competitiveness. "I'm jealous of his potential, to be honest. The kid's got more raw talent than I've seen in anyone. But I also want to see how far he can go. How much he can push himself."

I nodded, absorbing his words. "He's got the drive, that's for sure. But there's more to fighting than just raw strength and technique." I swirled the sake in my cup thoughtfully, letting the liquid catch the light. "There's a whole other world of combat he hasn't touched yet—one that goes beyond empty-handed fighting."

Doppo raised an eyebrow. "You're thinking of teaching him weapons, aren't you?"

"Perhaps," I said, setting down my cup. "It's more than just an idea. Baki is different, and if he's going to stand against the kind of opponents who won't fight fairly, he needs to be prepared for anything. The world of martial arts isn't always about honor, and there's no guarantee that he'll only face opponents who stick to hand-to-hand combat. It's a harsh truth, but he'll need to understand it sooner rather than later."

The idea of introducing weapons to a child would normally be dismissed outright. It wasn't the kind of thing that traditionalists like myself would consider for a young student. But Baki was an exception. He was progressing at a rate that defied reason, adapting to techniques and training that most adults struggled with. If there was anyone who could handle an accelerated introduction to weaponry, it was him.

Doppo leaned back in his chair, a thoughtful expression crossing his face. "It's not a bad idea," he admitted. "I've always focused on karate, on mastering the body. But you've got a point. There's a side to combat that goes beyond the fists and feet. The kid could learn a lot from you—more than just how to swing a sword or throw a shuriken."

I knew that Doppo understood what I meant. It wasn't just about teaching Baki how to wield a weapon. It was about teaching him how to think in combat, how to adapt when the rules changed. A real warrior knows that the battlefield is not a place of fairness—it's a place where survival is the only victory that matters. Weapons, when used wisely, can level the playing field. They add an element of unpredictability, one that I had always valued.

"I wouldn't be training him to rely on weapons," I clarified, sensing Doppo's silent concern. "He needs to know how to fight with his body first and foremost. But if he's ever going to face his father, or anyone else like him, he'll need more than just raw power and technique. Yuujiro isn't the kind of opponent who fights by the book."

Doppo's gaze hardened at the mention of Yuujiro. The memory of their own encounter was not lost on him. "No," he agreed, his voice low. "He's not. If Baki is going to challenge his father someday, he'll need every advantage he can get."

I took another sip of sake, letting the warmth spread through me again. My mind was already considering what kinds of weapons training would suit Baki. He was young, yes, but his mind was sharp, and his body was growing stronger by the day. If I began with simple techniques—basic throws, joint manipulation, and weapon disarmament—he could build a solid foundation. Once he mastered the fundamentals, we could move on to more complex weapons, like the kusarigama, tanto or a sword

There was also the matter of teaching him how to think like a warrior, not just a fighter. In my experience, true combat prowess came from understanding that anything could be used as a weapon, and that the best way to defeat an opponent was to anticipate the unexpected. I had seen it countless times—fighters who were masters of hand-to-hand combat crumbling against a foe who wielded a knife or chain. Baki had to be more than just a prodigy in unarmed fighting; he had to be a complete warrior.

"Start with the basics, then?" Doppo asked, as if reading my thoughts. "Teach him how to use his environment, how to defend against weapons, and then move on to actual weaponry?"

I nodded. "Exactly. We'll build on what he already knows. If he learns to see the world around him as a battlefield—where anything can be a tool or weapon—then he'll be much harder to defeat." I set my empty cup down, the decision solidifying in my mind. "It's time to show him that there are no limits in combat. Not for someone like him."

Baki pov:

Another month passed, and my training had taken a new turn. Now, it wasn't just about mastering my own body, but also learning how to use weapons—how to turn anything into an extension of my will. The sessions were grueling and intense, pushing me to adapt quickly. It was a strange feeling, handling weapons like a tanto, a sword, or even throwing shuriken. Despite my young age, my body seemed to know how to move.

It was as if the world itself had different rules for someone like me. Or maybe, it was just the "Baki logic" at work again.

As I trained more, I saw less and less of my mother. Emi was usually there, watching from the sidelines, her eyes filled with that strange mix of pride and determination that I had come to recognize. But outside of training, she was distant. It was the maids who took care of me, handling everything from feeding me to helping me clean up after training. It was a relief, honestly—I didn't really know how to face her.

There was something about the way she looked at me, like I was more a project than a son. I knew she cared for me in her own way, but it wasn't the same as the unconditional love I remembered from my previous life. I had known a perfect mother once, on Earth—someone who would have been horrified at the idea of putting a child through this kind of training. That memory lingered in my mind, reminding me that this was not the world I came from.

And then, there was the father I used to have—a kind man who I lost far too soon. It felt like a lifetime ago, even though it had only been months. Here, my father was a monster. A living legend whose overwhelming presence crushed any sense of security I might have had. I had never felt so far away from the warmth of my old life.

I often thought about the wish I made before I was reborn. The memory was hazy, like a half-remembered dream, but I recalled asking for something before the darkness consumed me. The ability to travel to other worlds. It was a desperate wish, born out of a need to escape the inevitability of death and find something beyond it. But I hadn't thought much about it since I woke up as Baki Hanma.

How do I activate it? The thought gnawed at me constantly. Even if I could somehow use that wish, what could an eight-month-old baby do in another world? My physical body may have grown stronger, but I was still a child, dependent on others to survive. I couldn't just leave—I needed to train, to grow, to learn everything I could from the masters here. Running away wasn't an option, not with Yuujiro's shadow looming over me.

Still, I couldn't shake the feeling that there was more I needed to understand. The wish wasn't just a fantasy; it was real. I was living proof that it had granted me a new life. But as for the ability to travel to other worlds? That remained an elusive dream, and I wasn't sure how—or if—I could reach for it yet.