Breaking Glass

The dojo was silent.

No music. No grunts. No heavy bags swinging. Just the sound of breath and the scratch of wind against paper walls.

Kazahiro stood still, drenched in sweat, his arms trembling from holding a stance that made no sense to him. His legs burned. His back screamed. This wasn't fighting — not how he knew it.

This was nothingness.

"This is pointless," he muttered.

Tenzan didn't respond. He stood across the room, hands folded, eyes closed, as if listening to something Kazahiro couldn't hear.

"I said," Kazahiro raised his voice, "this is bullsh—"

Before he could finish, something hit him.

Not a punch. Not a slap.

A word.

"Sit."

It was calm. Commanding. Like stone being dropped into water.

Kazahiro sat.

Tenzan opened his eyes. "You think because you've survived pain, you understand it."

Kazahiro didn't speak. He hated how much truth there was in that sentence.

Tenzan stepped forward and placed a single sheet of paper on the ground in front of him. On it was a photo — torn, black-and-white. A younger Kazahiro, maybe four years old, clutching the leg of a woman who wasn't looking at him.

His mother.

Kazahiro's throat tightened.

Tenzan's voice was soft now. "You fight to escape her."

Kazahiro looked away.

"You fight to erase your father's shadow. To silence your own shame. And when you punch, you punch as that boy — terrified, angry, alone."

"Shut up," Kazahiro said, not loud, but sharp.

"You want to become something more?" Tenzan leaned in. "Then stop fighting from fear."

Kazahiro stood. "You don't know me."

Tenzan's gaze didn't flinch. "I am you."

That night, Kazahiro didn't sleep.

He went back to the rooftop. The city stretched endlessly beneath him, cold and heartless as ever. He gripped the photo in his hand so tightly the edges cut into his skin.

He thought about every fight. Every bruise. Every scream.

And he realized for the first time… he had never actually wanted to win.

He only wanted to not be crushed.

That was the truth.

That was the weakness.

He burned the photo.

Not to forget.

But to start over.

The next morning, Tenzan watched Kazahiro enter the dojo.

His posture was different.

Not perfect — but something had changed.

"You ready?" Tenzan asked.

Kazahiro nodded. "Not to fight."

He bowed.

"To learn."

Tenzan smiled. "Then now, we begin."