FINN
I refuse to call Kurosaki’s assigned teacher “sensei,” although that’s technically what he is. He’s an older man around fifty years old who doesn’t speak a lick of English, but I’ve heard him yell the same few phrases in Japanese enough times to determine what “slow down,” “go faster,” and “watch your legs” mean.
Right now, he’s yelling the phrase for “watch your legs,” and he keeps pointing to my feet. I know exactly what he wants me to do, but as I prowl around the mat, eyeing my partner, I keep my defensive stance.
Today, I’m fighting someone new. He’s tall with tattoos creeping into his face and a scar over his left eye. I notice the skin tissue covering a scar in the center of his right hand. He’s left-handed, but the scar on his right looks like a battle wound.
Did he used to be right-handed?
That would mean he learned to fight again with a completely different dominant hand?
This fighter is different than the others.
With a yell, my partner attacks and tries to throw me down. I bend my knees to keep my center of gravity and hold on when he throws his weight on me.
Sensei’s training is a whisper in my ear as I fight.
“There are always two sides to the coin of opportunity.”
I twist and use my partner’s weight against him to throw off his center of gravity.
“One side looks like a disadvantage.”
My partner is taller and heavier than me. He also doesn’t have a rib injury and a slight concussion. I can’t beat him on strength. It just won’t happen.
Sweat drips down my face as I struggle to keep the upper hand, but he’s powerful. My feet slip on the mat as he drives me backward, aiming to take me down.
“In those moments, where you’re at a disadvantage, all you have to do…”
I roar with the force of my effort and drop into a roll. My partner’s eyes widen as I tuck into the floor, kick both feet into his sternum and use his own weight to throw him off me before I spring to my feet.
“…is turn the coin.”
My partner is lying on his belly, hands pressed to the mat. I stand above him, breathing hard, and I look to my trainer.
The old man snarls at me.
Suddenly, I hear my partner roaring, and I turn. He’s coming at me with a knife. I narrowly step out of the way as he swipes the air in quick, ruthless flurries. I dance backward as fast as I can, but he grabs me with one hand to keep me in place.
My robe nearly rips off my body as he yanks me around, aiming the sharp blade at my shoulder. Eyes wide, I grab the knife and try to steer it around. He wrenches it free and comes at me again, as relentless as a bull.
“This… is…” I jump back, and the knife slashes the tie at my stomach. “Practice. Isn’t anyone going to stop him?”
The trainer says something in Japanese that I still don’t understand.
Sweat stings my eyes, but I force myself to keep alert and find an advantage. Do I go for the knife? Or blaze forward and attack him, hoping I’m quicker than his blade?
In my indecision, he makes his move first.
I’m too slow. His knife slashes my arm.
Blood gushes from a rip in my sleeve as he grabs my neck, drives me down to the ground, and restrains me with the knife at my throat.
The trainer lumbers onto the mat, looking down at me with disdain. He rattles something in Japanese.
“I don’tunderstand,” I hiss between my teeth, bristling with rage. The cut on my arm stings, and my ribs hurt from taking the blows. I’m going to be sore as hell later, but right now, none of those sensations register.
“He says you are too restrained.” A new voice enters the training area. Sunlight from the large windows pours over his back and shoulders, throwing his face into darkness, but I recognize Kurosaki’s outline immediately.
