[Gima Naoya]

Muscle fibers sang a subtle whine, taut and threatening to break like a string instrument over-tuned. Each limb throbbed and was flushed from the heart that hammered in Naoya’s chest and seemed to beg for escape. Still, his grip remained firm, two hands clutching the hilt of a wooden training sword like his life depended on it.

In front of the boy was a single practice dummy, the wood panels that made its structure splintered, dented and stained from countless hours of service over its venerable life. The boy's chest rose and fell unevenly as he tried to control his breathing and his hair stuck to his face where the sweat that coated it had begun to dry. His eyes, fierce and focused, remained on the target in front of him.

He hated it. No matter how hard he struck the thing, it just stayed there, staring back at him, taunting him. Regardless of the ferocity and speed of his attacks, he could hardly budge the balance of the thing; it might as well have been made of lead.

After a few moments of sizing the enemy up, he relented, allowing his sword to transform into a cane as he slumped forward onto one knee. He was exhausted. And, as he looked around him at the empty training hall, illuminated a soft amber from late afternoon meeting vibrant wood walls and flooring, he considered whether it wasn’t maybe time to pack it up for the day.

He was there at a weird time. It was after the people that trained right after work or school left and still an hour shy of when the earliest of those who preferred to train at night showed up. It was a break from the usual hustle and bustle and uniquely tranquil for a training spot.

And his preferred time to train usually meant he had most of the space to himself, rarely getting interrupted by well-intentioned shinobi that wanted to show him how he could improve his form or whatever else.

Ishikawa Ren