[6] The Old Man and the Infinite Ass-Kicking

I hit the ground for what felt like the thousandth time. My cheek pressed against dirt and gravel, and every breath sent daggers through my ribs. The morning sun beat down, turning the world into a hazy mess of pain and exhaustion.

"Get up." Kuro's voice drifted from somewhere above.

"No." I meant it to sound defiant. It came out more like a whimper.

"Fair enough." Rocks crunched as he settled onto his boulder. "You figured it out yet?"

I managed to roll onto my back, squinting up at the too-bright sky. "Both. It's both."

"Explain."

"The barrier..." I coughed, tasting copper. "It has a threshold. Like a... like a bulletproof vest. Hit it hard enough, fast enough, in the right spot..."

"And?"

"And it breaks." I closed my eyes. The lotus pattern kept spinning anyway, making me dizzy. "You're channeling your quirk to multiply the impact, then hitting faster than I can reinforce the weak point."

Silence. Then: "Not bad, kid."

"Thanks. I hate you."

He laughed. It echoed off the mountainside. "Hatred's good. Keeps you sharp. Meet me at the dojo when you wake up."

I cracked an eye open. "When I what?"

"You've got about thirty seconds before you pass out. Don't fight it. Body needs rest to process what it learned."

"I'm not gonna..." The world tilted sideways. "Okay, maybe you have a point."

"Course I do." His voice was getting further away. "Oh, and kid?"

"Mm?"

"Not bad for day one."

I tried to answer, but unconsciousness had other plans. The last thing I heard was his retreating footsteps and a muttered, "Maybe Asami was right after all."

Then darkness took me, and I dreamed of spinning lotus flowers and sake-scented fists breaking through walls that shouldn't break.

When I opened my eyes again, I was still on the mountain trail. Someone had put a jacket under my head - probably Kuro, though I'd never admit that made me feel slightly better about him beating me half to death.

My phone said 12:47 PM. Hours of getting my ass kicked, and what did I have to show for it? Bruises, a headache that felt like someone tap-dancing in steel boots inside my skull, and the knowledge that my "perfect" barrier wasn't so perfect after all.

Great. Fantastic. Wonderful.

I sat up slowly, testing what hurt. The answer: everything. Even my quirk felt tired, the lotus pattern in my eyes spinning sluggishly.

"Some prodigy I turned out to be," I muttered, using a nearby tree to pull myself up. The world swayed, then settled.

The dojo waited somewhere up the mountain. Part of me wanted to call another taxi, go home, and pretend this morning never happened. But...

But I'd felt it. In those last few exchanges, when everything clicked. The way Kuro moved, the precise manipulation of force and speed, the perfect control over his quirk. That wasn't just skill. That was art.

And damn it, I wanted to learn it.

I picked up my gym bag, wincing as new bruises made themselves known. "Right. One foot in front of the other."

The path seemed twice as long and three times as steep as before. By the time I spotted the dojo through the trees, my legs were shaking and my shirt was soaked through with sweat.

It wasn't what I expected. No ancient wooden building with paper screens and stone lanterns. Just a modern concrete structure, simple and functional, with a small parking lot out front. The only traditional touch was the torii gate marking the entrance, its red paint faded and chipping.

Kuro sat cross-legged on the steps, eyes closed. No sake bottle in sight.

"Took you long enough," he said without opening his eyes.

"Some old drunk beat me up at four in the morning. Slowed me down a bit."

"Excuses." But there was that grin again. "Ready for round two?"

"Absolutely not."

"Good answer. Come on."

He led me inside. The interior was as utilitarian as the exterior - training mats, some basic equipment, and mirrors along one wall. Early morning light streamed through high windows, catching dust motes in its beams.

"Strip."

I nearly dropped my bag. "Excuse me?"

"Shirt off. Need to see something."

Reluctantly, I peeled off my sweat-soaked t-shirt. Purple bruises decorated my torso like abstract art.

Kuro circled me slowly, poking certain spots that made me hiss in pain. "Good. Healing fast."

"This is healing fast?"

"For the hits you took? Yeah." He stopped in front of me. "Your barrier doesn't just block damage. It absorbs and redistributes it. Even when it breaks."

"That's... not how Mom described it."

"Your mom doesn't know everything." He tossed me a clean shirt from a nearby bench. "Put that on. Then we'll talk about what you really did wrong this morning."

"Besides showing up?"

"Besides that."

I pulled on the shirt - plain black with the kanji for "Arashi" on the back. It fit perfectly. Almost like...

"Mom planned this whole thing, didn't she?"

Kuro's expression gave nothing away. "What makes you say that?"

"The shirt. The training. You being ready for me. She set this up."

"Smart kid." He sat on the bench, gesturing for me to join him. "Want to know what else you got right?"

I sat, muscles protesting. "Hit me. Actually, wait, poor choice of words."

He snorted. "Your barrier analysis. It was good, but incomplete. Want to try again?"

"What do you mean?"

"I mean," he cracked his knuckles, "that we've got some time to turn that barrier of yours from a shield into a weapon. If you're up for it."

I should have said no. Should have walked away. Should have done anything except grin back at him and say:

"When do we start?"

His answering smile promised more pain than any fist could deliver. "Right now."

And so began day one of what I'd later call "The Day Everything Changed." Though right then, all I could think was: Mom, you brilliant, terrifying woman. What did you get me into?

Kuro's idea of a "warm-up" involved running up the mountain. Not jogging. Running. With a weighted vest he'd produced from somewhere in the dojo.

"This is stupid," I panted, sweat already soaking through my new shirt. "We're already on a mountain."

"Perfect place to train." He wasn't even breathing hard. "Altitude builds endurance. Plus, nice view."

"I hate you."

"You mentioned that." He pointed to a ridge about two kilometers up. "Race you there."

"What? No-"

He was already gone, moving with that impossible speed that had crushed my barrier earlier. I cursed and followed, the vest turning every step into a battle against gravity.

My legs burned. My lungs screamed. The lotus pattern in my eyes spun lazily, mocking my efforts to use it for... something. Anything.

"Wrong," Kuro called from ahead. "Stop trying to use your quirk as a crutch."

"How did you-"

"Your eyes glow when you're thinking too hard. This is about the body first. Mind follows."

I wanted to argue, but breathing took priority. The ridge seemed to get further away with each step. My vision narrowed to the path ahead, the weight on my chest, the rhythm of feet hitting dirt.

We reached the ridge. I collapsed. Kuro looked disappointed.

"Five minute break," he said. "Then we start the real workout."

I raised my middle finger in response.

The "real workout" was hell.

Jump rope on uneven ground. Pull-ups on tree branches that creaked ominously. Push-ups with Kuro adding random weight to my back without warning. Core work that made me question my life choices.

"Your mother did this twice as fast," he commented during my fifth set of hanging leg raises.

"My mother," I grunted, "is insane."

"True. Ten more."

The sun climbed higher. We moved through exercises I'd never heard of, each one designed to target muscles I didn't know existed. The weighted vest stayed on.

"Pistol squats," Kuro demonstrated, balancing perfectly on one leg. "Both sides."

"You're enjoying this."

"Obviously." He watched me struggle through the first set. "Your balance is terrible."

"Thanks for noticing."

Hours passed. My body moved on autopilot, responding to Kuro's commands through a haze of exhaustion. The workout seemed endless, each exercise flowing into the next like some sadistic choreography.

"Last part," Kuro finally announced. "Ten kilometer run."

I stared at him. "You're kidding."

"Down the mountain, around the base, back up. Simple."

"I can't feel my legs."

"Perfect time to run then." He stretched lazily. "Oh, and if I catch you, we start over."

The threat got me moving. My form was probably terrible, but with Kuro behind me, style points didn't matter. The descent was almost worse than climbing - each step threatened to send me tumbling.

Somewhere around kilometer seven, the pain faded into a sort of peaceful numbness. My mind drifted, focusing on nothing but the next step, the next breath.

"Better," Kuro's voice came from somewhere to my left. "You're finally stopping thinking."

"Too... tired... to think."

"Exactly." He matched my pace effortlessly. "Storm Style isn't about power or technique. It's about moving without thought. Like weather."

"That's... stupid..."

"Says the kid who ran ten kilometers in a weighted vest."

I blinked. We were back at the dojo. My legs gave out, and I sprawled on the cool concrete.

"Time?" I managed to ask.

"Six hours." Kuro sat beside me, finally showing signs of exertion. "Not bad for day one."

"We're doing this again tomorrow?"

"Nope." He grinned. "Tomorrow's worse."

I groaned and closed my eyes. The lotus pattern had stopped spinning entirely, as exhausted as the rest of me.

"Hey, old man?"

"Mm?"

"Why did Mom really send me here?"

Silence stretched. When Kuro spoke again, his voice had lost its usual playful edge.

"Because you're too good at everything," he said. "She wanted you to learn how to fail."

I laughed. It hurt. "Mission accomplished."

"No." He stood, offering a hand up. "You haven't failed until you quit. Now come on. Day one's not over yet."

I took his hand, muscles screaming in protest as I got to my feet.

"I really, really hate you."

"Good." That familiar grin returned. "Hatred's excellent motivation for what's next."

"Which is?"

He pointed to a pile of wooden posts waiting to be planted. "Time to build a proper training ground."

I looked at the posts, then at my trembling arms, then back at Kuro's sadistic smile.

"Mom's not trying to make me stronger," I realized. "She's trying to kill me."

"Nah." He tossed me a shovel. "Just trying to wake you up. Now dig."

And so ended day one of my training. Or as Kuro called it: "The easy part."

==========

[Next time on "My Hero Academia: Limitless"]

"Focus, Yoichi-san!" Kuro-sensei circled me in the dojo, hands clasped behind his back.

I pushed myself up from the mat for the hundredth time. "Did you seriously just quote—"

His foot swept my legs out. My face reunited with the floor. "Wax on, wax off!"

"You're enjoying this way too much."

"Next time, viewers!" He addressed an imaginary camera while maintaining his foot on my back. "Watch as this sorry excuse for a student learns the ancient art of 'Getting His Ass Kicked Until He Gets It Right-jutsu!'"

"That's not even a real technique," I mumbled into the mat.

"Ah, but first—" He produced a mop from somewhere. "The dojo needs cleaning."

"You cannot be serious."

"Traditional training methods are traditional for a reason, young grasshopper! Don't miss next week's episode: 'Clean the Floor, Clean the Mind!' Or was it 'Empty the Mind, Fill the Floor?'"

"Pretty sure neither of those—"

The wooden mop handle tapped my head. "Questioning ancient wisdom again, grasshopper?"

"...No, sensei."