The underground dojo beneath the Hanzo Tavern smelled of oak and steel, a blend of aged wood and the sharp tang of polished katanas. The dim lighting from the hanging lanterns cast shadows on the tatami mats, and the air held an unspoken reverence—this was a place where warriors were forged, not merely trained.

  Jarah tightened his grip around the hilt of his katana, his stance poised, waiting for the elderly man before him to strike. Hashira Hanzo, a man well into his seventies but as fluid and quick as a warrior in his prime, studied Jarah with patient eyes. He exuded an effortless mastery that could not be faked or hurried, the kind that only came from decades of disciplined practice.

  “You hold the blade too tightly,” Hashira murmured, stepping forward with the grace of a drifting leaf. “A firm grip is necessary, but tension in the wrong places will slow your reaction.”

  Jarah nodded but said nothing. His breath was steady, his body coiled and ready. He had been training under Hashira for several months, refining his technique and learning the subtleties of combat that only a true master could teach. Still, he had yet to beat the old man.

  With a flick of his wrist, Hashira initiated the first strike, his blade slicing through the air with a whisper. Jarah reacted swiftly, raising his katana to parry. Their steel met with a crisp chime, reverberating through the room. Sparks of energy danced between them as they exchanged blows, the rhythm of their duel both poetic and deadly.

  Jarah lunged forward, aiming a diagonal slash at Hashira’s side, but the old man sidestepped with the ease of a ghost. Before Jarah could adjust, Hashira’s katana was already at his throat, its cold edge resting lightly against his skin.

  “Too aggressive,” Hashira said, his voice calm but firm. “You focus on striking down your opponent, but you ignore the flow of the battle. Water does not force itself through rock—it carves its way over time.”

  Jarah exhaled sharply and took a step back. He lowered his sword, acknowledging the lesson in his defeat. “You make it look easy, old man.”

  Hashira chuckled, sheathing his katana with a fluid motion. “That is because it is easy—when you have learned to let go.”

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  Jarah shook his head, rolling his shoulders to ease the tension. “I suppose bounty hunting hasn’t done me any favors in the patience department.”

  Hashira tilted his head slightly. “Tell me, Jarah—do you find your work fulfilling?”

  Jarah ran a hand over his damp forehead, considering the question. “It keeps the bills paid. Not exactly glamorous, though.”

  Hashira sighed and crossed his arms. “There are other ways to make a living, ones that do not demand you always have a blade or a gun in your hand.”

  Jarah scoffed. “Like working upstairs for you? Pouring drinks and sweeping floors?”

  Hashira smiled knowingly. “It would be honest work. You would have free meals, a place to meditate, and the chance to rest your soul.”

  Jarah shook his head. “I appreciate the offer, but I’m not the settling-down type.”

  “As you wish.” Hashira turned toward the rack of training swords, returning his own. “The offer will always stand.”

  Before either of them could say more, the door to the dojo creaked open. A soft pair of footsteps hesitated at the entrance. Both men turned to see a young woman standing in the doorway. Her dark, flowing hair was pulled into a loose ponytail, and the warm lantern glow highlighted her delicate features. Her large, expressive eyes met with uncertainty.

  “I’m sorry—I didn’t mean to interrupt,” she said quickly, bowing her head.

  Hashira’s face softened as he waved a dismissive hand. “Do not apologize, Naomi. You are always welcome.”

  Naomi Nakano hesitated before stepping inside, her gaze briefly meeting Jarah’s. It was fleeting, but something unspoken passed between them—an acknowledgment, an interest, a moment neither expected.

  “I just wanted to remind you, Hashira-san,” she continued, “that I’ll be working the late shift tonight.”

  Hashira nodded. “Understood. I’ll open the bar soon.”

  Naomi nodded politely, her eyes looking back toward Jarah. Then, she turned and exited the dojo, her footsteps light as falling rain.

  Jarah watched her leave, something about her presence lingering in the space even after she was gone. He cleared his throat, shifting his stance. “Who was that?”

  Hashira smirked. “That’s Naomi. She’s my newest waitress. She’s also a nursing intern at the Prime City Medical Center.”

  Jarah absorbed this information, reflecting on her attractiveness. “She seems... interesting.”

  Hashira chuckled, his old eyes twinkling with amusement. “Perhaps you should spend more time upstairs, Jarah. You never know what you might find.”

  Jarah exhaled through his nose, considering. “Yeah. You never know.”