The sky was still tinted in hues of pale lavender and gold. Morning dew clung to the tall grass, and waves lapped gently at the sand in a rhythm so steady it could lull the world to sleep. The wind was soft—like the island itself was exhaling after a long night.
Klaus sat alone on a wide flat rock, legs crossed, eyes closed. The ocean breeze rustled his hair, the scent of salt and mossy earth all around. He didn't speak. He didn't move. His breaths came slow and controlled—trying to listen to the silence between things, as he had been taught.
Then—
"Sneak attack!"
KLA-THUNK!
A palm-sized coconut bounced off Klaus's shoulder and rolled to the ground. He opened one eye and sighed.
"Really?"
Kuro stood a few paces behind him, one foot still lifted from where he'd kicked the coconut. "You're getting better. That one would've hit your face yesterday."
Klaus stood and stretched his arm once. Then he appeared directly in front of Kuro with a swift jab.
Kuro grinned.
Clack.
He caught Klaus's punch effortlessly, his fingers tightening slightly around Klaus's fist.
"Not bad, kid. But today…" His expression shifted, lips curling upward in excitement. "Today's when real training begins."
Klaus lowered his hand slowly, curiosity mixing with wariness.
They walked toward the makeshift sparring circle drawn in the sand. The wind picked up slightly, carrying salt and morning mist.
Kuro dusted off his palms, then turned serious. "Before we start—tell me something. How exactly did you fight that overcooked lizard and his flaming fan club?"
Klaus didn't flinch. "I didn't think. It just happened. The lightning came… when it had to. The wind followed when I was breaking."
Kuro gave a short nod, arms crossed. "Right. That's where you went wrong."
Klaus looked up.
"That power you're sitting on? It didn't come from calm. It came from panic, from rage, from the primal side of you clawing out when your back hit the wall. That's not mastery—that's survival."
Klaus processed that in silence.
Kuro's voice lowered, eyes suddenly sharp as steel. "The moment you stood face to face with Varion… you actually could've died."Due to his aura alone"
The weight of those words hung between them like thunder without lightning.
Klaus didn't reply.
Then Kuro shrugged and grinned. "But hey—that's why you've got me. To beat that half-dead technique out of you and turn you into something worthy of your own legend."
Klaus raised an eyebrow.
"No powers today," Kuro continued. "No fancy aura and no elements."
"Then what are we training with?" Klaus asked.
"Brute strength. Grit. Technique." Kuro dropped into a low stance, fists relaxed. "We build the body first. The spirit follows. You want to be a storm? You start with a single drop."
He raised a single finger.
"Void Style.Martial Form One: Phantom Draw."
With a sudden blur of motion, Kuro closed the gap between them and stopped with his palm hovering just an inch from Klaus's sternum. Klaus hadn't even seen the movement.
"Fast. Precise. Invisible. Think of it like the sword strike that never needs a sword."
Kuro stepped back.
"Next—Form Two: Rift Talon.A momentum shift technique. Your opponent's weight becomes yours. It's not about strength—it's about timing."
He demonstrated by twisting around an invisible opponent, his footwork dancing like smoke before snapping into a crushing heel drop.
"Form Three: Echo Step. Learn to move like sound. You aren't trying to dodge—you're trying to disappear in motion.
He snapped once—and appeared behind Klaus, gently poking the back of his neck.
Klaus flinched.
"Harder than it looks," Kuro grinned.
"And the last one I'll show today—Form Four: Demon Coil. A chain-strike form designed to suppress multiple enemies without pause. Each hit winds tighter, until your opponent's will snaps before their bones do."
He rolled his neck and dropped into the coiled stance—then unleashed a series of shadowed movements that cut through the air in silence, each step building on the last like a rhythmic song of pressure and violence.
Klaus didn't say a word—just nodded.
Kuro cracked his knuckles. "Each of these gets nastier to master. You screw up? You get tossed. You learn it? You own the battlefield."
He flashed a grin. "Ready to suffer, prodigy?"
Klaus stepped into the circle and clenched his fists.
"Let's begin."
---
Klaus stood still, eyes narrowed, body slightly tense.
Kuro circled him casually, hands behind his back like a smug instructor on his fifteenth coffee.
Klaus stood still, posture steady, eyes narrowed in focus. Kuro paced slowly in front of him, hands tucked behind his back with exaggerated smugness.
"Void Style: Phantom Draw," Kuro said again, voice calm but sharp. "It's not about winding up or showing off. It's about hitting the exact moment… when everything is still."
He jabbed a finger lightly into Klaus's chest. "No tension. No tells. Just movement—sharp, clean, gone before it's seen."
Klaus furrowed his brow. "So… just strike before they notice?"
Kuro raised a finger. "Not just speed. Timing. You move between their movements. When they blink, breathe, or shift their weight. That's when you slide in and end it."
Klaus nodded slowly. "So it's reading them. Watching for micro-movements."
Kuro clapped mockingly. "Oh, look at you! Reading books and people! What a genius."
Klaus just stared at him, unimpressed.
Kuro snorted. "Alright, Professor Precision—try it."
Klaus exhaled, centered himself, then struck.
Kuro casually raised his hand and caught Klaus's wrist without even looking. "Nope."
Another try.
Kuro sidestepped lazily. "Too slow."
Again.
Kuro yawned. "You're overthinking. Stop prepping your body like it's some fancy bowstring."
Klaus grunted. "Then how am I supposed to build any real force?"
"You don't need to," Kuro said flatly. "You need to disappear between moments and land your strike where they don't expect. If you do it right, force becomes irrelevant."
Klaus blinked, then slowly said, "So I don't punch through the guard. I punch before the guard goes up."
"Now we're speaking the same language," Kuro nodded approvingly.
They repeated it again and again—Klaus sweating, failing, adjusting. His stance shrank. His motion shortened. His hands moved tighter, faster, more efficient.
Then—one strike nearly grazed Kuro's shoulder.
Kuro didn't even flinch. "Better."
Klaus stepped back, wiping sweat from his brow.
The ocean breeze whispered across the shore, waves rolling in gentle rhythm as gulls circled lazily above. Kuro lay stretched out in the sand beneath a crooked palm, sunglasses tilted down the bridge of his nose, a half-empty bottle of local beer dangling from one hand. His coat was tossed lazily across a rock, boots off, toes digging into warm sand.
Klaus, about thirty feet away, stood barefoot in the shallow surf—shirtless, muscles tense, eyes locked ahead as he moved through Phantom Draw again.
Still too loud.
Still too telegraphed.
Klaus exhaled, reset his stance, and moved again—faster this time, quieter. Water splashed faintly around his ankles. The morning sun caught the edge of his strike. He stopped mid-motion and gritted his teeth.
Kuro, without looking, raised the beer. "You're thinking again. Stop thinking."
"I'm refining," Klaus muttered, annoyed but focused.
Kuro waved the bottle vaguely. "Same difference. You don't refine Phantom Draw. You become it. You don't carry the blade—you are the blade. Your limbs, your breath, your heartbeat—one clean strike, no more, no less."
Klaus tried again.
Closer.
He moved again.
Still too much prep.
"Kid," Kuro called out, still reclined, "if I can hear your shoulders tense, you're already dead."
Klaus let out a sharp breath and sank back into position. He moved again—faster, smaller. His foot sliced into the sand. His palm snapped forward. Still wrong. He stopped and lowered his head.
"You're trying to muscle the technique," Kuro added, eyes still closed behind the glasses. "Void Style doesn't care how strong you are. It's about cutting through the gap before thought meets action."
Klaus looked out at the horizon, the blue stretching far into the clouds. He closed his eyes. He inhaled the ocean. Reset.
Then—he moved.
This time, there was no splash. No shift. His palm flicked forward like a ghost—silent, tight, crisp.
Kuro cracked an eye open.
He smirked. "There it is."
Klaus stood there, hand still extended. Sweat traced his jaw. His breath was calm.
"Lock that in," Kuro said, lifting his beer in a lazy salute. "That's Phantom Draw. Master that, and we move on."
Klaus nodded once, silent, steady.
Kuro leaned back again with a satisfied groan. "This is the life, huh? I teach ancient martial arts, drink on beaches, and watch a moody teen learn how to punch time itself."
The waves rolled in again. Klaus stepped back into stance, and the training continued.
The beach was quiet except for the rhythm of waves and the crisp sound of focused footwork slapping the sand. Klaus stood still, his breath steady, shoulders squared. Then—he moved.
A clean step.
A pivot.
A blur of motion, then stillness.
"...Phantom Draw," he whispered under his breath.
From a little hill near the shore, Kuro sat under a crooked palm, shirt unbuttoned halfway down his chest, wearing absurdly bright swim trunks patterned with chibi dragons. A beer was propped lazily in one hand. In the other, an ecchi magazine, open wide, his eyes clearly not on the training at all.
He turned a page, then glanced up. "Oh hey! You finally nailed it."
Klaus didn't even turn to look. "You've been watching this whole time?"
"Please," Kuro said, waving the magazine. "I can track your form between page flips."
Klaus sighed, brushing sweat from his brow.
Kuro took a long sip, then leaned back on one elbow. "Alright, beach boy. Go for the next one."
Klaus looked over. "...You're gonna at least stand this time?"
Kuro smirked without moving. "Nah, I'm emotionally supporting you. From this spot. With beer."
Klaus exhaled slowly, walked a few steps away, and took his stance.
"Form Two: Rift Talon," Kuro called lazily, lifting his magazine back up. "Momentum shift. Timing over muscle. Your opponent's weight becomes yours. Flow with the strike—then break it."
"Got it," Klaus muttered, already moving into position.
Behind him, Kuro flipped another page and grinned to himself.
"You'll thank me later when you're beating up gods."
The beach stretched endlessly beneath a golden sky, where wind teased the tide and whispered against the palm fronds lining the dunes. Klaus moved alone across the warm sand, every motion sharp, deliberate—yet not quite right.
"Form Two: Rift Talon…" he repeated under his breath.
His bare feet shifted quickly—anchor, pivot, redirect. He tried to feel the rhythm, the shift in gravity. It was all about momentum, about timing, not brute strength. When done correctly, your opponent's own mass betrayed them—flipped, slammed, or countered before they even realized their body had turned on itself.
But his balance failed again. One misstep. One fraction of hesitation.
He tumbled hard, back to the sand. Again.
"…Tch."
Breathing hard, he pushed up, dusting his hands, frustration simmering just below the surface. His body understood force. It obeyed power, not patience. He wasn't used to letting an enemy move through him to control the fight.
He muttered, "It's like trying to catch lightning with a net made of air…"
As he stood to reset, there was a sudden presence—impossibly close.
Whack.
A light, precise chop to the back of his head.
Klaus staggered, turned sharply, hand half-raised.
Kuro stood behind him in full tourist-mode: floral beach shirt wide open, black board shorts, sunglasses halfway down his nose, and a smug grin plastered on his face. A towel hung over one shoulder. He radiated zero seriousness.
"Alright, kid prodigy," Kuro said, clapping his hands once. "Time for a break before you trip into the Spirit Realm by accident."
---
Two Hours Later…
Smoke spiraled upward in lazy ribbons from the small grill nestled in the sand. Kuro crouched beside it, flipping meat over glowing coals, humming an offbeat tune. The sky had cooled into a glowing canvas of tangerine and indigo, with streaks of dying sunlight stretching across a glittering ocean. Palms danced slightly in the breeze.
Klaus approached from his bath, towel draped over one shoulder. His freshly washed hair still clung in soft strands. Shirtless again, his lean, defined frame looked like it belonged in an ancient painting of warriors—scarred but disciplined. His eyes were focused, though faintly tired.
He stepped barefoot onto the sand and dropped onto the bench beside the fire.
Kuro glanced sideways, took off his sunglasses and gave him a mock-slow nod of approval. "Well, damn. If I didn't know you were a murder gremlin, I'd say you look like a beach model. Training arc or vacation photoshoot?"
Klaus didn't blink. "Keep talking and I'll use the skewer on you."
"Ohoho! Got some edge now, huh? Look at you—flirting with violence like a true monk."
Kuro passed him a skewer packed with charred meat, then tossed him a cold can from the icebox buried under the sand.
They ate in silence for a moment, the crackling of fire and the distant lull of waves the only sounds. The entire stretch of the beach around them was peaceful—untouched. The air smelled of grilled spice, salt, and drifting hibiscus from the nearby treeline.
Klaus took a sip of the beer, then leaned back, staring out over the water. "So this place… the way time moves here. How exactly does it work? Does it really flow differently?"
Kuro didn't respond at first. He turned the last skewer on the grill slowly, face unreadable behind the glow of the coals. Then he spoke in a tone far too serious for comfort.
"Yeah. It's… complicated. You ever leave a teapot on too long and the whole kitchen's on fire when you come back?"
Klaus narrowed his eyes. "What are you talking about?"
Kuro leaned closer, as if revealing a sacred truth. "Time here flows very slow… compared to out there. It's possible—very possible—we've already lost decades. Maybe more."
Klaus sat up straight, beer half-raised. "Wait. What?"
Kuro met his eyes with all the gravity of a philosopher delivering bad news. "If I had to guess... seventy years have passed outside. Give or take."
A full second passed. Klaus's expression blanked. His heart missed a beat.
"Sev—"
Then Kuro exploded into laughter.
"HAHAHA—OH MAN. I wish I could take a picture of your face. You looked like you just got hit by the death of the universe."
Klaus glared daggers at him, jaw locked.
"You're unbelievable."
"Aw, come on!" Kuro doubled over, tears in his eyes. "That's the best joke I've pulled in weeks.
Klaus took a long, slow sip from the beer, muttered, "Hope your liver shrivels."
Still chuckling, Kuro handed him another skewer, sitting down beside him with a satisfied groan. "Relax. Time here stretches, but barely. You're fine. You're welcome."
They sat in the orange-blue glow of dusk, sand warm beneath them, sea breeze weaving past their shoulders. For a moment, there was no war, no training, no Monarchs—just fire, food, and a world paused in peace.
Kuro, wiping his fingers, tilted his head.
"…So, about that form. You're close, you know."
Klaus didn't answer, just quietly picked up his skewer.
Kuro smiled faintly, flicked some sand off his knee, then pointed to the ocean.
"Tomorrow, we make it flow."
---
The dawn broke like silk torn at the edges—soft amber bleeding through the pale clouds above the still sea. The world breathed quietly.
Klaus was already on the beach, barefoot in the cool sand. Shirtless , his body moved in a fluid rhythm, sweat clinging to muscle. Each motion he made echoed the teachings of Form Two: Rift Talon—a technique that demanded precision over force, the art of shifting momentum and control in the span of a heartbeat.
Step. Pivot. Sweep.
He failed. Again.
His brows furrowed, jaw clenched. He reset his stance.
"Form Two: Rift Talon," he muttered, "not strength… timing."
Another motion. This time sharper. More instinctive.
Closer.
Then—
"You're improving," came Kuro's voice suddenly, flat and serious.
Klaus turned his head, surprised.
Kuro stood several paces away—in his somewhat battle attire, but the usual smugness was absent. His expression was unreadable. His eyes were focused.
"I've got some work," Kuro said, tone clipped. "Don't slack off while I'm gone."
Klaus blinked. "Wait—what work?"
But Kuro was already sliding his fingers along the edge of his katana.
A sharp chime filled the air.
He drew it halfway from its sheath—and a shimmering violet portal, jagged and humming with an energy Klaus had never seen before, split open beside him like a vertical wound in space.
Kuro stepped toward it.
"Kuro—"
The man paused, glancing back just once with a vague smirk. "Keep doing you, kid."
And he stepped through.
Gone.
The portal sealed behind him with a sharp, swirling hiss, leaving only the whisper of wind and the ocean's hush.
Klaus stood there in silence for a moment, eyes fixed on the empty space where Kuro had stood.
"…What the hell was that about?"
But he turned back toward the ocean. Reset his stance.
And began again.