Shinbatsu’s Path. For some it was a temple where one could worship the gods of hard work, discipline, and war. For others, it was simply a place to train, to push ones physical prowess to the edge and hone ones skills. No matter what the reason for their presence here, Takeo had reached the conclusion that only one thing was overpowering enough to overshadow his entire experience within those walls.
Shinbatsu’s Path stank.
This wasn’t the normal kind of stink one would be accustomed to. No, this was a special kind of stench. A mix of stale and fresh sweat, rusty metal, blood, leather, and just straight-up, dag-nasty body odor. It was like the individual types of stink that usually emanated from the feet, ass, crotch, and armpits of a normal person were amplified by a thousand before being blended into a disgusting smell all its own. There was no becoming accustomed to this smell. When you walked through the door from the fresh outside air, it was like walking into a physical wall of rankness.
It seemed as though the Colosseums manager had taken a liking to the boy. Once the fighting season was over, he was offered a job in Shinbatsu’s Path. Takeo’s responsibilities were to bring those training fresh towels and water when needed, equipment and training weapons when requested, and clean up the place at the end of the day. All-in-all, that meant that he was the bitch-boy. Loud, gruff voices constantly shouting for one thing or another filled his ears every day. Between the running around in response to the fighters whims and orders and re-racking weights at the end of the day, Takeo felt like laying down and dying by the time the work was done.
As much as the work sucked, he wouldn’t trade it for the world. He got to watch the fighters train, to learn their techniques while he worked. At the end of the day, he would try out what he had seen that day on the boxing-bags and wooden dummies; then he’d lift weights until he reached muscle failure. Only once he was completely and utterly exhausted would he finish the cleaning and lock up for the day. More often than not, he would simply lay down on one of the workout benches in the Path and sleep there. It was warmer than his little shack at his uncles junkyard, and half the distance to the Academy.
His after-hours efforts haven’t gone unnoticed, however. A pair of dark eyes watch him from the shadows, and they see much potential in the young man.
[WC: 435]
Shinbatsu’s Path stank.
This wasn’t the normal kind of stink one would be accustomed to. No, this was a special kind of stench. A mix of stale and fresh sweat, rusty metal, blood, leather, and just straight-up, dag-nasty body odor. It was like the individual types of stink that usually emanated from the feet, ass, crotch, and armpits of a normal person were amplified by a thousand before being blended into a disgusting smell all its own. There was no becoming accustomed to this smell. When you walked through the door from the fresh outside air, it was like walking into a physical wall of rankness.
It seemed as though the Colosseums manager had taken a liking to the boy. Once the fighting season was over, he was offered a job in Shinbatsu’s Path. Takeo’s responsibilities were to bring those training fresh towels and water when needed, equipment and training weapons when requested, and clean up the place at the end of the day. All-in-all, that meant that he was the bitch-boy. Loud, gruff voices constantly shouting for one thing or another filled his ears every day. Between the running around in response to the fighters whims and orders and re-racking weights at the end of the day, Takeo felt like laying down and dying by the time the work was done.
As much as the work sucked, he wouldn’t trade it for the world. He got to watch the fighters train, to learn their techniques while he worked. At the end of the day, he would try out what he had seen that day on the boxing-bags and wooden dummies; then he’d lift weights until he reached muscle failure. Only once he was completely and utterly exhausted would he finish the cleaning and lock up for the day. More often than not, he would simply lay down on one of the workout benches in the Path and sleep there. It was warmer than his little shack at his uncles junkyard, and half the distance to the Academy.
His after-hours efforts haven’t gone unnoticed, however. A pair of dark eyes watch him from the shadows, and they see much potential in the young man.
[WC: 435]