Jo loved the training grounds of the Vespasian Colosseum. While others went to the Temple of Raiden or the Ancient Forest to meditate, Jo found his solace here. In Shinbatsu’s Path, the smell of sweat, rust, and blood were incense; the rhythmic clinking of weights of every shape and size created a harmony that would rival any choir or gregorian chant; the pounding of fists and feet on boxing bags replaced the ceremonial drums. Here, worriers of every age, race, gender and nationality honed their bodies and minds for battle. Some fight for glory in the arena, others are soldiers of fortune, or bounty hunters sharpening their skills before the big score. The most prevalent profession, however, was the shinobi. Regardless of branch, division, or rank, every shinobi was a living weapon; each and every one in need of sharpening. This place was like a whet stone; grinding away the rust and filing their skills to a razor edge.
Today Jo was the percussionist; his rapid and seemingly erratic blows smashing the sand-filled leather bag hanging from the rafters by a thick chain. To the untrained eye, his strikes were haphazard and random; but anyone who knew Jo knew that to be a false assessment. In his minds eye the bag represented a body, each punch hitting a specific area. His fists found the solar plexus, kidneys and spleen; his shin smashed floating ribs and his knees shattered genitals. The bombardment of blows had been barraging the bag for the last hour, and now the seams were starting to tear and the sand starting to leak like golden blood. One more volley of rapid strikes ended the one-sided fight when the final blow (a powerful back kick) caused the bag to burst at its seams, sending a cascade of sand to the floor.
The genin stood before the wreckage of leather and sand, panting with exertion. He was bare, save for a pair of black silk gym shorts. Sweat glistened and ran down his forehead, torso and limbs in glistening droplets and rivulets, his chocolate colored hair damp and matted. Years of combat training and weightlifting were evidenced by the rippling, tightly chorded muscles that stretched and strained against skin that couldn’t grow fast enough to keep up. For one so young, he bore enough scars to rival many of those who trained here that bore twice his years. A single inch-long vertical cut in the center of his forehead ended at his hairline while four perfectly round pockmarks matched the curvature less than a quarter inch above his left eyebrow. A six-inch horizontal scar peaked out from the waistband of his shorts along his right hip, and the tail end of a vertical scar that extended beyond sight up the inside of his right knee. Stretch marks stripped his body where his physical growth had strained at his skin. A diamond shaped patch of curly hair adorned the space between his pectorals, its tail trailing down the center of his abdomen and disappearing into the waist of his shorts. He was every inch the model specimen of a young male in the throes of adolescence.
Jo continued to pant for a few seconds before forcing his breath to fall under his control. His head was swimming from what was parallel to a runners high. Every muscle in his body burned and ached with lactic acid build-up and the strain of the weight-training he’d finished before moving on to work the bag. He turned from the bag and walked over to the bench where he’s left his sweat towel and water bottle, leaving the mess of the ruined piece of gym equipment to be cleaned up by the janitorial staff who swooped in as soon as he stepped away. Such devastating displays of power were a regular occurrence here where super-humans came to train. He grabbed up his towel and draped it over his shoulders, mopping off his face with a loose end before squeezing a jet of water into his mouth. His heart pounded relentlessly in his chest, and his body seemed to radiate heat. He needed to cool down, but the Path was well heated beneath the sandy floor of the Colosseum. Jo walked blindly to the tunnel that lead to that sandy stage, hoping the frigid temperatures of Kumo’s winters would relieve him.
He wasn’t disappointed. Snow fell thick and heavy from a black night sky so that you couldn’t tell whether snow or sand covered the ground. One bare-footed step revealed it was a two-inch layer of the prior covering the foot-thick layer of the latter. Jo wandered out to the center of the arena floor and stopped, glancing up at the stands. They were silent, dark and empty. Colosseum closed for the winter, there being no one willing to sit out in the devastating cold for more than a few minutes to watch a fight. The fat snowflakes steamed as they connected with his bare shoulders and chest, melting and mixing with his sweat. To a random passer-by, it would appear he was wreathed in steam as his body temperature, warmer than most even before working out, caused steam to tumble and swirl as it escaped his sweat-matted hair and dampened body. He opened his mouth to suck in the fresh air and blew out a cloud of steam.
Jo’s workouts were always hard and heavy, but tonight was something different. The Beast within him had become restless after his meeting with Takaki Enjeru, his girlfriend Saeko’s older brother, and the child of the Main Branch Sennin Takaki Masao. Quiet jubilation at her brothers camaraderie and promised assistance in the courting of his sister had awoken the Wolf in his soul, exciting him in more ways than one. In order to burn off the excess energy and hopefully get Him to quiet down (not to mention get in a much needed workout), he’d decided to head over to the Path and pump some iron. It worked, but now he was exhausted.
Part of the many things Jo enjoyed about his profession was the fact that even after the most rigorous of training, with his body completely exhausted, his brain was still willing and able to work. Now, here in the silence, even his mind was completely still. The silent solace of still, snowy solitude surrounded him.
… Nothing… No bodies… No gore… No memories of combat and death. All he saw was Saeko. The way she smiled, the way she playfully taunted him. The look in her eyes when their defenses fall, and they were the only two people in the world. Only one thing stood between them and the happiness he knew they could have; the only man in the world who loved her as much as he did (though in a dramatically different way). Her father; his boss. Tomorrow they would meet for the first time outside of “the office” (as it were). There was nothing Jo could do until then but wait.
{MFT: 1171}
Today Jo was the percussionist; his rapid and seemingly erratic blows smashing the sand-filled leather bag hanging from the rafters by a thick chain. To the untrained eye, his strikes were haphazard and random; but anyone who knew Jo knew that to be a false assessment. In his minds eye the bag represented a body, each punch hitting a specific area. His fists found the solar plexus, kidneys and spleen; his shin smashed floating ribs and his knees shattered genitals. The bombardment of blows had been barraging the bag for the last hour, and now the seams were starting to tear and the sand starting to leak like golden blood. One more volley of rapid strikes ended the one-sided fight when the final blow (a powerful back kick) caused the bag to burst at its seams, sending a cascade of sand to the floor.
The genin stood before the wreckage of leather and sand, panting with exertion. He was bare, save for a pair of black silk gym shorts. Sweat glistened and ran down his forehead, torso and limbs in glistening droplets and rivulets, his chocolate colored hair damp and matted. Years of combat training and weightlifting were evidenced by the rippling, tightly chorded muscles that stretched and strained against skin that couldn’t grow fast enough to keep up. For one so young, he bore enough scars to rival many of those who trained here that bore twice his years. A single inch-long vertical cut in the center of his forehead ended at his hairline while four perfectly round pockmarks matched the curvature less than a quarter inch above his left eyebrow. A six-inch horizontal scar peaked out from the waistband of his shorts along his right hip, and the tail end of a vertical scar that extended beyond sight up the inside of his right knee. Stretch marks stripped his body where his physical growth had strained at his skin. A diamond shaped patch of curly hair adorned the space between his pectorals, its tail trailing down the center of his abdomen and disappearing into the waist of his shorts. He was every inch the model specimen of a young male in the throes of adolescence.
Jo continued to pant for a few seconds before forcing his breath to fall under his control. His head was swimming from what was parallel to a runners high. Every muscle in his body burned and ached with lactic acid build-up and the strain of the weight-training he’d finished before moving on to work the bag. He turned from the bag and walked over to the bench where he’s left his sweat towel and water bottle, leaving the mess of the ruined piece of gym equipment to be cleaned up by the janitorial staff who swooped in as soon as he stepped away. Such devastating displays of power were a regular occurrence here where super-humans came to train. He grabbed up his towel and draped it over his shoulders, mopping off his face with a loose end before squeezing a jet of water into his mouth. His heart pounded relentlessly in his chest, and his body seemed to radiate heat. He needed to cool down, but the Path was well heated beneath the sandy floor of the Colosseum. Jo walked blindly to the tunnel that lead to that sandy stage, hoping the frigid temperatures of Kumo’s winters would relieve him.
He wasn’t disappointed. Snow fell thick and heavy from a black night sky so that you couldn’t tell whether snow or sand covered the ground. One bare-footed step revealed it was a two-inch layer of the prior covering the foot-thick layer of the latter. Jo wandered out to the center of the arena floor and stopped, glancing up at the stands. They were silent, dark and empty. Colosseum closed for the winter, there being no one willing to sit out in the devastating cold for more than a few minutes to watch a fight. The fat snowflakes steamed as they connected with his bare shoulders and chest, melting and mixing with his sweat. To a random passer-by, it would appear he was wreathed in steam as his body temperature, warmer than most even before working out, caused steam to tumble and swirl as it escaped his sweat-matted hair and dampened body. He opened his mouth to suck in the fresh air and blew out a cloud of steam.
Jo’s workouts were always hard and heavy, but tonight was something different. The Beast within him had become restless after his meeting with Takaki Enjeru, his girlfriend Saeko’s older brother, and the child of the Main Branch Sennin Takaki Masao. Quiet jubilation at her brothers camaraderie and promised assistance in the courting of his sister had awoken the Wolf in his soul, exciting him in more ways than one. In order to burn off the excess energy and hopefully get Him to quiet down (not to mention get in a much needed workout), he’d decided to head over to the Path and pump some iron. It worked, but now he was exhausted.
Part of the many things Jo enjoyed about his profession was the fact that even after the most rigorous of training, with his body completely exhausted, his brain was still willing and able to work. Now, here in the silence, even his mind was completely still. The silent solace of still, snowy solitude surrounded him.
BLINK
… Nothing… No bodies… No gore… No memories of combat and death. All he saw was Saeko. The way she smiled, the way she playfully taunted him. The look in her eyes when their defenses fall, and they were the only two people in the world. Only one thing stood between them and the happiness he knew they could have; the only man in the world who loved her as much as he did (though in a dramatically different way). Her father; his boss. Tomorrow they would meet for the first time outside of “the office” (as it were). There was nothing Jo could do until then but wait.
{MFT: 1171}