Arata-sensei's gaze swept across the room, his expression neutral. Unlike Daigo-sensei, who carried a constant air of exasperation, this man radiated something different.
I couldn't place my finger to it so I discarded the thought.
"Bukijutsu," he began, "is not simply the art of wielding weapons. It is an extension of your body, an extension of your will, and, if necessary, an extension of your intent to kill."
His tone was smooth, almost casual, yet every word carried weight.
A few of my classmates shifted uncomfortably at his last words, but I remained still, taking in his every word. Arata-sensei didn't sugarcoat anything. That was something I respected.
"Many of you think you already know how to fight," he continued. "That's fine. But let me make something very clear—this is not some mindless swinging competition. Mastery over a weapon means mastery over distance, timing, and the opponent's psychology. Fail to understand that, and you'll die with steel in your gut before you even realize you lost."
Silence.
He nodded at the reactions and continued. "If you think this lesson is about picking up a weapon and looking cool, leave now."
No one moved.
I expected as much.
Arata-sensei tilted his head slightly, as if waiting for a challenge. When none came, he exhaled through his nose.
"Good."
With a sharp motion, he grabbed a wooden practice sword from the rack beside him and tossed it into the air. The moment it reached its peak, his arm blurred—
Crack.
The wooden sword shattered midair, splintering into useless fragments. He had struck it with his bare fist before gravity could even reclaim it.
Silence.
I stiffened. I'd seen demonstrations before, but something about the way he did it—fast and effortless—sent a clear message. This wasn't a man who wasted movements. This was a man who knew exactly how much force was needed to break something.
A cold reminder that, in battle, weapons weren't the only things that could be broken.
Arata-sensei let the shattered pieces fall to the ground, stepping over them without care. He nodded, seemingly satisfied with our silence. "Weapons are tools," he continued. "They are not what makes you strong. You make them strong."
"Now," he said, stepping forward, "before we move on, I want each of you to answer a question. If you were facing an opponent with a weapon, what would you do first? You." He pointed at one of the students.
A girl a few rows ahead sat up straight. "Analyze their stance."
Arata-sensei nodded. "A good start. Next?"
Another student hesitated before answering. "Check their grip on the weapon?"
"Correct."
One by one, he called on more students. Each gave their answer—distance, footing, movement—until finally, his eyes landed on me.
I already knew my answer.
"Break their rhythm."
His brow raised slightly. "Oh?"
I met his gaze. "No one fights at full efficiency when they're forced to adjust to something unexpected. If I can disrupt their tempo before they establish control, I create an opening."
Arata-sensei's brow lifted slightly, and for the first time, the corner of his mouth twitched.
"Interesting."
His gaze lingered for a moment before he moved on.
Once the questioning was done, he clapped his hands together. "Now that I've heard your thoughts, it's time for the real lesson." He turned toward the door. "Follow me."
…
The Armory Pavilion
The Armory Pavilion wasn't just a storage room filled with weapons—it was an entire section of the academy dedicated to acquisition and maintainance of academy weapons.
Rows upon rows of weapons lined the walls, from polished katana and spears to exotic choices like tonfa, naginata and kusarigama…almost every conventional weapon imaginable was present.
"Each of you will choose a weapon today," Arata-sensei announced. "This will be your designated weapon until you graduate."
Murmurs rippled through the group causing Arata-sensei to smirk at our reactions. "Choose wisely. A poor choice will haunt you for years."
That's true. Wouldn't want to waste quality time building upon a discipline not suitable for you.
I walked among the weapon racks, my fingers brushing over the hilts and shafts.
Many students swarmed the sword rack like moths to an open flame, eyes gleaming as they reached for sleek katanas and shorter ninjatō.
Others gravitated toward spears, turning them over in their hands like they were already picturing some grand battlefield moment.
Me?
I walked right past all of it.
Swords were flashy. Attention-grabbing.
The kind of thing that made people stare and expect greatness the moment you unsheathed one. And that was exactly the kind of expectation I wanted no part of.
Seriously though, a sword was powerful, but predictable. The moment you saw someone unsheath one, you knew what to expect—slashes, thrusts, precision strikes.
No, I needed something quieter. Something that didn't scream, Look at me! I am a warrior of legend! every time I held it.
Then, I saw it.
A staff.
Plain, unassuming. Just a long, sturdy wooden bo with no unnecessary embellishments. No shine, no deadly curve—just a tool that spoke not of power, but control.
Perfect.
I lifted it, giving it a slow spin. It felt natural.
Balanced.
A solid whuff cut through the air, followed by a satisfying thud as I struck the ground lightly with one end. Unlike a blade, which was limited to cutting and stabbing, a staff had versatility. It could strike, defend, disarm.
Control, not just destroy.
Arata-sensei approached, glancing at my choice. "A staff?"
I met his gaze. "A blade can only cut. A staff can control."
For a moment, there was silence.
Then, he smirked.
"Hmm."
One by one, we recorded our choices in a thick ledger near the entrance. Each student wrote their name and selected weapon.
I wrote:
Haruki Murakami – Staff
When the last name was signed, Arata-sensei turned back to us.
"These weapons are yours until you graduate," he said. "You will train with them, master them, and learn their strengths and weaknesses."
His eyes sharpened. "Some of you may regret your choices. Some of you may find them limiting. But that's the point—a weapon is only as strong as the one wielding it."
He let the words settle before smirking.
"Let's see how well you adapt."
I tightened my grip on my staff.
I had no doubt in my mind and I knew I had made the right choice.
…
By the time we were done recording our weapons, the academy day was already winding down. Students drifted from the Armory Pavilion in groups, some excitedly discussing their new weapons, others second-guessing their choices.
I kept my staff resting across my shoulders, hands draped over it lazily as I walked. It earned a few side-glances—probably because it wasn't a sword or something that looked lethal—but no one said anything outright.
That was fine by me.
The academy grounds were still lively despite classes ending. Training fields were still occupied, and a few students lingered to get extra practice in before heading home.
Just as I was about to leave, I spotted a familiar group heading in my direction.
"Murakami!"
I turned at the familiar voice.
Daichi, with his usual easy grin, was making his way toward me. He was in another class, but we always managed to cross paths by the end of the day.
Tsubaki was right behind him, arms folded, her sharp gaze sweeping the crowd like she was evaluating everyone's worth. Renji and Sota followed, chatting animatedly about their training.
And, of course, Katsuro Nara trailed slightly behind, hands in his pockets, looking like he hadn't a single worry in the world.
"Yo," I greeted, shifting my staff so it didn't jab Daichi in the ribs.
Daichi whistled when he saw it. "A staff? Didn't take you for the type."
I shrugged. "Swords are too much trouble."
"You just don't want attention," Tsubaki pointed out.
"Exactly."
Renji laughed. "At least you're self-aware."
The six of us walked together, talking about our classes, our instructors, and, most importantly, what we planned to do with the rest of our evening.
"I'm heading to the orphanage," Renji said, cracking his neck. "The younger ones keep trying to outdo each other in sparring matches. They need a referee before someone loses an eye."
Sota smirked. "I keep telling you, let them lose an eye. That's how real warriors are made."
"Spoken like someone who isn't responsible for them," Renji shot back.
Daichi clapped a hand on my shoulder. "You coming?"
I shook my head. "Nah. Got work."
They didn't question it. They all knew about the store, and one by one, they peeled off toward their own destinations. Katsuro was the last to leave, giving me a lazy wave before heading toward the Nara district.
And then, it was just me.
With my new weapon in hand, I started my walk toward the East Market District
The streets were busy this time of day, but I barely noticed.
My mind was elsewhere—on the staff resting against my shoulder, on the weight of it, on what it meant to wield something that wasn't sharp, wasn't designed to kill in one clean stroke.
Not like I was planning to become a killer. Yeah, yeah, all Shinobi must kill at one point in time, but still, if I can help it, why kill?
If you attacked me with the intent to kill…now that was another matter entirely.
And so, the more I thought about it, the more I realized that choosing the staff was the easy part.
The real challenge? Figuring out how to use it.
I frowned.
A sword? You had endless references for that. Swordsmen were everywhere, paintings, scrolls, history books. Hell, there was even an entire country of them.
Though they go by samurai.
Classic.
The techniques were well-documented. If you wanted to learn how to use a blade, all you had to do was find someone willing to teach.
But a bo staff?
That was different.
I knew the basics—how to grip it, how to shift stances, how to swing with momentum rather than brute strength—but beyond that?
Nothing.
I twirled the staff absentmindedly as I walked, earning a few odd looks from passing merchants.
Would I have to figure this out alone? Trial and error?
That sounded inefficient.
And possibly painful.
Not to mention, time consuming.
Tch..
I clicked my tongue and exhaled sharply through my nose.
If I had to guess, Arata-sensei was probably my best bet for guidance, and if the academy had a manual or scroll on bojutsu, he'd be the one to ask.
It made sense, really. Why struggle in the dark when there was a direct path to learning?
Yeah. That's what I'd do.
Next time I saw him, I'd ask.
With my decision made, I refocused on my surroundings.
The East Market District was alive as usual—food stalls releasing fragrant steam into the air, merchants calling out deals, children weaving through the crowds, giggling as they dodged customers.
It smelled like grilled skewers, fresh-baked sweet buns, and too many bodies pressed into the same space.
Familiar.
Comforting.
And just a little chaotic.
I turned down a quieter side street, nearing my destination.
The store wasn't anything grand. Just a small general shop tucked between a tea house and a fabric vendor, its sign slightly faded from years of sun and rain.
Home.
At least, that's what it had been for a long time. Too bad we were moving to a bigger place after this year.