The next morning, the sun was still low in the sky as Arin ventured out, his eyes hard with determination. He had spent the night wrestling with his thoughts, trying to decide on the best course of action. He couldn't afford to sit idly by, waiting for magic to come to him. If he couldn't wield it, he would find another way to survive.
He had heard of a martial arts district on the outskirts of the city. It was a rough part of town, full of run-down dojos and street fighters, but it was where ordinary people honed their bodies into weapons. Arin wasn't sure what to expect, but he knew that if he wanted to survive, he had to learn to fight.
The district was a maze of narrow streets and alleyways. The air was thick with the scent of sweat and oil, and the sounds of clashing metal and grunting bodies echoed from the small dojos lining the streets. Arin felt a mixture of anticipation and unease as he walked deeper into the district. This was not the academy he had dreamed of attending, nor the clean, polished halls of noble warriors. This was a place for the desperate and the broken — people who had no choice but to fight.
After passing several shabby dojos, he found one that seemed even more dilapidated than the others. The sign above the door was weathered and cracked, the characters barely legible. It didn't look like much, but Arin pushed the door open and stepped inside.
The dojo was dimly lit, with wooden beams creaking overhead and the faint smell of incense in the air. An elderly man with silver hair and a hunched back was sweeping the floor, his movements slow and methodical. He didn't even look up as Arin entered, as if he were used to people walking in and out of his life. But when Arin spoke, the man's eyes flicked up, sharp and calculating.
"What do you want, boy?" the old man asked, his voice raspy but firm.
"I want to learn how to fight," Arin replied, trying to sound confident, though his voice faltered slightly.
The man raised an eyebrow but didn't speak for a moment. He set down his broom, walked over to Arin, and studied him. There was a coldness in his eyes, as if he were judging whether Arin had the strength to back up his words.
"Strength isn't something you can learn overnight," the man said finally. "It's a slow, painful process. You think you can just walk in here and become a warrior?"
Arin met his gaze without flinching. "I don't have magic. But I have my body, and I'll make it a weapon."
The old man chuckled softly, a low, gravelly sound. "You think this is a game, boy? There's pain in the path you've chosen. No one leaves the dojo without scars."
"I'm ready," Arin said, his voice steady.
The old man studied him for a moment longer before nodding. "Alright. You'll train here. But don't expect it to be easy."