Chapter 3: Empty Yards

The cold pressed against my face before I opened my eyes. Pre-dawn air had leaked through gaps in the dormitory walls while I slept, turning the room into something that felt like walking into a root cellar. My ribs announced themselves immediately when I tried to take a deeper breath, sharp enough that I had to hold still and wait for the pain to settle into something manageable.

I didn't move yet. Just lay there on the thin mat, listening to the breathing patterns around me. Thirty-two students in this section of the dormitory, give or take. Most breathed with the deep, slow rhythm of people still hours from waking. A few had irregular patterns that suggested lighter sleep or recent nightmares. One kid near the far wall had some kind of congestion that made each exhale whistle slightly through blocked sinuses.

My analytical mind cataloged it all automatically, the same way I used to process ambient office noise while working through spreadsheet data. White noise that contained information if you bothered to extract it. Breathing patterns revealed stress levels, sleep quality, physical condition. Not useful information right now, but my brain didn't care about usefulness. It just collected and sorted and filed away observations whether I wanted it to or not.

The ceiling beams were barely visible in the darkness. High windows let in starlight, enough to see rough outlines but not details. I counted my own breaths, testing how deep I could inhale before the pain jumped from dull ache to sharp protest. Five counts in. Three counts out. Shallow breathing that wouldn't be sustainable during physical exertion, but maybe enough to get through solo kata practice.

Solo drills at dawn. The instructor's punishment for losing focus during sparring. Except now that I could think without the immediate confusion of active combat, the punishment seemed designed as an assessment tool rather than pure discipline. Solo drills meant no partner interference. No variables from another student's skill level or aggressive tendencies. Just me and the basic kata forms, providing clean data about whether I could execute fundamental techniques without the chaos of sparring to hide behind.

I needed to sit up. Lying here processing thoughts wouldn't tell me if I could physically perform the assigned drills. The tight binding around my ribs restricted movement, but the elderly woman at the medical station had wrapped it for a reason. Keeping damaged ribs immobile during healing, probably. Which meant the binding should allow some range of motion while preventing the kind of sharp twisting that would cause further injury.

I shifted my weight slightly to the right, testing how my torso responded. Pain, but expected pain. The kind that came from bruised tissue rather than something tearing or breaking. I could work with expected pain. I rolled further onto my side, using my elbow for leverage while keeping my core as still as possible.

Getting vertical proved easier than anticipated. My body apparently had practice sitting up while injured, muscle memory guiding me through movements that minimized stress on damaged areas. I ended up cross-legged on the mat, slightly hunched forward, ribs protesting but holding together under the tight binding.

I started with small rotational movements. Turning my shoulders left while keeping my hips stationary, watching for the angle where dull ache transformed into sharp warning. Found it around thirty degrees. Same test to the right, similar results. Forward flexion was worse, limiting me to maybe twenty degrees before my ribs sent signals suggesting I stop immediately.

The range of motion data was useful. I could turn, but not quickly. I could bend forward slightly for striking positions, but not enough for the kind of low sweeping kicks I'd seen other students practice. Any combat application would need to work within these limitations, treating my injured state as a constraint rather than an excuse.

Around me, the dormitory remained mostly asleep. A few students stirred occasionally, shifting positions on their mats or mumbling something incoherent before settling back into deeper sleep. Nobody was watching me perform flexibility tests in the darkness. Nobody cared whether I could rotate thirty degrees or three hundred.

I extended one leg, then the other, feeling for stiffness or new pain points. My legs seemed fine. Whatever damage yesterday's sparring had caused was concentrated in my torso. That meant footwork drills might be executable even if upper body techniques were compromised.

I started a series of stretches, moving through positions that tested different muscle groups while monitoring my ribs for warning signs. Hamstring flexibility was better than expected, probably because this body spent hours every day drilling combat stances that required dynamic leg movement. Shoulder mobility was restricted by the binding, but shoulders connected to ribs and I'd expected that limitation.

The stretching routine felt familiar despite my complete lack of memory regarding when or how I'd learned these specific movements. Muscle memory again, this body's accumulated training overriding my consciousness to guide me through warmup sequences that apparently preceded morning drills. I let the autopilot continue while my analytical mind focused on cataloging which positions caused pain and which remained accessible.

Ten minutes of careful testing provided enough data. I could move, within limits. The kata drills would hurt, but probably wouldn't cause additional damage if I avoided sharp twisting motions and kept my core engaged to support the binding. Pain was just information. My nervous system sending signals about tissue damage and inflammation. Acknowledging the signals didn't mean obeying them when other priorities took precedence.

I stood up slowly, using a nearby support post for balance. The dormitory floor was cold against my bare feet, wooden planks that had absorbed the night air and now leached heat from any contact. Other students slept in various positions around the room, their mats arranged in rows that maximized available space while maintaining minimal gaps between bodies.

Three mats near the entrance were empty. Not disheveled like someone had just left, but empty and neat, suggesting those students had departed some time ago. Which meant pre-dawn training wasn't just punishment for poor performers. Some students woke even earlier than required for voluntary practice sessions.

That information shifted my understanding of the compound's culture. Mandatory training was baseline. Students who wanted to advance beyond minimal competency added extra hours before and after assigned drills. The empty mats represented competition I hadn't factored into my initial assessment, students who were investing additional effort to distinguish themselves from the median performers who only showed up when required.

I needed to move before someone woke and asked what I was doing standing around analyzing empty sleeping mats. I started walking toward the dormitory exit, stepping carefully over sleeping forms. The path required navigation, weaving between mats placed close enough that a careless step could land on someone's hand or head.

My bare feet found gaps between bodies with practiced precision. This body had walked this route before, probably countless times during previous early morning training sessions. The muscle memory guided me through the darkness while my conscious mind focused on maintaining balance despite restricted torso mobility.

The dormitory entrance was just a doorway, no actual door to open. I passed through into air that was somehow colder than inside, winter morning temperatures that hadn't yet received any warming from the sun still below the horizon. My breath formed visible clouds, body heat meeting cold air and condensing into temporary fog that dissipated within seconds.

The compound stretched out ahead of me in pre-dawn darkness. Buildings were visible as geometric shadows against a sky that was starting to shift from black to deep blue at the eastern edge. Stars still marked the western sky, though their brightness was fading as ambient light increased toward the coming sunrise.

I crossed packed dirt paths between buildings, navigating by memory and educated guessing about which direction would lead to the training yard. Yesterday's walk to the medical station had given me partial data about the compound layout. The practice areas were beyond that building with the red banner, which should be somewhere to my left if I was oriented correctly.

Storage buildings passed on both sides. Wooden structures that probably held training equipment, supplies, maybe food stores for the communal meals I'd missed yesterday. Everything was quiet except for my footsteps and breathing, the compound not yet active for morning routines.

My ribs protested each step, jarring slightly despite my attempts to walk smoothly. The pain was manageable, background noise that my brain could filter out while focusing on navigation and environmental observation. I kept moving, building a better mental map of this facility than I'd possessed yesterday when confusion and disorientation had prevented systematic observation.

The path opened into a larger area. Training yard, almost certainly. Even in the dim pre-dawn light I could see the open space, the worn dirt marked with patterns from countless feet executing the same techniques over months and years. Weapon racks lined one edge, empty now but showing signs of heavy use. The ground itself was uneven, packed harder in some areas where students stood during drills, looser in sections where sweeping kicks and falling bodies had disrupted the surface.

I walked toward the center of the yard, looking for the specific area where kata drills were typically performed. The dirt showed different wear patterns in different sections. Sparring happened in that cleared zone to the right, based on the scuff marks and irregular patches suggesting bodies hitting the ground. Weapon practice over there, where the dirt was marked with straight lines from staff impacts and blade strikes into the earth during missed attacks.

The kata practice area was less obvious. I looked for space that showed repetitive foot patterns, the same positions marked over and over by students executing identical forms. Found it toward the back of the yard, where the dirt showed subtle depressions arranged in geometric configurations that suggested standardized movement sequences.

I walked to that section and stopped at what seemed like a starting position based on the foot pattern wear. My body shifted into a ready stance automatically, feet shoulder-width apart, knees slightly bent, hands positioned in some configuration that felt correct despite my complete inability to explain why this positioning mattered.

The kata started with a forward step. My right foot moved before I consciously decided to move it, muscle memory executing the first element of the sequence. My left hand came up in a blocking motion while my right pulled back to my hip. Standard opening for a basic combat form, probably, though I had no framework for understanding what made one kata opening standard versus innovative.

The second movement should follow the first. Except my body reached the end of the blocking motion and just stopped, muscle memory failing to provide the next step. I stood there frozen mid-form, ribs aching from the torso rotation, waiting for autopilot to kick in and show me what came next.

Nothing happened. The sequence was incomplete in whatever neural pathways stored this body's combat training. I knew the opening because it had been drilled into permanent memory through repetitive practice. The continuation existed somewhere in my physical training, but not reliably enough that my body could execute without conscious guidance I didn't possess.

I returned to the starting position and tried again. Forward step, block, return to neutral. Same result. The kata ended after one and a half movements, leaving me standing in a combat-ready stance with nowhere to go and no idea what the form expected next.

This was going to be a problem. The instructor had assigned solo kata drills, probably expecting me to spend the morning practicing forms I should already know. Instead I was discovering that this body's training was fragmented, pieces of techniques stored in muscle memory but not complete sequences I could execute start to finish.

I started the kata a third time, paying more attention to what my body was doing during the movements it did remember. The forward step transferred weight from back foot to front while rotating my hips slightly to generate power for the blocking motion. The block itself came from the shoulder, arm sweeping up and across to deflect an imagined strike from the right. The return to neutral position reset my stance for whatever the next movement should be.

Force vectors and weight distribution. My analytical mind started processing the kata as a mechanical system rather than a combat technique. The hip rotation multiplied the power available from just arm movement alone. The weight transfer provided stability during the block, preventing me from being knocked off balance by a strong attack. The return to neutral wasn't just ending the sequence but preparing for the next defensive or offensive motion.

I tried a different approach. Instead of waiting for muscle memory to provide the next movement, I attempted to logically extend the sequence based on the mechanical principles I'd identified. The kata had started with a right-side block, weight on my front foot. Logically the next movement should either continue the attack on that side or switch to address a threat from the left.

I stepped forward with my left foot while bringing my right hand up in a striking motion toward where an opponent's head might be. The movement felt wrong immediately, balance shifting awkwardly because I'd transferred weight without rotating my hips to support the new stance. I stumbled slightly, ribs flaring with pain from the sharp movement correction needed to avoid falling.

Not the correct next movement. I returned to the starting position and tried again, this time attempting a left-side block as the natural mirror of the opening right-side block. Forward step with the left foot, left hand sweeping up and across, right hand pulling back to my hip in the same position the left had occupied during the first block.

That felt more correct, though still not entirely right. The movement was mechanically sound, weight transfer and hip rotation working together to generate power. But something about the transition between right block and left block was too abrupt, missing some intermediate step that would make the sequence flow naturally rather than feeling like two disconnected techniques jammed together.

I worked through the two-movement sequence repeatedly, trying to smooth the transition. Right block, return to neutral, left block. The return to neutral was taking too long, a dead moment in the kata where I was standing in ready position waiting to execute the next technique. Combat didn't have dead moments. If this was a defensive form, attacks would keep coming without pausing to let me reset my stance between blocks.

I eliminated the return to neutral position, trying to flow directly from right block into left block. That required keeping my weight shifting continuously, never settling into a stable stance but instead treating the kata as constant motion. Forward step, right block, continue the forward momentum into a second step, left block, keep moving.

The sequence started feeling more correct. Still not perfect, still missing something my incomplete muscle memory couldn't provide. But the continuous motion principle seemed valid, treating the kata as a flowing defense against multiple attacks rather than isolated techniques with pauses between executions.

Behind me, footsteps approached across the training yard. Not the quick pace of a student rushing to start practice, but measured steps that suggested someone moving with deliberate purpose. I didn't turn to look, just continued working through the kata sequence, trying to extend it past the two movements I'd managed to string together.

The footsteps stopped. Whoever had arrived was watching me now, observing my clumsy attempts to reconstruct a basic form from fragments of muscle memory and logical inference. I forced myself to continue the movements despite the scrutiny, refusing to freeze mid-sequence just because someone was evaluating my performance.

Right block, left block, attempt a third movement. I tried stepping back while bringing both hands up in a defensive position, reasoning that a tactical retreat might be a valid response after blocking two attacks. The movement felt completely wrong, breaking the forward momentum that had made the first two techniques flow together. I stumbled again, ribs protesting the sharp weight shift.

"Weight transfers from back foot to front during the third sequence."

The voice came from behind me, rough and quiet. Male, older than the students I'd heard talking in the dormitory. I turned carefully, ribs limiting how quickly I could rotate, and found myself looking at the scarred man from yesterday's training yard.

He stood three paces away, wearing the same worn patrol gear I'd noticed before. The scarring on his face was more visible in the growing dawn light, burn damage maybe, or some combat injury that had healed badly. His expression was neutral, giving nothing away about why he was here watching a struggling student practice basic kata at dawn.

I didn't say anything. Partly because I had no idea what would be appropriate to say to someone who might be an instructor or senior clan member or just another shinobi who happened to be crossing the training yard. Partly because my ribs were sending sharp pain signals that made talking seem like unnecessary effort.

He watched me for another moment, then stepped forward and shifted into a ready stance. His movements were economical, no wasted motion as he positioned his feet and hands. He executed the kata opening I'd been struggling with—right block, left block—then continued into a third movement that involved stepping forward while rotating his hips and extending his right hand in a palm strike toward where an opponent's chest would be.

The weight transfer was exactly what he'd described. His back foot drove forward, hip rotation generating power that flowed through his torso and into the extended arm. The strike looked capable of breaking ribs if it connected, force multiplied by proper body mechanics into something much harder than a simple arm extension could produce.

He held the final position for a second, letting me observe the weight distribution and body alignment, then stepped back and returned to neutral stance. No explanation, no elaboration beyond the single correction about weight transfer. He turned and walked away across the training yard, heading toward the compound gates where dawn patrol duties probably awaited.

I watched him leave, processing what I'd just observed. The third movement wasn't a retreat. It was an offensive technique, using the momentum from blocking two attacks to drive forward with a counterattack. The entire sequence was about controlling space, moving forward while defending and then converting that forward pressure into a strike.

I returned to the starting position and attempted the three-movement sequence. Right block while stepping forward. Left block while continuing forward. Palm strike while driving from my back foot and rotating my hips to transfer maximum power through my extended arm.

The weight transfer made everything different. Instead of treating each technique as an isolated movement, the correct execution required thinking about the entire sequence as connected flow. The first block set up the second block. The second block positioned me for the strike. Everything built on what came before, force vectors and momentum carrying through the complete form.

My strike was terrible compared to his demonstration. My hips didn't rotate enough, limiting the power transfer. My back foot didn't drive hard enough, making the forward step feel tentative rather than committed. My ribs protested every element of the movement, the tight binding restricting the torso rotation necessary for proper execution.

But the mechanical principles were clear now. The kata was a system of connected movements where each technique set up the next, weight transfer and momentum flowing through the sequence to generate maximum combat effectiveness. Understanding the system meant I could practice the components separately, drilling hip rotation and weight transfer until my body executed them correctly, then reassembling the pieces into the complete form.

I started from the beginning again, focusing on the weight transfer during the first block. Right foot forward, drive from the back leg, rotate hips to power the blocking motion. The movement felt marginally better, my body starting to learn the correct mechanical pattern through repetition.

The morning light was growing stronger, darkness fading into the gray that preceded actual sunrise. The training yard was still empty except for me, other students presumably still sleeping in the dormitories. I had time to work through this sequence repeatedly before anyone arrived to observe my continued failure at basic techniques.

I executed the three-movement kata again. Right block, left block, palm strike. Still clumsy, still missing the smooth flow I'd seen in the scarred man's demonstration. But better than my first attempts, my analytical mind cataloging each repetition and identifying specific points where my execution diverged from the correct form.

The hip rotation needed work. I was rotating from my shoulders instead of driving the movement from my hips, making the blocks weaker and throwing off my balance. I isolated just the rotation component, practicing the twisting motion without the arm movements, feeling how proper hip drive affected my weight distribution and stability.

My ribs hated the rotation drills. Each twist sent sharp pain through my torso, the injured tissue protesting movement that compressed and stretched the damaged areas. I pushed through it anyway, treating the pain as feedback about which movements stressed my injuries rather than a signal to stop.

After twenty repetitions of just hip rotation, I added the blocking motion back in. Right block with proper hip drive, feeling the difference in power generation when my whole body contributed to the movement instead of just my arm. The block felt more solid, like it could actually deflect a real strike rather than just going through the motions.

I worked through the complete sequence again, incorporating the improved hip rotation. Right block, left block, palm strike. The flow was better, movements connecting more naturally as the weight transfer carried through from beginning to end. Still not good enough to impress anyone watching, but closer to functional combat technique than the disconnected motions I'd started with.

Sweat was forming despite the cold morning air. My body was working hard to execute these movements, generating heat that turned the pre-dawn chill into something almost comfortable. The binding around my ribs was getting damp, fabric absorbing moisture while continuing to hold my torso in stable configuration.

I started the kata over and began repeating the corrected sequence, treating each attempt as data collection. My mind catalogued which movements felt mechanically sound versus which still needed adjustment. Foot placement during the left block was slightly too wide, throwing off my balance before the palm strike. The palm strike itself was extending too early, arm reaching full extension before my hips finished rotating and transferred their power.

Each problem I identified became the focus for the next several repetitions. Narrow the stance during the left block, feeling how the adjusted foot position improved my stability. Delay the arm extension during the palm strike, letting hip rotation complete before my hand traveled the final distance to the target.

The process was familiar despite the completely foreign context. This was system optimization, the same analytical methodology I'd spent forty years applying to data analysis and process improvement. Identify the variables, test different configurations, measure the results, iterate toward better performance. The domain had changed from spreadsheet formulas to combat techniques, but the underlying approach remained valid.

My body was learning faster than my conscious mind could track. Muscle memory was forming through repetition, neural pathways strengthening as I executed the same movements over and over. The kata was becoming smoother with each attempt, my body starting to automate the correct patterns even though my analytical mind was still consciously directing each component.

I executed the sequence again, paying attention to how the movements flowed together. Right block, left block, palm strike. The transition from block to block was finally feeling natural, my body maintaining forward momentum without the awkward pause that had disrupted my earlier attempts. The palm strike still lacked the devastating power I'd seen in the scarred man's demonstration, but the mechanical structure was approaching correctness.

My ribs were sending increasingly urgent pain signals, the repetitive twisting and weight transfer accumulating stress on damaged tissue. I'd been drilling for maybe thirty minutes based on the increasing light in the eastern sky. Sunrise was approaching, which meant other students would start arriving soon for mandatory morning training.

I needed to continue practicing. The instructor had assigned solo kata drills, which meant I was expected to spend the entire morning session working these forms. Stopping now because of rib pain would signal weakness, suggesting I couldn't handle basic punishment assignments designed to correct poor performance.

I returned to starting position and began the sequence again. Right block, weight driving from my back foot, hips rotating to power the arm movement. Left block, maintaining forward momentum, second hip rotation flowing naturally from the first. Palm strike, back foot driving hard, final hip rotation transferring maximum force through my extended arm toward the target.

The sequence was becoming automatic now, my body executing movements without requiring conscious direction for each component. I could feel the combat application starting to emerge from the mechanical drilling. This wasn't just a practice form, it was a functional defense against multiple attackers, moving forward while blocking strikes and then countering with an attack that could end the engagement.

My analytical mind started deconstructing the kata as a whole system rather than isolated techniques. The forward movement wasn't just about maintaining momentum. It was about controlling the engagement distance, moving into range where my counterattack could land while staying mobile enough that a single opponent couldn't pin me down. The blocks weren't just deflecting attacks, they were redirecting force while positioning my body for the palm strike. The palm strike itself was targeting center mass, the body's largest target area and the location where a solid hit would do maximum damage to combat effectiveness.

Everything connected. Every movement served multiple purposes, setting up the next technique while executing the current one. This was systematic combat thinking, treating warfare as an engineering problem with optimal solutions derivable through analysis and testing.

I executed the kata again, focusing on the targeting for the palm strike. The scarred man had aimed for chest height, which made sense given that most opponents would be approximately human-sized and center mass sat roughly at chest level. But the exact targeting would vary based on opponent height and stance, requiring real-time adjustment based on visual input.

The training yard was getting lighter. Dawn was maybe ten minutes away based on the sky color shifting from dark blue to lighter shades. Soon the sun would clear the horizon and morning training would officially begin, students filing out of dormitories to start their assigned drills under instructor supervision.

I kept working through the kata, treating each repetition as refinement of an increasingly efficient system. My hip rotation was approaching the power generation I'd observed in the demonstration. My foot placement was settling into positions that maximized stability while maintaining forward momentum. My ribs were screaming with every movement, but the pain was just information now, signals my brain acknowledged and then filed away as non-critical feedback.

Right block. Left block. Palm strike. The sequence flowed like water now, continuous motion from start to finish without the choppy transitions that had marked my early attempts. My body was understanding the kata as a complete system, executing the movements with mechanical precision that was approaching combat effectiveness.

I started the sequence over, my mind systematically deconstructing each component of the form. Foot placement created the foundation, positioned to transfer power efficiently while maintaining balance throughout continuous forward movement. Hip rotation multiplied available force, turning simple arm movements into techniques capable of generating real combat power. Weight distribution controlled the flow, each technique setting up the next through careful management of where my body mass was positioned and how momentum carried through the connected movements.