Chapter 15: The Shopkeeper's Lesson
The artificial sun hung high in the nebula sky, casting a warm, yellow light on the perfectly manicured meadow of Urahara's dimension. It was a peaceful day, one of those rare interludes between cosmic crises where the only task on the agenda was to exist. For Kara Zor-El, however, peace was a restless concept. Years of being a hero, a warrior, had conditioned her to a state of constant readiness. Silence made her nervous.
That's why, that afternoon, she found herself in the center of the garden, a training sword in hand. Urahara had "found" it for her in his storeroom, a dull blade of dark metal, perfectly balanced. It was a reminder of her time on Themyscira, of the lessons she had received from Wonder Woman and the Amazons. A reminder of a way of fighting that didn't rely on heat vision or super-strength.
She was trying to recreate the forms, the katas Diana had taught her. But something was fundamentally wrong. Her body, used to moving with the force of a ballistic missile, felt clumsy and heavy. Every swing she attempted, meant to be an arc of fluid grace, became an application of brute force that made the air whistle. Every thrust, which should have been a touch of precision, was a blunt, forced blow. The tension in her shoulders was visible, her grip on the hilt so tight her knuckles were white. She wasn't dancing with the blade; she was bullying it into obedience.
From the shadow of the porch, Urahara Kisuke watched in silence. He held a steaming teacup in both hands, his face partially hidden by the brim of his hat. There was no amusement in his gaze, but the intense, focused evaluation of a craftsman watching an apprentice mistreat a fine tool.
'Fascinating,' he thought, taking a sip of tea. 'It's like watching a god try to use a forge hammer to perform brain surgery. Her entire technique is based on the fundamental assumption that her strength will overwhelm the opponent. There is no deception, no redirection of the enemy's momentum, no respect for the blade. She treats the sword not as an extension of her body, but as a sharper club.'
He watched as Kara executed a thrust, putting her entire body weight into a single vector of force. 'Predictable. If her opponent simply stepped aside, her own momentum would make her lose her balance. She doesn't fight an opponent; she fights the empty space in front of her. It's a waste of a good sword.'
The straw that broke the camel's back was an attempt at a defensive spin. Kara tried to imitate a fluid movement she had seen Artemis do, a turn to dodge and counterattack in a single motion. But her feet got tangled, her center of gravity, used to being anchored by her own power, betrayed her. She stumbled, nearly falling, and had to use a small burst of her flight power to stabilize herself, an act that left her flushed with frustration.
It was then that Urahara finally stood up. He left his cup on the table and walked slowly toward the garden, his wooden sandals making a soft, rhythmic sound on the grass. He stopped at a respectful distance, his fan appearing from nowhere to cover his smile.
"An interesting form, Kara-san," he said, his voice a quiet note in the silence, but laden with barely concealed amusement.
Kara stopped, panting slightly, and wiped the sweat from her forehead. She frowned at him. "What do you mean, 'interesting'?"
"I mean that it's... enthusiastic," he replied, his eyes shining above the fan. He moved a little closer, his gaze sweeping over her tense posture. "May I ask what you are trying to do, exactly?"
Kara stopped, the training sword hanging from her hand. She felt exposed, as if the scientist had been observing her under a microscope, analyzing every one of her clumsy, failed movements. A flush of frustration and embarrassment rose up her neck.
"I'm practicing," she said, her voice a bit defensive. She straightened up, trying to regain some of her dignity. "Wonder Woman taught me a few things on Themyscira."
Mentioning one of the universe's greatest warriors was an attempt to validate her effort, to remind the shopkeeper that she wasn't a complete novice. Urahara nodded slowly, his face still half hidden by the fan.
"Ah, the Amazon technique," he replied, his tone appreciative. "A magnificent style. Direct, powerful, unadorned. It's excellent... if you're an Amazon, of course. Yours," he paused, his eyes glinting with an amusement that irritated her, "is... enthusiastic."
'Enthusiastic.' The word was so polite and so condescending that she almost would have preferred he call it "horrible." Kara tightened her grip on her sword, her frustration finding a target.
"And what do you know about swords?" she snapped, letting her irritation show. "You spend all day reading dusty scrolls and selling candy. I haven't seen you lift anything heavier than a teacup."
The provocation didn't seem to affect him. In fact, his smile widened. He snapped his fan shut with a dry click, a sound that seemed to cut the air.
"It might surprise you, Kara-san," he said, his tone now full of a playful confidence. "Despite being a very handsome and simple shopkeeper and candy vendor, it turns out I am also a very good teacher and fencing instructor. I've had a couple of millennia to practice, after all."
He took a step forward, his gaze both challenging and amused. "How about I give you a little lesson? Consider it my consultation fee."
Kara looked at him with absolute skepticism. The idea was ridiculous. This man, with his wooden sandals and his air of lazy superiority, teaching her, a Kryptonian trained by Amazons, how to fight? But her pride, wounded by his criticism, wouldn't let her refuse the challenge. If he wanted to make a fool of himself, she would be happy to oblige.
"Alright, shopkeeper," she said with a smug smile. "Show me what you've got."
"Excellent," he replied, rubbing his hands with theatrical glee. "But this isn't the right place. The grass is terrible for footwork." He turned and led her back to the shop, toward the basement trapdoor. "We need the proper ambiance."
They descended the ladder of light again, into the vast, silent underground cavern. Kara expected him to lead her to an open area, perhaps one of the training platforms she had seen before. But he guided her past the holographic monitors and energy reactors, toward a section of the cavern he hadn't shown her before, hidden behind a huge rock formation.
As she rounded the corner, Kara stopped dead.
Before her was a dojo. A traditional Japanese dojo, perfect down to the last detail. The floor was a dark, polished wood that gleamed under the light of paper lanterns hanging from the ceiling. The walls were delicate shoji screens, and in an alcove, there was a scroll with expert calligraphy. The air smelled of old wood, incense, and the subtle scent of clove oil used to clean katanas. It was a space of serenity and discipline, an anachronism so hilariously out of place in the middle of his high tech lab that Kara couldn't help but let out a disbelieving laugh.
"Seriously?" she said, gesturing at the scene. "You built all this down here?"
Urahara shrugged, leaning on his cane. "Ambiance is important for learning, Kara-san," he said with a wink. "Besides, sometimes I need a quiet place to think without supernova simulations distracting me."
He led her to the center of the polished floor. The contrast was absolute. She, in her Kryptonian training suit, and he, in his traditional attire, faced each other in the silence of the dojo, two impossibilities in a place that shouldn't exist. The lesson was about to begin.
…..
The dojo was in an almost reverential silence, broken only by the soft hum of the cavern's distant power systems. Kara stood in the center of the polished wooden floor, feeling its smooth surface under her boots. The atmosphere of the place, the formality, instinctively forced her to adopt a more disciplined combat stance.
Urahara stood opposite her, about ten meters away. He leaned casually on his cane sword, Benihime, using it as a simple wooden staff, with no intention of drawing it. His posture was relaxed, almost lazy, that of an old man waiting for the bus, not a master swordsman about to give a lesson.
"The rules are simple," he said, his voice a carefree note in the stillness. His smile was wide and genuine. "Try to hit me. You don't have to worry about hurting me. Go all out. Don't hold back in the slightest."
Kara looked at him skeptically. 'Don't hold back? If I don't hold back, I'll send him through that paper wall and probably through half the cavern.' But there was a glint in his eyes, a quiet challenge that intrigued her. She accepted his terms. If he wanted to be humiliated, who was she to deny him?
"Alright, shopkeeper," she said, her own smile now full of arrogant confidence. "But don't complain if I break your wooden toy."
She took her initial stance, the training sword held in both hands. She took a deep breath, gathering her power. She wasn't going to use her heat vision or her ice breath. This was a test of swordsmanship. But her speed and her strength... that was another story.
She decided to end it quickly.
With a burst of power that made the wooden floor creak under her feet, Kara charged. It wasn't the speed of a human, not even that of an Olympic athlete. It was the speed of a bullet train. In the blink of an eye, she crossed the ten meters separating them, her training sword aimed directly at Urahara's chest, a direct, brutally simple thrust, unstoppable for any normal opponent. Her goal was to plant the blunted tip of her sword in his chest and send him flying into the back wall.
Urahara didn't move.
He didn't tense up. He didn't adopt a defensive stance. He just stood there, leaning on his cane, watching her approach with an exasperating calm, his smile never wavering.
It was in the last nanosecond, the instant Kara's sword tip was centimeters from his kimono, that he finally reacted. His movement was so subtle, so economically perfect, it was almost invisible. He didn't jump back. He didn't leap aside. He simply took a small, almost lazy side step, pivoting on the heel of his wooden sandal.
Kara's sword met empty air.
Her own immense momentum carried her past where he had been, her body now off balance. As she shot past, he spun on his heels in one fluid motion. The bottom end of his cane slid across the floor and hooked gently around her ankle.
Kara felt the tug, an insignificant touch for her Kryptonian strength, but applied at the exact angle and moment to exploit her lack of balance. Her body, moving at incredible speed, was deprived of its foundation. The world tilted.
Before she could regain her balance, before her brain could send the signal to her muscles to use her power and stabilize, he was already behind her. He moved with her, like a shadow stuck to her back. And the top end of his cane, the one that a moment before was under his chin, now pressed gently against the vulnerable skin of her throat.
It had all lasted less than two seconds.
Kara froze. She could feel the smooth, polished wood against her windpipe. It wasn't a threat. There was no pressure. It was a period. A statement of fact. She was completely at his mercy. If that cane had been a sword, she would be dead.
The silence returned to the dojo, thick and heavy. Behind her, she couldn't even hear him breathe. There wasn't the slightest gasp of effort.
"Lesson number one," his voice finally said quietly, right next to her ear. His tone was no longer playful. It was that of a teacher.
"Strength without control is just noise. A lot of noise."
…..
Urahara removed his cane from Kara's throat and stepped back several paces, giving her space. The playful smile, the mask of the carefree shopkeeper, had completely vanished from his face. His gaze, now, was cold and analytical, that of a scientist observing a specimen or a general assessing a battlefield. The light atmosphere of the dojo evaporated, replaced by a tension so heavy it was almost palpable.
"Now," he said, his voice a low, serious murmur. "For real."
He held his cane sword in front of him with one hand. The handle, previously a simple wooden pommel, slid down with a soft click, revealing the hilt of a katana. He whispered two words, words that seemed to resonate not in the air, but in Kara's very soul.
"Nake, Benihime." ("Sing, Crimson Princess.")
The hidden blade slid from its cane sheath with an almost imperceptible hiss, a sound like tearing silk. It was not an ostentatious sword. It was a thin, straight, unadorned blade, of a steel so dark it seemed to absorb the light. But the instant it was revealed, Kara felt a change in the air, a surge of power and pressure that had nothing to do with physical strength.
Kara scrambled to her feet, her face burning with humiliation and a rising fury. Being defeated was one thing. Being defeated so easily and so dismissively by a man with a wooden stick was something else entirely. The lesson in humility hadn't landed as such. It had landed as an insult.
"Alright, shopkeeper," she hissed, her voice a low growl. "No more games."
She launched herself again. This time, not with a simple thrust, but with a flurry of attacks, a storm of steel powered by the force of a Kryptonian. Every swing was a blur of speed, every cut had enough force to split a tank in half. It was an assault of pure power, designed to overwhelm, to crush, to leave no room for tricks or side steps.
What followed was not a fight. It was a dissection.
Urahara didn't try to block her blows. To do so would have been madness, like trying to stop an avalanche with a paper umbrella. Instead, he danced. He moved with a fluidity that seemed to defy friction itself, every step, every turn, was a poem of efficiency. When Kara's sword came down, he wasn't there. He slid just out of her reach, and as the blade swept past, his own darted in.
The first cut was a surprise. Kara felt a sharp pain in the forearm holding the sword. She looked down and saw a thin red line welling up on her normally invulnerable skin. It wasn't a deep wound, barely a scratch, but the fact that he could hurt her so easily was a shock to her system. The cut forced her to readjust her grip. It was a lesson.
Furious, she redoubled her attacks. Her movements became wilder, more desperate. And Urahara continued his lesson. A shallow cut on her thigh punished her for poor footwork that left her exposed. A quick, almost invisible scratch on her shoulder showed her an opening in her guard she didn't even know she had. A thrust that only grazed her side reminded her she was focusing too much on the attack and nothing on defense.
Every wound was a note, a correction written on her skin with the sharp tip of Benihime. He wasn't fighting her; he was editing her. He was dismantling her brute force technique, piece by piece, proving to her with every painful lesson that strength, alone, was useless against true skill.
Kara was panting, sweat beading on her forehead, mixing with the blood from the dozen small cuts that now adorned her body. Her training suit was torn. Her frustration was turning into desperation. She couldn't touch him. It was like fighting smoke, a ghost that knew her every move before she made it.
In a final, furious attack, she threw a horizontal swing with all the strength she could muster, a blow designed to cut the dojo in half.
Urahara didn't dodge it. Instead, he did the unthinkable. He dropped his entire body weight, bending his knees in an instant, allowing Kara's blade to whistle inches above his hat. As the sword passed, he propelled himself forward, underneath her attack. With the pommel of his sword, not the blade, he struck a precise pressure point on the inside of Kara's wrist.
A sharp, paralyzing pain shot up Kara's arm. Her fingers opened by instinct. The training sword slipped from her grasp and clattered to the wooden floor, the sound echoing in the silent dojo.
Before she could react, he had already straightened up. The cold tip of Benihime now rested gently on the fabric of her suit, right above her heart.
The lesson was over.
…..
The silence that fell was absolute and profound. The only sound was Kara's ragged, gasping breath, a harsh sound in the reverential stillness of the place. She was kneeling on the polished wood, her head bowed, not in submission, but in sheer, overwhelming exhaustion. Her body, normally a bottomless well of energy, ached in a way it hadn't in years. It wasn't the pain of a serious wound, but the humiliating sting of a thousand small cuts, each one a reminder of her failure.
The final image was a picture of absolute contrast. Kara, the Maid of Might, was on her knees, breathless, her training suit torn, bleeding from a dozen small cuts, completely defeated.
And in front of her, Urahara Kisuke stood, perfectly serene. He didn't have a single drop of sweat on his brow, his breathing as calm and regular as if he had just finished drinking a cup of tea. Benihime's blade, clean and without a single stain, rested motionless, pointed at her heart.
With a soft, almost casual flick of his wrist, Urahara lifted the sword and sheathed it back in his cane with a dry, definitive click. The sound seemed to break the spell, the threat vanished, and in its place, the classroom atmosphere returned. He was no longer an opponent; he was the teacher again.
"Your power is an ocean, Kara-san," he said, his voice returning to its calm, professorial tone. "Vast, deep, and almost limitless. But you try to move it with a single oar. Brute force."
He approached slowly, his wooden sandals making a soft sound on the floor. "Tell me, what will you do when you face a red sun, and that ocean dries up to a puddle? What will you do when you face a magical enemy who nullifies your durability, making your skin as vulnerable as a human's? Or a telepath who traps you in the prison of your own mind, where your strength has no value?"
Each question was a needle, puncturing the assumptions upon which she had built her entire identity as a warrior. She realized the terrifying truth: in any of those scenarios, she would be helpless.
"Strength makes you powerful, Kara-san," he continued, stopping in front of her. "It allows you to tear down walls. But skill... skill makes you dangerous. It allows you to walk through them. It allows you to win when you have no strength to rely on."
He crouched slightly and offered her a hand. His palm was open, a quiet invitation.
"Strength makes you a god. Skill makes you a warrior. I will teach you to be both."
Kara looked up. Her body ached, her pride was in tatters, and a part of her wanted to slap his hand away, to get up on her own and walk out. But then, she looked into his eyes. She no longer saw the joking shopkeeper who got on her nerves, nor the ruthless master who had just dissected her. She saw her partner. Her mentor. And she saw the sincerity of his offer.
With a new, profound respect that eclipsed the humiliation, she took his hand. His grip was firm and warm, that of a scholar, not a brute. He helped her to her feet.
"Now," he said with a smile that was half kindness and half the promise of future pain, "let's go upstairs. I have the first aid kit. And then, we can discuss your footwork."
The lesson was over. The real training was about to begin.