Takuya's conclusion to this introductory Fire Release class was quieter than Che had expected.
No one actually breathed out a mouthful of fire, and no one learned any named technique on the spot. The practice room still contained nothing but charred wooden boards, water in shallow basins, bundles of dry grass, and the positioning diagram the children had gathered around again and again. Yet precisely because of that, it became clearer that what the teacher wanted to press into their hearts was not "what fire looks like," but "why fire was released in that instant."
As the morning class neared its end, Takuya spread the positioning diagram flat again and had the children look at it one last time.
"You've heard a lot of judgments lately," he said. "Wind, escape routes, flammables, teammates, opponents, forcing movement, blocking lines of sight, intimidation, false openings. Now I'll ask the simplest question."
He tapped the diagram with a fingertip. "Someone who truly knows how to use techniques—do they put the technique in the first half of the sentence, or the second?"
Kiyo frowned as soon as he heard it. "Don't you use a technique right at the start?"
"If you want to use one the moment things begin," Takuya said, looking at him, "then that probably means techniques are the only thing left in your head."
He did not say it harshly, but it immediately subdued Kiyo.
Che stood beside them, feeling as though something inside him had been gently lit. Put the technique in the first half of the sentence, or the second. It sounded roundabout at first, but once it fell into place with everything he had learned these past few days, it was more precise than many more straightforward teachings.
If you put the technique in the first half of