Taking his stance, Marcellus began with basic forms, moving through them deliberately as he adjusted to the new weapon's balance and reach.
Each swing cut through the air with a satisfying swish, each thrust targeted an imaginary opponent.
Soon, the Sword Saint techniques integrated into his movements were channelled through the newfound clarity in his mind. His actions became a seamless dance of offence, punctuated by agile footwork.
After a series of cuts and slashes, Marcellus transitioned into more complex manoeuvres.
He envisioned a spectral opponent, weaving and dodging in response to his strikes. The imaginary battle escalated; his spectral adversary was a formidable fighter, demanding his full attention and skill. Every feint and counter required precise timing, every opening was an opportunity to press his advantage.
Marcellus's sword swings carried a deliberate, measured pace, they possessed a deceptive speed.
To an onlooker, his motions might have seemed almost languid, each swing carving an unhurried arc through the air. But this apparent slowness was a byproduct of precision and control, not a lack of speed. Every movement was the result of calculated intention, each fraction of a second carefully accounted for.
In reality, his sword travelled through the air at an impressive velocity. The seeming "slowness" allowed him to fully engage his muscles and body mechanics to generate maximum speed and strength at the moment of impact.
It was as if he were drawing tension into a tightly coiled spring, then releasing it in a burst of kinetic energy. The result was a sword strike that would not only be difficult to parry but also highly effective in delivering force.
The sound of his blade cutting through the air—a subtle, high-pitched whine—served as evidence of its quickness.
The noise arrived almost as an afterthought, trailing behind the blade like a whisper, a sonic signature of the blade's rapid passage. It was the auditory paradox of controlled speed, a sound that seemed to lag behind the very action it was announcing as if struggling to keep up with the blade's swift trajectory.
As Marcellus worked through his imagined skirmish, beads of sweat trickled down his forehead, mingling with the dirt on his skin to create tiny rivulets that marked the exertion of his exercise.
Yet he felt invigorated rather than fatigued, the mental and physical discipline of his practice feeding into a cycle of self-improvement.
Finally, he executed a perfectly timed riposte, his blade cleaving through the space where his spectral opponent's heart would be.
A sense of triumph washed over him, not for vanquishing an imaginary foe, but for the mastery he felt over his movements, over the sword, and, to an extent, over himself.
For a few precious moments, he revelled in the satisfaction of a training session well-executed.
As Marcellus sheathed his sword, his eyes caught the dying rays of the afternoon sun filtering through the trees, painting the grove in hues of gold and amber.
A feeling of accomplishment settled within him as he realized that his decision to train had been the right one. More challenges awaited him in Mythralis, of which he was certain. But for now, this moment of triumph, however small, was his alone.
With a final, purposeful swing of his sword, Marcellus concluded his solitary training session in the secluded clearing.
He sheathed his sword, a thin sheen of sweat glistening on his forehead. A mental note flickered across his mind he might need to invest in more clothes suitable for this kind of exertion.
Picking up his belongings, he began to retrace his steps out of the wooded clearing.
The foliage seemed to murmur a soft farewell as he passed, sunlight filtering through the leaves in dappled patterns on the ground.
His footfalls were almost soundless, his movements efficient, as if not wanting to disturb the natural quietude of the place that had been his training ground.
As he emerged from the woods, Marcellus felt a momentary pang, a blend of gratitude and regret for the peaceful isolation he was leaving behind. But the demands of the world were calling, and he couldn't linger here forever.
Navigating through the bustling streets of Mythralis, Marcellus felt a slight disconnect as he transitioned from the tranquil solitude of the clearing to the chaotic energy of the city. The contrast was sharp, yet he wore it well, adapting with the same fluidity he demonstrated in his swordsmanship.
He arrived back at the inn, his steps lighter, perhaps owing to the physical exertion and mental clarity achieved during his training. With an appreciative nod to the innkeeper, Marcellus made his way to the dining area.
The scent of freshly cooked food enveloped him as he ordered a simple but satisfying supper—a hot bowl of fish stew. As he ate, he found the flavours particularly vivid, each bite a reward for the discipline and effort he had exerted earlier.
After finishing his meal, he climbed the creaky wooden staircase to his room.
The space was modest, but it offered the sanctuary of privacy. Methodically, he removed his shirt. His actions were almost ritualistic, a winding down of his physical self as he prepared for rest.
He lowered himself onto the bed, his muscles issuing a muted sigh of relief as they met the soft mattress.
The pillow seemed particularly inviting, cradling his head as he settled in. As he closed his eyes, his thoughts returned briefly to the day's events—his morning confrontation with Ingrid, his training, and his newfound clarity. They flitted across his mind like shadows on the wall, elusive yet formative.
But gradually, these thoughts dimmed, giving way to the enveloping darkness of sleep. With a quiet, almost imperceptible exhale, Marcellus surrendered to the night, trusting that whatever questions and challenges awaited him, he would face them with the sharpened resolve that the day had forged.
And so, enveloped in a cloak of quietude, Marcellus drifted off to sleep. Tomorrow would be another day, filled with its own trials and triumphs, and he would meet them as he had met today—with blade in hand and clarity in mind.