Kiyoshi stood in the clearing, the morning mist clinging to the grass as the sun began its slow rise. His hand was wrapped in cloth, and his muscles tensed as he faced Ceng-tae, who stood a few paces away with a wooden sword in hand. They had begun the morning with a series of stretches and breathing exercises, but now it was something more rigorous.
"Ready?" Ceng-tae asked, tossing a wooden sword to Kiyoshi, who'd caught it with relative ease.
Kiyoshi nodded, his eyes laser-focused on the task at hand; although Kiyoshi had no memory, his body still responded instinctively. To Ceng-tae's surprise, he was light on his feet, and his stance was natural.
"Don't think too much," Ceng-tae advised, observing Kiyoshi's grip tightening around the hilt. "Trust your body. Let it remember."
With that, Ceng-tae lunged forward, slashing through the air. Kiyoshi barely shifted in time as the edge of Ceng-tae's wooden sword grazed his forearm. He hissed, pain shooting through his arm as he stumbled back to regain balance.
"You're holding back. Again!" Ceng-tae yelled before jumping into the next strike.
The speed of their training began to pick up pace quickly. The soft thud of wooden swords meeting echoed through the clearing. Kiyoshi stood in a ready stance, knees slightly bent, his wooden sword held firm in both hands. His eyes focused on his opponent—his teacher—Ceng-tae, who, in contrast, looked relaxed, almost effortless, as he held his bokken loosely in his grip.
Kiyoshi lunged first. His strike was sharp and quick, aiming for a horizontal cut to Ceng-tae's side, a basic attack to feel out the rhythm of the fight. Ceng-tae's response was instantaneous. He sidestepped with a smooth, practiced grace, parrying Kiyoshi's sword with a simple tap, redirecting the force of the attack as if it were nothing.
"Too predictable," Ceng-tae said calmly, his voice carrying a subtle edge. "You're telegraphing your strikes."
Kiyoshi grunted, already preparing for the next move. He pivoted on his back foot and transitioned into a diagonal slash from the shoulder—a technique known as kesagiri, meant to cut across the chest. His body moved fluidly, and the strike was clean, but again, Ceng-tae was ready. The master met the blow head-on, their swords colliding with a sharp crack. This time, Ceng-tae didn't simply block. He stepped into the strike, forcing Kiyoshi back with sheer strength and causing him to lose balance for a fraction of a second.
Without hesitation, Ceng-tae pressed forward, his wooden sword flashing toward Kiyoshi's exposed left flank. Kiyoshi barely managed to twist his body, bringing his sword up just in time to deflect the attack, the impact reverberating through his arms.
"Your defence is improving, but you're too reactive," Ceng-tae said, his calm demeanour a stark contrast to the intensity of their exchange. "Control the pace."
Gritting his teeth, Kiyoshi tried to regain his composure. He stepped back, resetting his stance. His arms ached slightly from the force of Ceng-tae's strikes, but he pushed through it. This time, he circled his opponent, trying to create an opening. He knew brute force wouldn't work—Ceng-tae was too skilled, too experienced. He needed to be strategic.
Suddenly, Kiyoshi darted in again, but instead of a direct strike, he feinted, drawing Ceng-tae's sword into a high guard. It was a trick, and Kiyoshi capitalized, slipping in low and delivering a thrust toward Ceng-tae's midsection, aiming for a tsuki—a quick stab.
But Ceng-tae was unfazed. Even in close quarters, his movements were flawless. He twisted his torso and parried the thrust with his sword held vertically, using minimal movement. Then, in one fluid motion, he pivoted on his heel and swung his sword in a tight arc, aiming for Kiyoshi's neck.
Kiyoshi's eyes widened. He barely had time to duck, the wooden blade whistling past his head, close enough to ruffle his hair. He rolled away, creating distance between them, breathing heavily now.
"You're getting faster," Ceng-tae said, offering a small nod of approval, "but you hesitate when you see an opening."
"I'm not hesitating," Kiyoshi snapped, frustration seeping into his voice, though he knew deep down Ceng-tae was right. He had hesitated.
"Think less," Ceng-tae advised, his tone softening. "Trust your instincts. Your body already knows what to do. You're holding yourself back."
Kiyoshi gritted his teeth, resetting his stance. He took a deep breath, steadying himself. This time, he focused on the flow of the fight—the rhythm. He would trust himself.
He attacked again, but this time, there was no hesitation. His strikes were swift and unpredictable, mixing vertical chops with sudden thrusts and feints. He used do giri—a horizontal cut at the torso—and followed it up with a sharp upward strike and a gyaku kesa giri aimed at Ceng-tae's shoulder. Each movement was smooth and precise, blending attack and defence as if they were one.
But even at this faster pace, Ceng-tae danced around him, his wooden sword moving almost lazily yet always in the right place at the right time. He blocked, parried, and countered with minimal effort, his strikes sharp when they needed to be, his defence impenetrable.
In one quick movement, Ceng-tae switched from defence to offence. His bokken blurred as he unleashed a flurry of strikes—one aimed at Kiyoshi's wrist, another at his ribs, and the last a downward blow toward his head, each one precise and controlled. Kiyoshi blocked the first two, but the final strike slipped past his guard, hitting him square on the shoulder.
The impact sent a jolt of pain through Kiyoshi's arm, and he staggered back, gritting his teeth. Ceng-tae stopped, lowering his sword.
"That's enough for now," Ceng-tae said, his expression unreadable. "You've improved, but you're still holding back. You're too focused on trying to win. In a real fight, survival comes from reading your opponent, not overpowering them."
Kiyoshi's breath was ragged, his muscles burning from the exertion. He glanced at his teacher, a hint of frustration still lingering, but he couldn't deny the truth in Ceng-tae's words.
"I'll get better," Kiyoshi muttered, rubbing his sore shoulder. "Next time, I won't hold back."
Ceng-tae's lips twitched into a small smile. "We'll see."
Farther away, just out of sight, Celosia stood by the forest edge, watching the two from a distance. She observed Kiyoshi's progress; the boy was a mystery to her—a puzzle that intrigued yet made her unsettled. There was something about the way he moved, the speed at which he adapted. She couldn't help but wonder who he truly was. As the two began to make their way back to the village, Celosia turned and disappeared back into the trees.
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