Two days had passed since Kuroi's training began in earnest. The sun now hung high in the sky, casting long shadows across the open field. Kuroi stood in the grass, his clothes torn and soaked with sweat. His chest heaved as he gasped for air, his legs trembling under his own weight. Bruises marked his arms and torso, and his wooden sword hung loosely in his hand, its grip slick with sweat.
Taro stood across from him, calm and unshaken, his single arm resting lightly at his side. His eyes were sharp, but there was a flicker of approval in his gaze. "Nice, son. You're still standing."
Kuroi wiped his forehead with the back of his hand, his lips curling into a tired but defiant grin. "I can't fall," he said, his voice hoarse but resolute. "If I fall on my ass, that means I'm weak. Pathetic. That means wanting to become a swordsman was a lie—that my dream was just a myth."
Taro raised an eyebrow, his expression unreadable. "Wow, you really do want to become a swordsman."
Kuroi nodded, his eyes burning with determination despite his exhaustion. "I don't even know why I want to be one," he admitted, his voice softening. "Maybe it's because of those books. The stories of the great warriors—they inspired me."
Taro tilted his head slightly, studying his son. "So that's your only reason?" he asked, his tone even, yet probing.
Taro let out a long sigh, stepping forward slowly, his wooden sword hanging loosely in his one hand. His weathered face softened, though his eyes remained sharp as they bore into Kuroi's.
"Books," Taro began, his voice low but steady, "are filled with grand tales of heroes and legends. Men who cut through armies, who stood tall in the face of death, who became immortal in the stories passed down through the ages. But do you know what those books don't tell you, Kuroi?"
Kuroi shook his head, his breathing still heavy, his legs trembling.
"They don't tell you about the fear," Taro said, his tone growing heavier. "The nights those men spent staring at the stars, wondering if they'd live to see another sunrise. The faces of the men they killed—faces that never leave them, no matter how much they drink or how far they run."
Kuroi's grip on his sword tightened, but he said nothing.
"They don't tell you about the loneliness," Taro continued, his voice dropping to a near whisper. "The weight of knowing that every bond you make could be severed by a blade in an instant. That to walk the path of the sword is to walk a path soaked in blood—your enemies', your friends', maybe even your own."
Kuroi looked down at the ground, his heart pounding not from exhaustion but from the gravity of his father's words.
Taro stepped closer, now only a few feet away. "So, I'll ask you again, Kuroi. Is that your only reason? Stories? Inspiration? A dream you plucked from the pages of a book?"
Kuroi swallowed hard, his throat dry. He looked up, meeting his father's gaze. "I… I don't know," he admitted, his voice trembling. "Maybe it started with the books. But it's more than that now. When I hold this sword… when I train, even when I'm bruised and beaten, I feel alive. Like… like this is who I'm supposed to be."
Taro's expression softened, and for a moment, there was a flicker of something in his eyes—pride, perhaps, or maybe sorrow.
"Feeling alive is a start," Taro said, his voice gentler now. "But it won't be enough. The sword demands everything from you. Your strength, your will, your soul. It will test you in ways you can't imagine. And if you're not ready to give it everything, it will break you."
Kuroi straightened, despite the ache in his body. "Then I'll give it everything," he said, his voice steady. "Whatever it takes. I don't want to be weak. I don't want to live my life wondering what could've been."
Taro nodded slowly, a faint smile tugging at the corner of his lips. "Then you've taken your first step. But remember this, Kuroi—" He placed a hand on his son's shoulder, his grip firm. "Strength isn't just about swinging a sword. It's about knowing when to swing it and when to sheath it. It's about protecting what matters, not destroying everything in your path."
Kuroi looked up at his father, his eyes wide with a mix of awe and determination. "I'll remember," he said quietly.
Taro released his shoulder and stepped back, raising his wooden sword. "Good. Now show me how much you've learned."
Kuroi raised his own sword, his body screaming in protest, but his resolve unwavering. "I won't fall," he said, more to himself than to his father.
Taro smirked, his eyes gleaming with challenge. "We'll see about that."
The sun hung high, its rays piercing through the sparse clouds as the wind rustled the tall grass. Kuroi's knuckles whitened as he tightened his grip on the wooden sword. His legs trembled beneath him, not from fear, but from the fatigue of two relentless days of training. Yet, his eyes burned with determination.
Taro stood before him, calm and steady, his one arm holding his practice sword as if it were weightless. His posture was relaxed, his expression unreadable, but his gaze was sharp, like a predator watching its prey.
Kuroi took a deep breath, his heart pounding like a drum. Without a word, he lunged forward, his wooden blade slicing through the air in a downward arc aimed at Taro's shoulder.
With a swift movement, Taro raised his sword, intercepting the blow with a resounding crack. The force of the block sent a jolt up Kuroi's arms, but he didn't falter. He pivoted, swinging horizontally toward Taro's ribs.
Taro sidestepped effortlessly, the blade missing him by mere inches. "Too slow," he said, his voice calm but firm.
Kuroi gritted his teeth, adjusting his footing. He stepped in closer, feinting a high strike before aiming low at Taro's legs.
Taro shifted his weight, lifting his leg just in time to avoid the strike. The wooden blade swished through empty air, and before Kuroi could recover, Taro's sword tapped lightly against his shoulder.
"Predictable," Taro said, stepping back to give Kuroi space.
Kuroi stumbled but caught himself, his breaths coming in short gasps. Sweat dripped down his face, stinging his eyes, but he refused to back down. He tightened his grip on the sword and charged again, this time aiming for Taro's midsection.
The clash of wood echoed across the field as Taro parried the blow with ease. Kuroi followed up with a flurry of strikes, each one more desperate than the last. He swung high, low, left, right, trying to break through Taro's defenses, but every strike was met with a block or a dodge.
Taro moved with a grace that seemed almost unnatural. His single arm wielded the sword with precision, each motion efficient and controlled. He didn't waste energy, didn't overcommit. He was a master, and it showed.
Kuroi, on the other hand, was all raw energy and emotion. His strikes were powerful but wild, his movements aggressive but unrefined.
"You're letting your anger control you," Taro said, sidestepping another swing. "Calm your mind. Focus."
Kuroi growled, frustration bubbling to the surface. "I am focused!" he shouted, swinging his sword in a wide arc.
Taro ducked under the swing and stepped in close, tapping Kuroi's chest with the tip of his blade. The force wasn't enough to hurt, but it was enough to knock Kuroi off balance.
Kuroi stumbled back, panting heavily. His arms felt like lead, his legs like jelly. He could barely hold the sword upright, but he refused to give up.
"You're too emotional," Taro said, his tone almost gentle. "A swordsman who can't control his emotions is already defeated."
Kuroi steadied himself, his chest heaving. He closed his eyes for a moment, trying to calm his racing heart. When he opened them, there was a new clarity in his gaze.
He stepped forward again, this time more measured. He feinted to the left, then quickly shifted to the right, aiming for Taro's side.
Taro blocked the strike, but there was a flicker of surprise in his eyes. "Better," he said, his voice approving.
Kuroi pressed the advantage, his movements more calculated now. He struck high, low, and then high again, trying to create openings. Taro deflected each blow, but it was clear that Kuroi was improving, even if only slightly.
The two danced across the field, the clash of wood filling the air. Kuroi's strikes became more fluid, his movements more precise. But no matter how much he improved, Taro remained an impenetrable wall.
After what felt like an eternity, Kuroi's strength began to wane. His swings grew slower, his movements less sharp. Taro saw the opening and stepped in, sweeping Kuroi's legs out from under him with a quick motion.
Kuroi hit the ground hard, his wooden sword slipping from his grasp. He lay there, staring up at the sky, his chest rising and falling as he struggled to catch his breath.
Taro stood over him, his expression unreadable. He extended a hand. "You've done well, Kuroi. Let's head home."
Kuroi groaned, his body aching, but he took his father's hand. Taro pulled him to his feet, patting him on the back.
As they walked back toward the village, the sun began to dip below the horizon, casting the field in a warm, golden light. Kuroi glanced at his father, a small smile tugging at his lips despite his exhaustion.
"I'll get better," he said quietly.
Taro nodded, a faint smile on his face. "I know you will."
The two walked in silence, the sounds of the village growing louder as they approached. For the first time, Kuroi felt a flicker of hope. He wasn't there yet, but he was on the path. And that was enough.