Chapter 10 – The Eight Steps of the Plum Blossom
The training field was wide and open, surrounded by stone walls and wooden dummies scarred by countless cuts. To one side, racks held blunted swords, spears, and practice shields. The sun had barely peeked over the mountains, but the place already breathed tension and expectation.
When we arrived, two figures stood at the center of the field. Our instructors.
One was tall and thin, with a long gray mustache and eyes so sharp they seemed to slice the air. The other was a mountain with legs—tense muscles bulging under his uniform, arms crossed like he was already bored of the show.
"Line up, maggots!" barked the one with the mustache. His voice cracked through the air like a whip.
We rushed to form up. I ended up in front, captain by default, still feeling the weight of their gaze on my neck.
"Today we start from the basics. And when I say basics, I mean the shit that'll keep you from dying with some bastard's cock shoved up your ass," he spat with disdain. "What you'll learn here is called the Eight Steps of the Plum Blossom. Eight fucking moves. If you can't master them, go back to milking cows."
The bulky instructor stepped forward. He didn't say a word. Just drew a practice sword and stood before us.
And then, he moved.
The first strike was clean and low—a rising diagonal from hip to shoulder.
The second, a downward slash, brutal, skull-splitting.
Third, a horizontal cut, fast, straight for the neck.