Chapter 11: The Blade That Remembers, IV
The first time I landed a clean hit, Genzo didn't say a word.
He just stood there, rubbing his forearm where the wooden staff had struck, eyes narrowed. Not in anger. Not even surprise. Just... thought.
Then he said, "Again."
So we did.
***
The days passed like water through a cracked basin—impossible to hold, impossible to measure. Dawn came before I opened my eyes, and by the time I collapsed each night, the sky was already black.
Strike. Block. Breathe. Again.
I bruised in places I didn't know I could. My palms blistered, then calloused. My arms trembled in the cold after training, but I still lifted the staff. Still swung.
Genzo didn't praise. He didn't correct often, either. When I failed, he simply adjusted—his stance, his pace, the angle of his blade—to punish the weakness as it appeared. He taught through pressure.
Through pain. Through silence.
But something shifted as the week dragged on. I started to notice the smallest things—how he no longer circled as wide. How his blade moved with less force and more intent. Like he was no longer testing me—but preparing for something else.