Chapter 13: The Blade That Remembers, VI
The mornings had grown colder.
Frost clung to the wooden rails outside Genzo's house. The pine trees had dropped most of their needles. The wind had taken on that hollow sound that meant winter was waiting, just over the next hill.
We trained without speaking.
Every movement now came from instinct—not just mine, but his. Our rhythm was no longer teacher and student, but mirror and reflection.
***
We circled once more, the clearing dead silent, saved for our footfalls and breath.
The Genzo moved.
His blade came fast—faster than before. A clean diagonal aimed at my shoulder. I met it mid-swing,
the impact jarring down my arm. He followed immediately with a low sweep. I sidestepped, reversed grip, and countered with a raising arc toward his ribs.
He parried. No words. No pause.
Each strike met with its match—sharp, controlled, precise.