The Descent

Time flew like an arrow.

In the blink of an eye, seven years had passed.

Makomo stood alone before an iron pillar driven deep into the ground. The girl who had once retained a trace of childishness had grown into a beautiful woman with a cool, composed bearing.

Even standing still, she carried a sharp, formidable air.

She gripped a wooden sword worn down beyond measure, her gaze fixed on the iron pillar ahead, its surface covered in cuts.

Those cuts, some deep and some shallow, were proof of every swing she had made over the years. The pillar stood stubbornly on the mountaintop, like an anchor that had weathered countless storms without falling.

Makomo tightened her grip on the wooden sword and took a deep breath. Her gaze sharpened.

"This time, I'll succeed!"

Makomo closed her eyes. She leaned forward slightly, rested one hand on the sword's hilt, and tightened her fingers around it.

The countless times she had drawn and sheathed her sword over the years flashed through her mind. Soon, each image settled into place, then gave way to the one she had never been able to forget: the way Hane had lightly swung a branch that day.

Makomo began to imitate him without thinking. In an instant, she drew her sword in a stroke that looked slow yet moved with incredible speed.

Her movement overlapped with Hane's until they matched perfectly, without the slightest deviation. It seemed utterly natural.

The strength of her entire body gathered at a single point. The blade brushed past the iron pillar like a fleeting illusion.

Had anyone been watching, they would have seen the blade pass through the pillar as though in a dream, with no sign that its edge had cut through iron.

Makomo sheathed her sword naturally and