"A sword is but common iron, yet gains spirit through the hand that wields it, moves through the heart, lives through blood, and dies through stray thoughts..."
In the alleys of the Slum District, Philly, dressed in a Pitch-Black Raincoat, swung a Bamboo Sword to block a vagrant's wooden stick.
The Slum District had been built in this century. Back then, it had been the best part of the city, mostly six-story apartment blocks, but they had not been renovated in seventy or eighty years, and had just happened to miss the good era when elevators became widespread. On top of that, Jia Shi's City Center had gradually shifted to other new districts, and the wealthy had all moved away, so this place had slowly turned into a Slum District rented by people from the Bottom Layer.
Property management did not exist here. Illegal sheds and renovations were everywhere, crisscrossed electric wires were hung with laundry, upturned stone slabs burst sewage like traps the moment they were stepped on, the walls were covered in mottled, peeling plaster and extremely suspicious water stains, and drunkards' vomit mixed with the feces and urine of who knew what creatures, layering the ground in one coating after another. If some residential building's sewers burst, that was even more of a Revelry.
When the vagrant said they were going to train Sword Art here, Philly was completely dumbfounded.
In her impression, Sword Art training should be done in a clean, tidy, spacious dojo, with protective gear on, full of Ritual as they trained.
Of course, the other party was a vagrant so poor he slept rough and ate whatever he could find, so Philly did not expect that kind of environment. But the broad open ground by the riverbank or in the park was open