Children naturally grew very quickly, and over that year and a half, Loa shot up as though he had been pumped full of stimulants.
His height began to increase rapidly. Though the constant, draining training kept him thin, his frame had visibly broadened. The old clothes that had still fit him last year now fell short at the cuffs and hems, exposing his wrists and ankles. Old Jack extended them with scraps he had saved in the storeroom, his stitches coarse but sturdy.
"You're a growing boy," the old man muttered as he sewed. "Eat more. Don't just grow taller without putting on any meat."
Loa lowered his head and shoveled rice from his bowl, mumbling a reply. He knew perfectly well that he was not eating too little-Old Jack was already doing everything he could, providing eggs and meat once a week. He was simply burning too much energy. His daily training was a bottomless pit, swallowing everything he took in and leaving barely enough to sustain his growth.
But his height was not the only thing changing.
His sword had become "faster."
This speed did not come from swinging blindly. Through countless tedious repetitions of chops, thrusts, upward cuts, and sweeping cuts, he gradually stripped away every unnecessary movement, leaving only the simplest, most direct trajectory. It was like Old Jack's smithing: after countless hammer blows, how much force to use, where to strike, and at what angle had all become muscle memory.
Loa began to study the thrust.
Of all the basic sword moves, the thrust was both the simplest and the hardest. It was simple because it involved only one motion: sending the sword forward in a straight line. The difficulty lay in concentrating the greatest possible force at the sword's tip, over the shortest distance and at the greatest speed.
He recalled some accounts he had read in his previous life. The secret to a swift sword lay not in swinging the arm, but in the instant of initiation. Like a bowstring released or a spring snapping open, accumulated power erupted in a moment, all of it transformed into forward momentum.
He began to experiment.
During training, he no longer tried to put his full strength into every slash. Instead, he set aside time specifically to practice thrusts. Facing the wooden post, he planted his feet, adjusted his breathing, and then-
Thrust.
Withdraw.
Thrust again.
At first, he was clumsy. In his pursuit of speed, his shoulder and arm would tense involuntarily, hindering his ability to exert force. His thrusts were weak, their paths crooked.
But he did not lose heart. Hundreds of repetitions a day, then thousands. Through that monotonous repetition, his body gradually remembered the feeling: strength rose from the soles of his feet, not rushing straight upward, but gathering through an extremely slight twist of his waist and hips. Then, like a spring compressed to its limit, it released with a bang, traveling up his back, through his shoulder and arm, and finally bursting from the sword's tip.
Gradually, the sound of the wooden sword cutting through the air changed. Its whooshing became a short, sharp hiss, like cloth sliced open by a keen blade.
Hillman noticed.
One ordinary afternoon, after group training ended, Hillman stopped Loa as he was about to leave.
"Where did you learn that move?"
"I... worked it out myself," Loa answered honestly.
Hillman folded his arms, his face expressionless. "How long have you been practicing it?"
Loa thought for a moment. "Almost half a year."
"Only thrusts?"
"Thrusts most of the time."
Hillman nodded, walked to the weapons rack, and took out two wooden training swords. He tossed one to Loa.
"Come on. Let's try it."
Loa caught the sword and froze for a moment. "Spar with you?"
"Scared?"
"No." Loa tightened his grip on the hilt, took a deep breath, and assumed his opening stance. He knew this was not a real fight. Hillman could knock him down with one finger. This was a test.
Hillman stood casually, his wooden sword hanging at his side, his entire body full of openings. But Loa knew those openings were all traps. He calmed himself and fixed his gaze on Hillman's chest-the closest point, where the defense seemed most "open."
He moved.
There was no warning, not even an obvious gathering of strength. Loa's waist and hips seemed to twist ever so slightly, and that twisting force launched his whole body forward. His wooden sword became a blurred gray streak, thrusting straight toward its target.
Fast.
Faster than during his usual practice. Before Hillman, he dared not hold anything back. With his concentration heightened, that wisp of "energy" also began circulating faster on its own, pouring into his arm and sword.
Hillman's eyes narrowed almost imperceptibly.
Just as the sword's tip was about to touch his clothes, Hillman moved. His movement did not look fast. He merely stepped half a pace to the side and turned his wrist, bringing the flat of his wooden sword precisely against the spine of Loa's blade.
Clang!
A tremendous force struck. The web between Loa's thumb and forefinger went numb, and his wooden sword nearly flew from his hand. He staggered back two steps before regaining his balance.
"Just one move?" Hillman asked.
"Yes."
"Again. Don't stop at one thrust."
Loa adjusted his breathing and attacked again. This time, he did not thrust straight ahead. Instead, he feinted first-his blade wavered slightly as though he were about to chop. The instant Hillman shifted his balance, the real thrust erupted, coming at a trickier angle and driving straight beneath his ribs.
Hiss!
The sound of the blade cutting through the air was sharper.
Hillman still parried it easily, but this time, he nodded.
"Interesting," he said. "It's fast enough, but your transitions are too stiff. A feint is still a feint. You're already thinking about how to deliver the next thrust, so the movements don't flow together."
He paused and looked at Loa. "But... that thrust is fast enough. Have you named it?"
Loa shook his head.
"Think of one," Hillman said. "A warrior's technique only truly becomes his own once it has a name."
That night, Loa delivered several hundred more thrusts at the wooden post in the backyard.
The moonlight was bright, lighting the courtyard as though it were daytime. He thrust again and again, feeling the power circulate, erupt, and draw back within him. Hillman's words echoed in his mind: "Fast enough."
As fast as what?
Like a deer darting through the woods? Like a diving eagle? Neither was right.
Suddenly, a night breeze swept past. The old elm in the corner of the yard rustled, and several dead leaves were caught up, spinning past his eyes.
The wind.
Unfettered, arriving in an instant.
Something stirred within him, and he raised his sword again. This time, he did not deliberately try to concentrate his strength. Instead, he imagined himself becoming that gust of wind, light, swift, slipping through every gap.
Thrust.
The instant his sword shot forward, he seemed to hear the wind scream.
"I'll call it... Gale Thrust," he murmured to himself.
With his sword technique beginning to take shape, something else entered Loa's life-drawing.
It began with a delivery to Baruch Mansion. Grandpa Hiri was away that day, and a servant told him to leave the tools in the corridor. While waiting, he drifted over to the bookshelf again out of habit.
This time, he read a book titled "A Detailed Account of the Magical Beasts of the Northern Icefield." It contained a magical beast called the Snowshadow Leopard, depicted in an exquisitely drawn illustration. Its flowing lines, the contours of muscles brimming with explosive power, and its cold, cunning eyes made it seem ready to leap off the page at any moment.
Loa stared, absorbed, his fingers unconsciously tracing the lines in the air.
In his previous life, when his body had been sickly and frail, he had passed countless hours of pain with a pencil and a sketchbook. He drew the trees outside his window, imaginary landscapes, and the figures of wandering martial heroes he had read about in wuxia novels. It had been his only way to "create" something.
Now, looking at the illustration of the Snowshadow Leopard, that long-absent urge welled up again.
He wanted to draw it.
Not to copy it, but to "portray" the essence of this magical beast anew through his own understanding and impressions.
After returning to the smithy, he asked Old Jack for a few sticks of blackened charcoal, then dug out several relatively flat, thin pieces of wood intended for firewood. Once his evening training ended, he sat beside the oil lamp and sketched on the wood with charcoal.
His first attempts were terrible. His fingers were out of practice, the lines stiff, the proportions distorted. What he drew looked like nothing in particular.
But he was patient. He wiped it away and started again. Wiped it away again, and started over again.
He stopped looking at the illustration in the book. Instead, he closed his eyes and tried hard to recall the impression the Snowshadow Leopard had left on him-icy coldness, elegance, lurking murderous intent. Then he drew from memory and feeling.
Something strange happened.
When he concentrated completely, pouring all his attention into the tip of his drawing tool, the familiar feeling he had experienced while drawing "Old Jack's portrait" returned. The world grew quiet. There was only the soft scratching of charcoal against wood and the image growing clearer in his mind.
The lines began to flow. The Snowshadow Leopard's outline emerged: the rise and fall of its muscles, the direction of its fur, the light in its eyes... Though still rough, it had captured something of its essence.
After the final stroke, Loa let out a long breath and felt an intense wave of exhaustion, as though he had just completed a strenuous training session. Yet immediately afterward came an indescribable sense of "clarity." It was as though some tangled thoughts in his mind had been sorted out and expressed through the movement of the charcoal, leaving his mind refreshed.
He looked at the Snowshadow Leopard on the piece of wood. Crude though it was, it represented his own "understanding."
From then on, drawing became a splash of color in his life of training. He drew the old elm in the backyard, the paths of the leaping flames in the furnace, and his own figure practicing sword moves. He also drew the strange magical beasts and landscapes he saw in books.
He discovered that drawing was itself a unique form of "training." It demanded the utmost observation, concentration, and unity of mind and hand. The mental exhaustion and satisfaction afterward were remarkably similar to the soreness and fulfillment that followed physical training.
More importantly, when he considered what he had drawn alongside the knowledge in his memory-such as a magical beast's habits and methods of attack-he often gained new insights. When drawing a Wind Wolf, he studied more closely how its center of gravity shifted during a pounce; when drawing a waterfall, he sensed the force and trajectory of the plunging water.
Technique and art, body and mind, quietly intertwined and grew together in a corner where no one knew.
The furnace fire lit the boy's intent profile as his charcoal left marks of growth on the wood. Outside the window, the night in Wushan Town was as peaceful as ever. Only in the smithy was a lonely yet resolute soul tracing this world little by little in his own way, along with the contours of his own future.
I don't know whether anyone will ever see this book. It's all just stuff from my own fantasies. This is my first time writing a novel, and I don't know any techniques. All I can do is try to write out some of the ideas in my head.
Before you continue