The Gale Thrust had gradually gained substance beyond its initial rudimentary form. Now he spent a third of his daily sword practice on this thrust. He no longer pursued speed alone, but steadiness within speed, and variation within steadiness. He discovered that when he gathered that wisp of "qi" in his waist and abdomen before striking, then drove it into his arm the instant he thrust, his sword became a fraction faster, and its hiss through the air became a sharper, briefer whistle.
After one private sparring session, Hillman offered a rare word of appraisal: "It's taking shape. But don't get tied down to one move. The sword is alive."
Loa took that to heart, but he remained absorbed in the feeling of honing this single move to its utmost. There was an exhilaration in compressing all his strength, his focus, and even that mysterious wisp of energy into a single point, then releasing it in a sudden burst. Every successful thrust felt like completing a perfect breath, leaving his mind clear.
Linley did not come to training that day, and at first Loa thought nothing of it. It was perfectly normal for a noble child to miss training occasionally because something had come up. But for three days in a row, the figure who usually stood beside him never appeared. Loa was a little surprised. It suddenly occurred to him that Linley ought to be about six and a half this year. The dusty fragments of memory in his mind stirred. His memories of Coiling Dragon from his previous life had dwindled to a general outline; he remembered things from certain stages. The Baruch Clan... Dragonblood Warriors... the bloodline test...
That was it. In the original story, Linley should have taken the bloodline test at this age, and failed. But Loa could not remember exactly how the test was conducted. He only vaguely remembered that it had dealt the young Linley a heavy blow. On the fourth day, Linley finally came.
But his training had changed. It was a little different now. He was still among the first children to reach the training grounds, and his greeting as he paid his respects was as clear as ever. The concentration on his face during practice was even greater than before. When Hillman corrected his movements, he listened with the utmost attention, then repeated them meticulously until they were right.
Yet Loa still noticed a difference.
It showed not through words, but through sweat, breathing, and a ferocity that verged on self-punishment.
With the same Qi-Gathering Stance, Linley would ordinarily stand for fifteen minutes before breaking a light sweat. Now, in less than half that time, the hair over his forehead would be soaked and plastered to his skin. It was not because of the heat, but because every muscle in his body was drawn too tight, every part straining and desperately holding on.
Then there was his breathing. Linley often held his breath-especially when performing a difficult movement that required exertion. He would unconsciously hold a lungful of air, as though trying to squeeze out every last bit of strength in his body. His little face often flushed scarlet as a result, and only after completing the movement would he exhale sharply, with a faint tremor.
Most obvious was that ferocity. The training outline called for thirty cuts per set, but Linley often did forty or fifty, stopping only when his arms were too sore and weak to lift. When practicing footwork, the others used level ground, but he deliberately sought out places with small stones or uneven footing. When he fell, he got up without a sound and continued. Once, during a combat exercise-extremely basic responses to slow attacks-his partner accidentally struck his shin with a wooden sword, leaving a bruise. Frightened, the other child hurried to apologize. Linley merely shook his head and said, "It's fine. Keep going," but his gaze grew darker.
Hillman noticed too. When Linley grew too tense, he would remind him sternly, "Loosen up! Your body is a scabbard, not a rock!" Or, when he held his breath, Hillman would deliver a measured slap to his back. "Breathe out! Are you trying to make yourself pass out?"
Linley would adjust immediately, but before long, that unconscious tension and straining would return. He was like a bowstring drawn too taut, giving a dangerous, mournful whine.
Loa had thought that with time, Linley would come to terms with things and train properly. But as time passed, his condition did not ease; instead, it showed signs of worsening. The faint bluish shadows beneath Linley's eyes grew increasingly noticeable. Sometimes, during breaks in training, he would stare blankly at the distant mountains, his gaze vacant and carrying a weight beyond his years.
That afternoon, as training neared its end, a fine, cold rain began to fall. Hillman dismissed them early. The children scattered, running for shelter. Loa put away his wooden sword and was about to leave when he saw that Linley had stayed.
He stood alone in the rain before the wooden post covered in sword marks and raised his sword once again. Rain soaked his hair and training clothes, which clung to him and made his figure look all the more slight. He was practicing the most basic diagonal cut. His movements were correct, but each swing carried a force that seemed almost like venting, as though he meant to cleave apart the post and something unseen along with it.
Thud! Thud! Thud!
The sound of the wooden sword striking the post was somewhat muffled in the rain, yet every blow struck at Loa's heart. He saw Linley biting his lower lip tightly, saw the slight redness around his eyes-it might have been only the rain, or it might not.
Loa stood beneath the covered walkway and watched for a long time. At last, he picked up another communal wooden sword leaning against the wall, stepped into the rain, and walked to the post beside Linley's.
He said nothing, merely took his stance and began practicing diagonal cuts as well. His movements were steady, his rhythm even, his breathing rising and falling with his motions, revealing a coordination honed over years.
At first, Linley paid him no attention, immersed in his own world. Gradually, however, the steady, persistent sounds of sword swings beside him seemed to carry a rhythm that pierced the curtain of rain and reached his ears. The pace of his cuts slowed without his realizing it, and he began unconsciously following Loa's rhythm.
The two swung their swords side by side in the rain. Apart from the sounds of wooden swords cutting through the air and striking the posts, there was only the patter of rain.
After an unknown stretch of time, Linley's movements grew slower and slower, until at last he stopped. Leaning on his wooden sword, he gasped for breath, sweat mingling with rainwater as it dripped from his chin.
Loa stopped at that moment too and turned to look at him.
Their eyes met in the rain. Linley's gaze held exhaustion, stubbornness, and a trace of bewilderment and hurt he had not managed to hide completely.
"You don't need to do this," Loa said, his voice calm and clear even amid the rain.
Linley froze for a moment, then turned his face away. "I don't know what you're talking about."
"Training isn't punishment," Loa continued, his tone level, as though stating a fact. "You're treating your body like an enemy. Every swing looks like you're fighting it. If you keep training like this, you'll only hurt yourself."
Linley stiffened slightly. His fingers tightened around the sword hilt until his knuckles turned white. He remained silent as rainwater ran from the ends of his hair into his collar.
"Captain Hillman said strength is like water. You have to guide it, not force it back." Loa took a step closer, lowering his voice a little. "Your body is the bucket that holds the water. What you're doing now isn't making the bucket bigger or getting the water to flow smoothly. You're punching holes in the bucket, or shaking it as hard as you can, trying to make the water splash higher. It's useless. You'll only spill the water and damage the bucket."
The comparison was crude, but Linley understood. He jerked his head up, emotions churning fiercely in his eyes: the embarrassment of being seen through, and something else on the verge of bursting after long suppression. His lips moved a few times, but in the end he merely pressed them tightly together and said nothing.
"I don't know what happened to you." Loa looked into his eyes, softening his tone. "But nothing is worth fighting by destroying yourself. You're Linley Baruch, not a puppet that can only swing a sword."
"You don't understand anything!" Linley finally growled, his voice hoarse with a suppressed sob. "Some things... if you weren't born with them, no matter how hard you try, you still..."
His words stopped abruptly, as though he had realized he had said too much. He turned his head sharply away, but his shoulders began to tremble slightly despite himself.
The rain fell more densely. The whole world was gray, enveloping the two small figures.
Loa stood quietly. He could roughly guess the reason-that heavy secret about the bloodline. He could not expose it, nor could he offer comfort with a weightless "It's all right."
"I don't understand," Loa said again after a long while, his voice unusually clear amid the rain. "But I know that the Linley I know wouldn't dismiss everything about himself just because there was one thing he couldn't do. His sword is fast, he takes learning seriously, and he can hold the Qi-Gathering Stance longer than I can."
Linley's figure stiffened with his back turned.
"If one road is blocked for now," Loa continued, looking deep into the curtain of rain, as though also looking toward some uncertain future, "then walk the road beneath your feet well first. Train with the sword you can hold, and strengthen the body you can control. When you're strong enough, perhaps you'll discover that the mountain once blocking your way has become a mound beneath your feet."
With that, he lingered no longer, turning toward the covered walkway and leaving Linley standing alone in the rain.
After a few steps, Loa stopped. Without looking back, he said only, "The rain's getting heavier. Go home. There's training tomorrow."
His footsteps gradually faded.
Linley remained where he was, letting the rain wash over him. Slowly, he lowered his head and looked at his hands, which trembled slightly from overexertion, then at the wooden post covered in old and new sword marks.
After a long while, he slowly loosened his tight grip on the sword hilt and let out a long, deep breath, as though trying to expel everything stifling his chest.
Then he bent down and picked up the wooden sword from the ground. Rather than practicing again, he turned and walked step by step through the standing water toward the Baruch Mansion. Though his steps were slow, they no longer carried that weight of being on the verge of collapse.
The curtain of rain gradually blurred his receding figure.
Beneath the covered walkway, Loa watched the small figure disappear into the rain, unsure how much his words would help. All he could do was point it out, then leave room.
Some barriers could only be crossed on one's own.
On some roads, one ultimately had to walk through the initial darkness alone before seeing the light.
And perhaps all he could do was reach out to steady the other person when he stumbled, or say, "Hey, watch where you're going."
This was probably what being friends meant, he thought silently.
Before you continue