Loa's life settled into a three-stop routine. In the morning, he trained with the youth group, then came home to continue learning smithing from Old Jack. Every so often, Old Jack sent him out to deliver repaired tools, offering the grand justification, "A boy can't stay cooped up at home. You need to get out more. A child ought to act like a child."
Loa felt helpless, but he could hardly refuse Old Jack's kindness. He could only set aside some time to deliver things outside and count it as running with weights.
Although he had begun proper foundational warrior training, his impressions of this world came only from books, and reality was bound to be more complicated. Books-knowledge like that was monopolized by the nobility. Even if he wanted to buy some, he would probably have to go into the city to find general knowledge for sale. More advanced knowledge required both status and money.
There was nothing for it but to take things one step at a time and get stronger first.
Recently, while forging, he had discovered that he could incorporate some techniques he had learned in his previous life, saving effort and transmitting more force into the iron. When he applied the breathing method from his sword practice to his everyday exercise, even running seemed to take less effort. These days, aside from training, Loa kept pondering these questions: how to combine what he had accumulated in his previous life with this one.
Back home, Loa picked up his own hammer. He had already switched from a small hammer to a regular one. His training over this period had significantly improved his physical fitness, and he could now swing a regular hammer.
Push off the ground, send the force upward, twist the waist... No, too deliberate. My arms are too stiff, too.
Loa became absorbed in thought. His knowledge of mechanics and anatomy from his previous life worked through his mind automatically, analyzing the chain of force and seeking "energy expenditure points" he could optimize.
After work ended that evening, Loa picked up an old hand hammer and took his stance. Following the force-generating technique he had devised, he swung again and again.
Whenever something felt wrong, he stopped, closed his eyes, and rebuilt the model in his mind.
Then he tried again.
He pushed off the ground, letting the force rise smoothly. His waist and hips rotated in a natural burst, and his relaxed arm lashed out like a whip-
Whoosh!
The sound of cutting air was crisper. The hammer struck the disused anvil with a dull clang.
Not smooth enough, but it's beginning to feel right.
Excitement surged. Verification! This was the verification he craved! Putting theory into practice, feeling it through his body, adjusting, approaching the "optimal solution"!
Again and again. Sweat soaked his undershirt, his arm ached, and his breathing grew heavy. He lost himself in it, until suddenly, in one moment, he raised the hammer, inhaled, twisted his waist, exerted force, brought it down... and exhaled. A simple rhythm, honed through countless blows. Force rose from the soles of his feet, turned through his waist and hips, traveled up his back, across his shoulder, and through his arm, then gathered in the hammerhead as it smashed down with tremendous force! Found it. That's the feeling. After hundreds upon thousands of blows, he had finally found that perfect strike!
"Stop hammering, you little brat! Time to eat!" "Coming, coming!"
Loa went over to the water jar, scooped out a dipperful to wash his face, and hurried off to eat.
As usual, he did his basic exercises after rising that morning. That afternoon was the weekly weapons training session at the training ground on the back hill.
Loa stood before the weapon rack, his fingers brushing over the rough wooden weapons. Wooden sabers, wooden spears, wooden axes... Finally, they stopped on a two-handed wooden sword. Its blade was about three feet long, much thicker and heavier than an ordinary one-handed sword, and worn hemp cord wrapped its grip.
This one.
He grasped the hilt, and a familiar sensation came through his palm. Although plagued by illness and pain in his previous life, he had persisted in practicing two-handed swordsmanship countless times. Limited by his body, he could only rehearse certain moves in his mind, following the essentials of Mr. Yu Chenghui's two-handed swordsmanship-"Broad cleaves and sweeping cuts, expansive movements, power rising from the waist, breath flowing through to the sword's edge." Back then, even holding a chopstick took effort, and he could only imagine that sense of sweeping, unrestrained command.
But now, this rough wooden sword rested solidly in his hands.
"Made your choice?" Hillman's voice came from behind him.
Loa turned and nodded. "Yes, Captain."
Hillman glanced at the two-handed wooden sword, then at Loa's small, thin frame, his brow creasing slightly. "That thing isn't light. Most people who train with two-handed swords are tall, powerful warriors. They rely on brute strength to overpower their opponents." He paused. "Are you sure?"
"I'll give it a try." Loa's voice was calm, but his eyes held an unmistakable seriousness.
Hillman said nothing more, merely pointing toward the open ground. "Get in line. Today we're practicing basic cuts. Three hundred."
Training began.
Most of the other children had chosen one-handed wooden swords or wooden sabers, which were relatively easy to swing. Loa held his sword in both hands and stood at the back of the line, drawing a deep breath.
The principles of swordsmanship from his previous life surfaced in his mind-a two-handed sword was not swung through brute arm strength, but driven by the entire body. The feet were the roots, the waist the axis, the shoulders the wheels, and the arms merely channels for transmitting force.
"Ready-cut!"
At Hillman's command, cries of "Ha!" rang out across the training ground.
Loa did not shout with them. His entire attention was immersed within his body. His feet were shoulder-width apart, his toes gripping the ground slightly, like an old tree taking root. As he inhaled, the faint trickle of warmth in his lower abdomen circulated naturally, rising along his spine. The instant he twisted his waist and turned his hips, their rotation abruptly accelerated that warm current. Like water rushing through a narrow river channel, it surged into both arms.
The wooden sword swung out.
It was not a brute-force chop straight down from above, but a diagonal line carrying a subtle curve. The blade's path through the air was extraordinarily steady, and its swish was solid and brief, without the airy whooshing of the other children's swings.
Clang!
The wooden sword struck the post in front of him. The sound was not particularly loud, but the post visibly shuddered, and a clear indentation had been cut into its bark.
Loa drew back his sword, breathing long and evenly. He had probably used only seventy percent of his strength in that strike, but the efficiency of its transmission had been extremely high. Almost none had been wasted on unnecessary muscular tension.
Interesting.
He adjusted his grip, moving his thumb slightly forward-a detail he had remembered from illustrations in ancient manuals in his previous life, supposedly allowing better control of the blade's balance.
He swung a second time.
This time, he tried adding an extremely subtle "wrist flick" as he exerted force. It was not a simple flick, but an almost invisible rotation of his wrist at the instant before the blade met the post, causing the sword's kinetic energy to erupt more tightly at a single point.
Thud!
The sound had changed. Duller. Deeper.
The indentation in the post deepened a little more, and fine tears appeared in the wood fibers along its edges.
Loa's eyes lit up. Verification, more verification! Those theories that had been mere words on paper in his previous life were now, in this world where he possessed real strength, being remembered by his body and confirmed by his muscles, bit by bit.
He became completely absorbed in this cycle of "verification, adjustment, and verification again." No two strikes were quite the same. With each one, he made tiny adjustments to the angle of force, the rhythm of his breathing, and the timing of his weight shift. Sweat soon soaked his coarse cloth undershirt, and his arms began to ache, but he paid no attention. The excitement of turning theory into practice was more captivating than any reward.
He had not noticed that Hillman had been standing behind him for a full five minutes.
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