Daily training and medicinal salve

The days were like iron glowing red in a furnace, hammered again and again into a new shape.

Loa's life had become a precise cycle: up before dawn, weighted laps, squats, then breakfast. He forged iron with Old Jack in the mornings. In the afternoons, he either pushed the cart to make deliveries or joined group training at the training ground. After dinner, he practiced swordsmanship against the wooden post in the backyard until the moon reached the middle of the sky.

Late autumn arrived, and the leaves around Wushan Town began to yellow and fall. The morning fog grew thicker, often lingering until the sun had fully risen. The weather turned cool, but the smithy remained sweltering, its fire burning from morning to night.

Loa's body changed slowly but steadily.

The redness and swelling on his shoulders subsided, replaced by a thin layer of firm muscle. His arms were no longer as slender as before; when he gripped his hammer, taut lines showed along his forearms. His legs grew stronger. He no longer needed to hold his breath to get the cart moving and could instead maintain a steady rhythm.

But the greatest change was in the thread of warmth condensed by the Weapon Combat Breathing Method.

It had grown thicker.

Though still as fine as a strand of hair, its presence was now clearly perceptible in his lower abdomen. It usually lay dormant within him, only circulating of its own accord when Loa exerted his full strength or became utterly exhausted, nourishing his muscles and easing their soreness.

Loa began to guide it consciously, not just during training, but throughout the day-matching his breathing to his steps as he walked, letting the warmth circulate through his legs; accompanying every hammer blow with a long exhalation as he forged, letting the warmth follow the path of his exertion. Even when eating, he slowed his chewing and adjusted his breathing, trying to help his body absorb the energy in his food.

It was difficult. It demanded intense concentration, and the slightest distraction broke the flow. By the end of the day, Loa often felt mentally exhausted, even more so than physically.

But he could feel the benefits. He recovered faster, and the same amount of training left his muscles less sore the following day. His strength flowed more smoothly, and as he swung his sword, he increasingly felt his power connecting in one unbroken line from the soles of his feet to the sword tip.

That afternoon, at the training ground.

Hillman came over carrying a bundle of new wooden swords to replace the badly worn weapons. He walked past the ranks practicing their cuts, his gaze sweeping over each child.

His steps paused when he saw Loa.

Loa was performing a sequence of continuous cuts. Holding the sword in both hands, he cut diagonally from the upper left to the lower right, then drew it back with the momentum before cutting from the upper right to the lower left. His movements were not particularly fast, but they were exceptionally steady. Each cut followed almost exactly the same path, slicing through the air with a short, solid swish.

But Hillman was not watching his movements. He was watching Loa's condition.

The boy's breathing had a peculiar rhythm. He inhaled each time he raised the sword, finishing just as it reached its highest point; he exhaled slowly as he cut, emptying his breath just as the sword reached the bottom. Each inhalation and exhalation matched the rise and fall of his movements in a strange rhythm.

What drew Hillman's attention even more was Loa's gaze. He was neither staring at the wooden post nor looking blankly ahead. His eyes were slightly lowered, as though he were watching his sword, or looking inside his own body. His degree of concentration was entirely different from the other children's.

Hillman did not interrupt. He moved aside, set down the wooden swords, and folded his arms to keep watching.

Loa noticed nothing. He was completely immersed in his own world.

The hundred and third cut.

His arms felt a little sore, and his shoulder muscles trembled slightly. But instead of stopping, he adjusted his breathing, directing more of the thread of warmth into his arms. A comfortable heat spread from his shoulders to his elbows, easing the soreness a little.

The hundred and seventh cut.

His breathing rhythm suddenly broke. A moment's distraction disrupted his breath, and the warmth dispersed with it. This cut immediately lost its earlier steadiness. Its path skewed, striking the edge of the wooden post, and the vibrating blade left his palms numb.

Loa stopped and frowned.

He readjusted his breathing and prepared to continue. But that interruption had broken his state, and he could not regain the feeling over the next several cuts. Either his exertion was uneven or his breathing failed to match.

Just as he prepared to adjust again, Hillman's voice sounded behind him:

"Wrong."

Loa turned and saw the captain standing a few steps away, his face expressionless.

"That's enough for you today," Hillman said. "Everyone else, keep going. Loa, come here."

Loa lowered his sword and walked over to Hillman.

Hillman said nothing at first. He reached out and squeezed Loa's shoulder, then took his wrist and felt his pulse. Only then did he ask, "What were you practicing just now?"

Loa's heart jolted. He hesitated, then said, "Cuts."

"Not just cuts." Hillman stared at him. "Your breathing. You were deliberately controlling it the whole time, weren't you?"

"...Yes."

"Why?"

Loa did not know what to say. He could hardly say he was practicing a "battle aura breathing method" he had invented himself, could he? After some thought, he found a relatively reasonable explanation. "I think breathing should work together with exertion. When my breathing flows smoothly, so does my strength."

Hillman was silent for a moment before saying, "The principle is sound. But your breathing is too deliberate."

"Too deliberate?"

"You're trying to 'control' your breathing." Hillman made a tightening gesture with both hands. "You're treating it as a tool, trying to make it follow your wishes exactly. But breathing is instinct. It's something the body does on its own. You can guide it, but you can't control it."

Loa froze.

"Just like the sword," Hillman continued. "Last time, I told you that the sword is an extension of your body. You shouldn't 'control' it, but 'guide' it. Breathing is the same. It's part of your body, part of your life. The harder you try to control it, the less freely it flows."

"Then what should I do?"

"Feel it." Hillman placed a hand on his chest. "Feel how your breath comes in and goes out. Feel the path it takes through your body. Then, when you move, don't think, 'Should I inhale or exhale now?' Let your breathing follow your movements naturally. When you move quickly, breathe quickly; when you move slowly, breathe slowly. Let them become one, rather than two separate things."

Loa only half understood.

Hillman could tell and waved a hand. "That's enough for today. Go back and work it out yourself. Remember, too much is as bad as too little. If you spend too much attention on your breathing, you won't practice your sword properly."

After training, Loa did not return straight to the smithy. He took a detour to the stream outside town and found a clean rock to sit on.

The water was so clear that he could see the pebbles on the bottom. The autumn breeze sent tiny ripples across its surface, which reflected the sky and the trees along both banks.

Loa closed his eyes and tried to do as Hillman had said, simply feeling his breathing rather than "controlling" it.

Air entered through his nose, cool and carrying the damp scent of the stream. It passed into his throat, then his chest, and his lungs slowly expanded. Then he breathed it out slowly, carrying the warmth of his body.

An inhale, an exhale.

He neither deliberately lengthened nor shortened them. It was simply his body's natural rhythm.

He tried matching it with movement-imagining himself swinging a sword. As he inhaled, he imagined the sword rising slowly; as he exhaled, he imagined it falling slowly. Rather than forcing his breathing to match the rise and fall of the movement, he let them synchronize naturally.

It was difficult at first. His mind was accustomed to control, and letting go all at once left him at a loss. His breathing and the imagined movements often fell out of sync. Either he finished inhaling before the sword reached the top, or the sword had already fallen before he finished exhaling.

But Loa did not rush. He tried again and again, starting over whenever he went wrong, neither judging nor reproaching himself, merely observing.

Gradually, there were a few moments when his breathing and imagined movements aligned. It was not an alignment achieved through deliberate adjustment, but a natural synchronization. The feeling was remarkable, as though breathing and movement had always been one, only for him to forcibly separate them before.

Only when the sky darkened did Loa get up and head back.

He had not fully mastered it, but at least he had found the way in. Hillman was right: too much was as bad as too little. He had been so intent on keeping everything under control that he had lost his ease instead.

When he returned to the smithy, Old Jack had already made dinner. A customer had brought over a piece of cured meat that day. The old man had cut off a little less than half and stewed it with potatoes, and a tempting, rich aroma drifted from the pot.

"Wash your hands and eat." Old Jack filled two bowls with gruel, then ladled the stew into bowls as well.

Loa sat down and picked up his bowl. The cured meat had stewed until tender, savory and salty, while the potatoes had soaked up the broth and melted in his mouth. He ate slowly, continuing to feel his breathing as he ate.

As he chewed, his breathing naturally matched the rhythm. When he swallowed, his breath paused briefly. There was no need to think; his body adjusted on its own.

So that was how it worked.

After dinner and the cleanup, Loa went to the backyard to practice his sword as usual. But he did not rush to begin. Instead, he stood for a while, settling himself.

He felt his breathing. Felt his body's weight pressing against the soles of his feet. Felt the night breeze brushing his skin.

Only then did he slowly raise his sword.

This time, he did not think, "Now I should inhale," nor did he deliberately guide the warmth. He simply let his body move naturally and his breathing follow.

The first cut felt a little awkward.

The second was a little better.

The third, the fourth... they grew smoother and smoother.

By the tenth cut, Loa had found the feeling. His breathing and movements began to synchronize, not forcibly, but like two parallel rivers flowing naturally together. The thread of warmth also stirred of its own accord, circulating through his body and nourishing his muscles.

He grew increasingly absorbed in his practice, gradually adding variations to the basic cuts-diagonal rising cuts, horizontal sweeps, thrusts. His movements were not fast, but he strove for precision in every strike. Strength rose from the soles of his feet, accelerated through the rotation of his waist and hips, and finally poured into the sword tip.

Moonlight spilled across the backyard, illuminating the figure swinging his sword.

The sword marks on the wooden post grew numerous and dense. Before rain could blur the old ones, new ones had been added. Some were deep, others shallow, recording every attempt and every adjustment.

After practicing for an unknown length of time, Loa stopped and stood with his sword lowered.

He was drenched in sweat, but his mind was clear. The feeling was hard to describe-not excitement or satisfaction, but a deep calm. It was as though something that had been held taut all this time had finally relaxed.

When he returned inside, Old Jack was still awake, mending an old garment by the oil lamp. The old man looked up as Loa entered. "Finished practicing?"

"Yes."

"How are your shoulders?"

Loa moved them a little. "All right. A little sore."

Old Jack set down his needle and thread and took a small earthenware jar from beneath the bed. He opened the lid, revealing a brown salve that gave off a strong herbal smell.

"Come here." The old man beckoned.

Loa went over and sat down in front of Old Jack.

The old man scooped out a dollop of salve with two fingers and rubbed it onto Loa's shoulders. The salve was icy cold, but quickly warmed as he spread it, seeping into the skin and soothing the aching muscles.

"This salve..." Loa asked.

"I had Old Henry make it," Old Jack said, his hands still moving. "Training like this every day without applying medicine will break your body sooner or later."

Loa fell silent. The warmth of the salve spread from his shoulders, warming his heart.

After finishing his shoulders, Old Jack had him turn around and applied some to his arms and back as well. The old man's hands were rough, but his touch was gentle. He spread the salve evenly, tending to every sore spot.

"Grandpa Jack," Loa said softly, "the salve... it's expensive, isn't it?"

"You don't need to worry about that," Old Jack said. "Just focus on your training. Don't get hurt, and don't push beyond your limits. Your body is your foundation. If you ruin it, you have nothing."

Once he finished applying the medicine, Old Jack covered the jar and returned it beneath the bed.

"Go to sleep. You have to get up early tomorrow."

Loa lay down on his bed. The salve began to take effect, leaving his shoulders and arms pleasantly warm and noticeably easing the soreness. He closed his eyes, breathing slowly and deeply.

He had learned something that day: sometimes, letting go brought more than holding on tightly.

Outside the window, the autumn moon hung high.

Inside the smithy, the oil lamp was blown out, and darkness settled over the room.

Old Jack lay in bed, listening to Loa's even breathing and calculating how long the remaining salve would last, and what he should bring to trade the next time he visited Old Henry.

This boy was moving too fast.

While his own body still held up, he had to watch over him from behind and keep him from falling along the way.

The night deepened.

A few barks sounded in the distance, then all was quiet again.

Wushan Town slept soundly, awaiting another dawn.