The wooden training dummy trembled beneath his blade, its straw-filled torso bursting open with a sharp crack. Sweat trickled from his chin onto the ground, each droplet darkening the stone momentarily before disappearing, much like the lives he had taken with his sword. He chose not to wipe his face. The sting in his eyes kept him alert.
Behind him, the vacant training yard resonated with memories. Here, Eizen had first adjusted his grip, not through words, but with a bamboo switch striking his wrists. There, by the well, Fuchi had chuckled at his awkward footwork while enjoying diluted sake. His next blow severed the dummy's head completely. It rolled toward the sakura tree where Jikka used to doze during practice.
“Tsh!”
The blade felt heavier now than when he had first lifted it as a starving orphan. He understood that the weight wasn't just steel, it was every face he had removed from this world. Criminals. Families. Comrades. The sword tip carved crescents in the dirt as he turned into the Moonflower Stance, a form Sagiri had perfected before they had denied her rank. His muscles quivered not from fatigue, but from the memory of her hands—small and scarred, binding his wounds after the Silver Serpent raid.
He continued to train until his arms ached and his breath came in sharp gasps. The blade moved instinctively now, a silver streak tracing the same arcs through the air that Eizen had instilled in him long ago. Each swing bore the burden of unvoiced thoughts, questions he had never posed to his mentor, apologies he had swallowed like bitter medicine. The remnants of the dummy lay scattered around him like severed limbs, straw insides spilling across the courtyard.
Then he lowered his sword and let out a long, slow breath, releasing the ghosts that clung to him. The blade clanged against the cobblestones, still moist with morning dew, its sound absorbed by the eerie stillness of the training yard. His fingers slowly relaxed, blood flowing back into his previously white-knuckled joints. For the first time in hours, he became aware of the crows perched on the gnarled pine. Their dark eyes mirrored the dawn's first light, and nothing else. As he shut his eyes, he sensed the silent approach of another.
"You are late for your lessons."
@oops-all-cantrips