Day 1 – Wood and Wounds
The morning mist had yet to fully lift when I stepped onto the open field behind Uncle's house. Dew still clung to the grass, and the cold air slapped against my face, reminding me that today was no ordinary day.
It was the first day of training.
Uncle was already standing in the middle of the field, his figure like a shadow from the legends I kept in my mind—firm, unwavering, and untouched by the chill that surrounded him.
In his hands, he held two long wooden sticks, carved into the shape of swords—our training weapons for the day.
"Take one," he said, tossing a stick toward me.
I caught it with both hands, and at once, my grip felt small against the weight of the wood. But there was no time to hesitate. Today, I was not a child. Today, I was a warrior in the making.
"Do you know why we start with wood?" he asked, his gaze sharp.
I shook my head.
"Because wounds from wood won't kill you—but they'll hurt enough to teach you the cost of your mistakes."
And before I could reply, his stick came flying toward me.
My reflexes moved faster than my thoughts. I blocked, stepped back, and tried to maintain distance. But Uncle was like a storm—relentless, swift, and seasoned.
His stick struck my shoulder. Sharp pain. Then my side. The air was knocked from my lungs. Then my knee—and I fell.
But I rose again. And again. And again.
Never had I imagined that pain could spark laughter.
Each time I was knocked down, each time my body was flung aside, my lips curved into a wide grin. Somehow, the pain awakened a fire within me I hadn't known was there. Like a child who had just discovered he could outrun his own shadow.
I tried to mimic Uncle's movements. I attacked—wildly, clumsily—and of course, every strike was deflected with ease. My body was covered in bruises now, my cheek scraped, and a thin trickle of blood ran from my temple. But the laughter never left my lips.
Uncle paused, his stick hovering mid-air as he looked at me with a strange expression—somewhere between admiration and disbelief.
"You're laughing?" he asked.
I wiped the blood from the corner of my mouth. "I've never felt anything like this. I want to be like you, Uncle. Stronger... faster... the peak."
He was silent for a moment, then let out a long sigh, spun his stick, and planted it into the ground.
"Crazy kid..." he muttered at last, with a faint smile that was hard to read—half worry, half pride.
And that was how my first day began—with wounds, laughter, and a hope that burned like a small flame just lit in the cold morning.