*Content Warning: This chapter contains mature themes, violence, blood, and morally dark actions. Reader discretion advised.*
***
The watering cans were set aside as the last drops soaked into the soil. The flowers stood taller, leaves glistening in the morning light. Leon and the old man returned to the house in quiet companionship. Exhaustion from the previous days pulled at Leon's limbs like invisible weights. He lay on the mat by the hearth, the fire now banked low, and sleep claimed him swiftly — deep, dreamless, the kind that restores more than it should.
Dawn arrived without fanfare.
Golden light slipped through the shutters once more, this time sharper, more insistent. Leon opened his eyes to the sound of steel being drawn — slow, deliberate, the whisper of a blade against leather. He sat up. The old man stood in the open doorway, two swords in hand: one plain but well-balanced, the other slightly longer, its edge gleaming with the cold promise of use. The old man's expression had changed — no longer the gentle smile of the garden, but something harder, focused, the look of a man who had once lived by the blade.
Leon rose without a word. He followed the old man outside.
The clearing behind the house had been prepared — a flat patch of packed earth, ringed by trees, the ground swept clean of leaves and stones. The wind had died down to a soft murmur. The forest watched in silence.
The old man extended the shorter sword to Leon — hilt first, edge carefully angled away.
"Here, Leon. Take this. From now on, we begin your swordsmanship training. I am going to make you master every single thing I know."
Leon accepted the blade. It felt heavier than expected — not in weight, but in purpose. He tested the balance, wrist turning once, twice. A faint smile touched his lips, excitement flickering in his eyes.
"Yes… go ahead. Let's do this."
The old man nodded once — short, approving. He stepped back, raising his own sword in a relaxed guard.
"First — stance. Not the showy poses you see in sects or stories. Real stance. Feet shoulder-width, weight on the balls of your feet, not heels. Knees soft, not locked. You must be ready to move in any direction — forward, back, side, or down. A locked knee is a broken knee."
Leon adjusted. The old man circled him slowly, tapping Leon's heel with the flat of his blade when it lagged, nudging his shoulder when it tensed.
"Again. Lower your center. If your head is the highest point, you fall. If your hips are the highest, you're stable. Feel the ground through your soles. The earth is your anchor — not your legs."
Leon shifted again. The old man nodded.
"Good. Now grip. Not tight like you're choking it — that kills speed and feel. Firm, but alive. Thumb along the spine of the hilt for control. Fingers wrapped, not clenched. The sword is an extension of your arm, not a club. When you swing, the power comes from the hips and core — not the shoulders. Shoulders are for direction, not force."
The old man demonstrated — a single, fluid cut through the air. No wasted motion. The blade sang faintly as it passed, edge so sharp it seemed to part the wind itself.
"Watch. Basic overhead cut. Step forward with the lead foot, drop your hips, twist from the waist, let the blade fall in a straight line. Do not muscle it — guide it. The sword wants to move. Let it."
Leon mirrored the motion. The first cut was clumsy — too much arm, not enough body. The blade wobbled at the end. The old man stepped in without hesitation, correcting with gentle taps: hip here, shoulder down, wrist relaxed.
"Again. Slower. Feel the weight transfer from back leg to front. Feel the rotation in your core. The blade is heavy — use that weight, don't fight it."
Leon tried again. Better — the cut landed straighter, the tip stopping precisely where the old man had marked a line in the dirt.
The old man nodded.
"Now footwork. Never cross your feet — that is death in a real fight. Step, slide, pivot. Lead with the hip, follow with the foot. Keep your weight centered. If you lean too far forward, I can push you over. If you lean back, I can pull you down."
He demonstrated — a simple advance, retreat, side-step, all while maintaining perfect guard. Leon followed. The first few attempts were awkward — legs tangling, balance shifting too far. The old man corrected without mercy: a light shove when Leon overcommitted, a tap on the ankle when he stepped too wide.
"Again. Feel the ground. You are not walking — you are gliding. The earth is your ally. Use it."
Hours passed.
The sun climbed higher. Sweat beaded on Leon's brow, then ran in steady streams down his face. His arms burned from holding the guard position. His legs trembled from endless pivots and lunges. The old man showed no sign of fatigue — his movements remained precise, economical, every step deliberate.
"Now — guard positions. High, middle, low. High protects the head and shoulders. Middle covers the torso. Low guards the legs and thighs. Never stay in one too long — shift between them. Make your opponent guess."
Leon practiced the transitions — blade rising, dropping, shifting side to side. The old man attacked slowly at first — controlled cuts that Leon parried, deflected, or evaded. Each block sent jolts up his arms. Each miss earned a tap from the flat of the old man's blade — not painful, but pointed.
"Too slow on the low guard. Your thigh is open. A real opponent would have hamstrung you. Again."
Leon gritted his teeth. His Limitless Mimic Physique stirred — subtle at first, then stronger. Muscles adapted faster than they should. Joints loosened. Reflexes sharpened. What took most men days to learn began to click in hours.
The old man noticed — his eyes narrowed slightly, but he said nothing.
"Now — basic combinations. High cut, feint low, thrust middle. Watch the eyes, not the blade. The eyes betray intent."
Leon followed. At first the feint was obvious — shoulders telegraphed too much. The old man parried effortlessly. But each repetition tightened the motion. The feint became smoother. The thrust faster. The old man's parries came later and later.
"Good. You're adapting. That's rare. Most men take weeks to stop telegraphing. You're doing it in a morning."
Leon wiped sweat from his brow, breathing hard but steady.
"I've… always learned fast. When it matters."
The old man nodded — approving, but still serious.
"Then let's see how fast. Defend."
He attacked — not full speed, but faster than before. A diagonal cut from high right, shifting to low left, then a sudden thrust. Leon parried the first, slipped the second, barely deflected the thrust — the tip stopping an inch from his chest.
The old man stepped back.
"Better. But still slow. Again."
They continued — cut, parry, thrust, evade, feint, counter. The sun climbed. Sweat soaked Leon's robes. His arms trembled, but the movements grew cleaner. Sharper. The old man's strikes never lost precision — each one a lesson carved in air.
Finally, the old man lowered his sword.
"Enough for today. You've grasped the basics — stance, grip, footwork, guards, simple cuts and thrusts. Tomorrow we add pressure. Real pressure. Until then… rest. Stretch. Feel your body remember."
Leon nodded, chest heaving. He looked at the sword in his hand — no longer just a tool. It felt… familiar. Like an extension he hadn't known he was missing.
The old man sheathed his own blade.
"You've got talent, Leon. Raw, but real. Don't waste it."
Leon met his gaze — tired, but burning with something new.
"I won't."
The forest remained silent.
Watching.
Waiting.