🔸 Day 38 – The Sword That Wouldn't Answer
The sun blazed mercilessly.
Sumiyoshi's hands were raw. His knuckles torn. His breath sharp and ragged.
But he kept swinging.
Over.
And over.
And over again.
Four hours straight.
No water.
No break.
No words.
Just him... the silence... and the cold-hearted sword that refused to accept him.
Sweat poured down his neck like rain. His knees shook.
But his eyes—those still burned.
Until finally, on the 387th swing, his vision blurred...
...and he collapsed.
Face-first.
Unconscious.
The Guardian Spirit, standing behind the trees, didn't intervene.
He just watched.
And muttered under his breath,
"You're going to break yourself before the sword even cares."
🔸 Day 39 – The Guardian's Disappointment
Next day. Same spot. Same boy.
Sumiyoshi's robe was stiff with dried sweat. His skin pale.
And yet—
Swing.
Swing.
Swing.
The sound of the blade cutting air echoed endlessly.
Finally, the Guardian couldn't take it anymore. He stepped forward.
"Enough, Sumiyoshi."
"You've wasted 39 days. Every other weapon has accepted their wielder. This one won't. Maybe it never will. You need to choose another weapon—start again."
Sumiyoshi froze.
He was drenched. Steam rising from his skin. He was trembling head to toe.
But he turned around.
And his voice cracked as he said:
"No."
"Even if it takes a hundred days... I'm going to show this damn weapon how strong I am."
Then he raised the sword again.
Swing.
Swing.
But this time... something inside him snapped.
His stomach churned. His body gave out.
He vomited right there.
Tried to stand—fell to his knees.
Again tried to rise—but collapsed like a ragdoll.
His body temperature shot up rapidly. His fingers twitched. Breathing ragged.
The Guardian looked at him — not with anger now, but confusion.
"What are you trying to prove?" he whispered under his breath.
Then... silently, he thought:
"This sword doesn't respond to strength... or form... or even willpower. There's a secret to it. A trick."
🔸 Day 40 – The Unseen Truth
That morning, before the sun fully rose...
Sumiyoshi stood again.
Not fully recovered.
Not even stable.
But he stood.
And swung.
Again.
And again.
And again.
His form wasn't textbook anymore.
His swings weren't even consistent.
Sometimes wide.
Sometimes low.
Sometimes clumsy.
But they were full of something else:
Desperation.
Hope.
Rage.
And something purer—belief.
He wasn't copying any master now.
He wasn't trying to impress anyone.
He was simply—being himself.
And for the first time...
The Guardian Spirit narrowed his eyes.
His lips parted slightly.
"...Wait..."
"...That rhythm... that pattern—no... not a pattern..."
"He's doing it."
"He doesn't even know... but he's doing it."
On the final swing, Sumiyoshi raised the sword high.
A wild, unrefined, uneven motion.
And brought it down with everything he had left.
CRACK.
A sharp sound.
Not the blade hitting stone.
But something else.
A tremor through the air.
And then—
The jewel embedded in the hilt pulsed.
A deep, radiant glow.
The sword... was alive.
Sumiyoshi blinked.
He looked down at the weapon.
It was glowing in his hand.
It had accepted him.
He fell to his knees again — not from exhaustion, but from disbelief.
The Guardian stepped forward, stunned.
"He... he actually did it..."
"...without knowing the trick."
"He earned it the hardest way possible."
Sumiyoshi smiled faintly, tears in his eyes, as the sword hummed gently in his hand