Russell stood before the practice dummy, his breath fogging slightly in the cool air of the training grounds. He had spent the first hour solely on footwork and the foundational Kamae—the guard positions. He cycled through them with a focused intensity, his body slowly memorizing the forms.
The training grounds buzzed around him—hunters shouting drills, the crackle of energy barriers shifting, metal clashing on metal—but his world had narrowed to the simple geometry of stance and breath.
· Chūdan-no-kamae (Middle Guard): The most common stance. Emma held out before him, tip aimed at the dummy's "throat." Balanced, ready to attack or defend. He felt steady here—centered.
· Jōdan-no-kamae (High Guard): Sword raised above his head, elbows bent. A powerful, offensive stance for devastating downward cuts. His shoulders burned every time he lifted the blade, reminding him how weak his fundamentals still were.
· Gedan-no-kamae (Low Guard): Tip of the sword pointed low, guarding the lower body. A more defensive posture. His calves trembled holding the low position too long.
· Hasso-no-kamae (Side Guard): Blade held vertically beside his head, hilt at eye level. A versatile stance that felt strong, ready to explode into a cut from the side. This one… this one felt oddly natural to him.
· Waki-gamae (Hidden Guard): The most deceptive. Blade held horizontally and low behind his body, hiding its length and his intention entirely. He felt like a predator hiding its fangs.
Learning the stances was straightforward. Their purpose was logical. He felt a flicker of confidence—something he rarely felt since arriving on Titan.
The difficulty, he soon discovered, was in the transitions between them.
Moving from Chūdan to Jōdan without overextending, flowing from Hasso to Gedan without losing balance. His feet stumbled, his hips twisted too far, and the subtle weight changes felt like puzzles he hadn't been taught the solutions to yet. His boots scraped against the metal floor with each readjustment.
It was a silent dance of potential energy.
A dance he was learning for the first time.
---
"Alright, Emma," he muttered, settling back into Chūdan-no-kamae. "Now the real challenge."
His blade hummed faintly, catching the cold white light of the arena dome. The weight of expectations pressed against his shoulders—the memory of Maria's spear pinning him, Theodore's blunt words, Juliet's dismissive smirk. All of them hovered around him like ghosts.
He drew in a long breath.
Stage two: Cutting Techniques (Kiri & Giri).
Salvador's words echoed in his mind:
"Samurai sword strikes are about precision and control. Not wild hacking. Every cut has a purpose. Every motion, efficiency."
"I get it, old man," Russell muttered to himself. "I really do."
He took a deep breath and began.
· Men Giri (Vertical Downward Cut):
From Jōdan, he brought Emma down in a straight, powerful line aimed at the dummy's head.
His first attempt was clumsy—the blade wobbled, and his elbows flared out awkwardly. He felt the flaw instantly.
He reset his stance. Breathed.
Tried again.
This time the blade cut the air in a cleaner path.
· Kesa Giri (Diagonal Cut):
The classic diagonal strike.
From right shoulder to left hip. Then left shoulder to right hip.
He practiced the sweeping arcs, tightening the angles, correcting his spine alignment.
His early swings were too wide, wasting energy.
Again.
Again.
His hips ached, but the movements slowly sharpened.
· Do Giri (Horizontal Cut):
A horizontal slash aimed at the torso.
He pivoted on his feet, generating centrifugal force.
But he kept over-rotating, leaving himself exposed.
Again.
Control the spin.
He let his hips move but kept his upper body stable—imagining Maria darting in after every mistake.
The fear sharpened him.
· Tsuki (Thrust Stab):
A lightning-fast lunge.
His first thrust overextended and nearly sent him stumbling forward.
He muttered under his breath, reset, and tried the movement in sections—the extension, the lunge, the retraction.
A mistimed thrust would get a hunter killed.
He practiced until the motion began to feel like a spear shot from his own heartbeat.
· Sokumen Giri (Side Cut at the Neck):
A precise, snapping cut requiring perfect timing and wrist control.
His first attempts were sloppy—late, slow, off-angle.
He tightened his elbows.
Tightened his grip.
Wrist, hips, breath—all as one.
Slowly, the movements began to feel less like rehearsal… and more like potential.
The minutes bled into each other. Sweat poured down his face. His muscles, already sore from the previous day, burned with a new fire. His arms trembled every time he lifted Emma. His hands stung against the hilt.
This was the real work.
This was where the "raw potential" Theodore saw had to be forged into actual skill.
Each imperfect cut was a lesson.
Each flawed stance, a correction.
Each wobbly thrust, a reminder of how far he had to go.
He wasn't special.
Not yet.
But he was fighting to become someone who could stand on this planet without feeling ashamed.
---
Across the way, Gareth's arrows were now consistently hitting the inner rings of his target.
"Let's goooo! Inner ring again!" Gareth shouted, bouncing on his heels.
"Oi! Russell! I'm basically a sharpshooter now! Well—semi-sharpshooter!"
Russell didn't look back, but a small smirk tugged at his lips.
They were both grinding.
They were both learning.
Both tired, sore, stubborn.
But they weren't alone anymore.
The sound of Russell's focused, repetitive strikes against the dummy became a steady rhythm—almost musical.
A metronome for their shared determination.
Shhk!
Another clean horizontal cut.
Thwip!
Another arrow struck close to the center.
The training grounds smelled of sweat and energy smoke. Metallic dust clung to the air. Every grunt, every footstep, every dull thud against the dummies felt like part of a massive heartbeat—one shared by everyone who wanted to survive Titan.
Russell's movements grew sharper with each repetition. His footwork lighter. His posture firmer.
Still clumsy. Still far from masterful.
But undeniably improving.
After a final series of cuts, he stepped back, chest heaving. His hands trembled from fatigue. Sweat dripped onto the metal floor beneath him.
He looked at Emma—blade faintly shimmering under the artificial lights—and whispered:
"…We'll get there. Together."
A small breeze rolled through the training hall as an energy field reset nearby. Hunters shouted commands. Someone cursed loudly as a practice bolt hit them square in the back.
But Russell heard none of it.
For the first time, his heartbeat felt steady.
Controlled.
Purposeful.
He wasn't fighting just to prove someone wrong anymore.
He was fighting because, for the first time in his life…
he wanted to become someone better.
And this grind—this agonizing, repetitive, exhausting grind—was where it would all begin.