Soul of a Samurai

I thought I had gotten used to the training.

I was wrong.

Today, my father decided that my training had been too easy.

So he made it harder. Much harder.

It started like any other day.

I woke up, stretched my sore muscles, ate breakfast, and stepped outside, ready for another day of training.

Father was already waiting for me, his single arm crossed over his chest, his gaze as cold as ever.

But today, there was something different.

A boulder sat in the training field. Large. Heavy. Unmovable.

Next to it were weights. Some were meant to be tied to my legs and arms. Others were meant to be carried.

And then, standing beside it all, was Father himself.

I had a bad feeling about this.

"Your training is too easy."

That was the first thing he said.

I stared at him, confused. Too easy? Every day, I pushed myself to my limits. Every night, I collapsed into bed, my body sore and aching.

But my father didn't care about that.

He only cared about making me stronger.

"Starting today, your training will be tripled."

Triple.

That single word sent a chill down my spine.

Then he pointed at the boulder.

"Move it."

I pressed my hands against the massive rock and pushed with all my strength.

It didn't budge.

I dug my heels into the ground, gritting my teeth as I forced my muscles to work harder.

Still, nothing.

The weight was unlike anything I had ever dealt with.

I felt like an ant trying to move a mountain.

But I didn't stop.

I kept pushing.

I adjusted my stance, trying to find better footing.

Then—finally—it shifted.

Just barely.

But it was enough.

I kept going.

I pushed and pushed until I had moved it a full step forward.

Then another.

And another.

By the time I had moved it across the field, my arms were shaking, my back was on fire, and my legs felt like they would give out at any second.

I collapsed onto my knees, panting.

Father nodded. "Again."

I didn't complain.

I got up and did it again.

After hours of moving the boulder, I thought the torture was over.

I was wrong.

Next, my father tied weights to my arms and legs.

I was already exhausted, but he ordered me to continue my usual training.

Running. Push-ups. Squats. Climbing trees. Dodging wooden poles.

But now, everything was heavier.

Every movement took twice the effort.

I could feel the strain in my muscles, the sharp pain that came with overexertion.

But I kept going.

I had to.

I refused to stop.

By midday, I was covered in sweat, my breathing ragged, my body screaming at me to stop.

That's when Father sat down on my back.

"Carry me."

I almost collapsed right then and there.

I was already exhausted, and now I had to carry a fully grown man?

But I didn't say anything.

I clenched my teeth, adjusted my stance, and lifted him.

He wasn't as heavy as the boulder, but after all the training I had already done, his weight felt crushing.

He gave his next command.

"Run."

I ran.

With every step, my legs burned.

With every breath, my lungs ached.

But I didn't stop.

Every time I thought about slowing down, I remembered my father's words.

"Your training is too easy."

I would prove him wrong.

I would show him that I could handle anything he threw at me.

I pushed past the pain, past the exhaustion, past the screaming of my muscles.

And I kept going.

By the end of the day, my body was completely drained.

I barely made it to the dinner table.

Mother frowned when she saw the state I was in. "Was this necessary?" she asked Father.

He didn't answer.

Because to him, the answer was obvious.

Yes.

This was necessary.

Because this was the only way I would become stronger.

I ate my food, ignoring the soreness in my arms as I lifted my chopsticks.

Tomorrow, the training would continue.

And I would be ready.