Soul of a Samurai

The next day came.

I woke up sore. My arms, legs, and back ached from yesterday's training, but I ignored the pain.

Pain was temporary. Strength was earned.

I ate breakfast silently with my mother and father. My mother gave me a worried glance, but she said nothing. My father, as always, remained unreadable.

Once the meal was over, I followed him outside. The cold morning air bit at my skin, but I didn't shiver. I was used to it.

The wooden sword was still in my hands.

I had fallen unconscious yesterday before finishing my swings, but I hadn't let go of it.

And I wouldn't today, either.

Training began exactly the same way as yesterday.

The same grueling physical conditioning.

The same drills.

The same exhaustion.

But today, something was different.

I was adjusting.

My balance was still off, but I could compensate for it now.

The awkwardness of moving with a sword was less noticeable.

Running was smoother. My push-ups were more stable. Even when climbing, I instinctively shifted my grip to keep the sword from becoming an obstacle.

I was learning.

And I was improving.

That didn't mean it was easy.

My father's training was relentless. No breaks. No pauses. Just continuous, brutal exercises that made my muscles burn and my lungs ache.

But I didn't stop.

I wouldn't stop.

Because I wasn't weak.

By the time the physical portion of training ended, I was exhausted.

Sweat dripped from my chin. My arms trembled slightly from fatigue.

But I still stood tall, sword in hand, waiting for my father's next command.

And just like yesterday, he looked at me and said—

"Now, swing. A thousand times."

I nodded.

No hesitation. No complaints.

I raised my sword and began.

Each swing sent another shock of pain through my arms, but I ignored it.

Pain was nothing.

A warrior couldn't afford to be weak.

A warrior endured.

One hundred swings.

The sword felt heavier in my grip.

Two hundred swings.

My breathing was getting rougher, my muscles burning.

Three hundred swings.

Sweat soaked my clothes, my fingers raw against the wooden hilt.

Five hundred swings.

I bit down on my tongue to keep from groaning.

Six hundred swings.

My body screamed at me to stop.

Seven hundred swings.

My vision was blurring from exhaustion.

Eight hundred swings.

I raised my sword for the next swing—

And my body collapsed.

I barely registered the impact of the ground against my back. My vision spun, my chest rising and falling with ragged breaths.

I had failed again.

Not a thousand swings.

Only eight hundred.

I wanted to be frustrated. I wanted to be angry at myself for falling short.

But I couldn't even move.

My body had reached its limit.

Before I could even process my failure, my vision darkened—

And sleep took me once more.