Soul of a Samurai

Four months had passed since I began dodging training.

The results were clear.

My body moved without wasted motion.

My steps were precise, my reactions sharp.

Each stone my father threw was avoided effortlessly.

I no longer needed to think about dodging—I just moved.

But, of course, my father didn't let me grow comfortable.

And today, he changed the training again.

"You will no longer dodge," he said, standing before me with his usual stern gaze.

I blinked.

No longer dodge?

Then what?

As if answering my unspoken question, he tossed me my wooden sword.

I caught it instinctively.

"You will block. Deflect. Change the trajectory."

I stiffened.

That was—a lot harder.

Dodging required only movement. A shift of the body, a sidestep, a duck.

But now—I had to intercept.

I had to move my sword fast enough to stop something flying toward me.

I took a breath and nodded.

"Understood."

My father gave no further words.

Instead—he threw the first stone.

I missed.

The rock smashed into my shoulder before I could even react.

I gritted my teeth.

The second one came.

I raised my sword—

Too slow.

The stone slammed into my ribs, making me stumble.

A third one—this time I blocked.

But the force jarred my arms.

I clenched my grip tighter.

More came.

And slowly—I started to keep up.

Each time, I got a little faster.

I wasn't just trying to stop the stones. I was trying to redirect them.

A flick of the wrist sent one stone flying harmlessly to the side.

A slight angle made another bounce away.

My father increased the speed.

I adapted.

I improved.

The sun was lowering when we finally stopped.

My arms ached, my fingers sore from gripping my sword all day.

But I could feel it—the results.

I was stronger.

Faster.

More precise.

And… I wasn't just relying on my body.

I was using the blue particles.

I had been experimenting with them for months now.

Ever since I absorbed them during my 1000 swings, I realized something.

They weren't just something I could see.

They were something I could use.

Whenever I drew them into me, my fatigue faded.

My movements became lighter.

My body felt stronger, faster.

It was like tapping into a hidden source of energy.

But I didn't know what it was.

Or why I could see it when no one else seemed to notice.

I wanted to ask my father…

But I didn't.

Not yet.

When I wasn't training, I was either sleeping, eating, or talking with my mother.

She was the only soft part of my day.

She always had a warm smile for me when I returned inside, always had food ready when I sat at the table.

She would listen patiently when I spoke—even if my words were few.

It was a simple routine.

A harsh one.

But I liked it.

Because every day, I was getting stronger.

And I would keep going.