After the lesson on animals, the apprentices returned to their seats for the lesson on weapons.
Instructor TOGBE placed a small stool, took out a board, and placed a piece of wood and a polished knife on it, straight as a verdict.
"You had a very special lesson this morning," he began, his voice softer than MOUGBE's but just as firm. "That was the first part. The second, what I will teach you, is perhaps the most important: learning to strike cleanly, without prolonging suffering."
He motioned for the apprentices to stand up.
"Watch my hand. Watch how I hold the blade."
He demonstrated the grip: thumb against the guard, fingers wrapped, wrist solid but supple. Without violence, he pressed the knife against the wood, showing the angle.
"The blade must be an instrument of mercy. A dull blade twists, drags, and causes suffering. A dry and precise blade finishes the act in a single breath."
He then drove the knife into the board, in and out, without dramatic noise, only the firm slap of a mastered gesture.
"Above all: sharpen. Before cutting life, make your blade clean. After, respect the animal—never let it be the sentinel of a job poorly done."
The sun began to set, casting long shadows on the beaten ground.
The metal reflected the light in golden flashes, and each flash seemed to vibrate in the air, as if it possessed its own consciousness.
The youths watched, captivated.
Some felt their hearts beating to the rhythm of the knife's movement—a strange fascination, a mix of fear and beauty.
ZE-RAK, however, listened without really listening.
Since he had been holding his own knife, a familiar sensation had been rising in him, but this time it was different.
It was no longer the earth, nor the blood, nor even the death.
It was a melody.
A breath that slipped into the silence between each strike, a regular beat, almost soothing.
He repeated the gestures with the others, but his mind drifted away.
The world dissolved, replaced by the presence of the blade.
He heard its song—the light rustle of the air, the pure sound of metal slicing through the void.
This sound consumed him entirely, to the point that he forgot the camp's noises, the heat, the stares.
Only the dance remained.
As if he was no longer guiding anything.
The blade was leading.
It pulled him, tilted him, imposed a precise rhythm on him.
His fingers moved on their own, his breath synchronized with the edge.
Each strike was a note. Each note, a prayer.
The blade was no longer for killing: it was speaking.
ZE-RAK felt himself floating, as if a second consciousness was observing through him.
The space around him seemed to breathe, to expand with each movement.
The blade was singing, and in that song, there was something alive, something ancient.
A memory of the metal.
A memory of all the lives it might have touched before his.
He closed his eyes.
And in that darkness, the sound became a light.
Thin, white, vibrant.
A blade of silver floating in a calm void.
It was beautiful, almost soothing—a solitude that warms.
Suddenly, a hand landed on his shoulder.
"Is everything alright, ZE-RAK?" asked TOGBE, his gaze worried.
ZE-RAK opened his eyes, brutally brought back to reality.
The sounds of the world returned all at once: the murmurs, the footsteps, the wind.
"Yes, instructor," he replied, confused.
He returned to his place, under the muffled whispers of the others.
But something within him remained vibrant, like an echo refusing to fade.
The interruption had broken the connection, but the melody persisted—faint, intimate, stubborn.
--
TOGBE resumed, as if he had perceived the boy's trouble.
"Strength comes from the center of the body, not from the arm alone.
Don't try to be stronger than necessary.
Too much strength, too much brutality; not enough, and it's weakness that cuts life short."
His words were simple, but their meaning went beyond technique.
The gesture became language.
Every strike had to be just, balanced, like a word spoken to the earth itself.
He then listed the immutable rules:
· Clean tools
· Respect the animal until its last breath
· Never test on a living animal if you are not ready—practice on wood first.
Then he took the knife, closed his eyes for a moment, and murmured:
"May your blade be brief.
May your hand be clear.
May the earth receive without anger."
The youths repeated, in a low voice, almost religiously.
Their words rose like an incantation, an oath sealed in the burning air of dusk.
--
When night fell, they put away the tools as one replaces relics.
The silence that followed was no longer the same.
It was no longer fear, nor fascination.
It was responsibility.
ZE-RAK returned to his hut.
The darkness enveloped him, soft and deep.
Sitting in silence, he still held the blade between his fingers.
It no longer sang, but he could feel its presence, lurking in the shadows.
Like a promise.
Like an ancient bond, woven into the very flesh of the world.
His heart beat slowly, to the rhythm of the metal's breath.
He felt strangely alive, filled with a new energy.
No fatigue, no fear—just a troubling calm, almost euphoric.
What could be changing him like this?
Laziness? Fatigue?
Or something much deeper…
Something that neither he, nor anyone else, understood yet.
And in the dark, the blade vibrated one last time—
as if it was laughing softly.