Chapter 3 – The Breath of Steel
The morning began with the sound of steel cutting air.
I swung until my arms burned. The bamboo shafts split unevenly, shards scattering across the courtyard. The cold bit into my skin, but I kept moving. The sword was heavier than it should've been — or maybe it was me who was weaker.
The monk watched from the porch, silent, his expression unreadable. I wasn't training for him. I was training to feel something other than the weight inside my chest.
The first cut wavered. The second missed entirely. The third stopped halfway through, the blade catching on splinters. I clenched my teeth, breath ragged, muscles trembling.
"Again," he said.
I said nothing.
Snow drifted down from the eaves as I reset my stance. The wind hissed through the bamboo. My heart pounded — three beats instead of one.
The shinobi's voice came first, sharp and impatient. "Your center's off. You're wasting movement."
The samurai's tone followed, calm but firm. "Focus on breath, not strength."
And the man — the part that still remembered cars, glass towers, and the smell of rain — just thought, I don't belong here.
The sword hummed faintly in my grip. I drew again. This time, I didn't think. I let the rhythm take over. The arc was clean, the cut smooth. The bamboo split without resistance.
The monk's head tilted slightly. That was all the acknowledgment I got.
By noon, my arms were numb. I dropped to my knees, sweat freezing against my skin. The voices had quieted, but their echoes lingered like a pulse beneath the silence.
When I tried to stand, dizziness hit me. The courtyard tilted, and for a second, I saw three shadows overlap mine. They moved like muscle memory — fluid, confident, lethal.
Then I was on the ground again, staring at the sky.
The monk finally spoke. "You're fighting yourself."
I didn't answer. There was nothing to say.
He turned and walked away, the crunch of his sandals fading down the corridor.
I stayed there long after he was gone. Snowflakes gathered in my hair, melting against my heat. My hand found the sword's hilt again. It pulsed faintly under my touch — not alive, not quite, but aware.
When I finally went inside, the world felt quieter, heavier. I dreamt of steel breathing that night.
It wasn't imagination. The blade in my dream rose and fell like a chest, exhaling frost with every breath. A voice, low and rough, spoke through it — not the mountain, not the monk.
"You're learning to listen."
I woke with a start. My hands were bleeding. The sword beside me was drawn, its edge glinting in the moonlight. I didn't remember pulling it out.
The whispers were gone. But something had changed.
The sword felt warm.
Alive.
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