Ryn closed his eyes, allowing the silence to replace the confusion.
The answer was still unclear, yet he knew it was closer than he thought.
Richard's advice, however, remained too vague to grasp.
The next morning, the training continued as usual.
Blades still swung.
Richard still evaded with ease.
Nothing seemed to change—at least, not on the surface.
But this time, Ryn was no longer focused on Richard.
He turned his attention inward.
Every swing of his sword.
Every step he took.
Every thought that surfaced in his mind.
Something was wrong.
When the day's training ended, Ryn sat alone, his sword resting across his lap, his gaze fixed on the blade in deep thought.
His strikes… had a rhythm.
His movements… had a rhythm.
Even his thoughts… followed the same rhythm.
Yes.
It was a single rhythm—
smooth, steady, predictable.
Too easy to read.
Ryn frowned as a memory rose to the surface.
One night, back when they were still village guards—
a night when it was their turn to cook.
Dorn was tending the fire.
Ryn was adding more wood.
Marek stood beside the pot, chopping vegetables in a steady rhythm.
Tarin was carefully slicing meat.
"Is the water boiling yet?"
Marek called out, his hands never slowing.
"What's the rush?"
Tarin lifted his head from the meat.
"I'm not done slicing yet!"
Marek laughed loudly.
"You're just slow! Look at me—I can chop nonstop!"
Tarin shook his head.
"Cutting meat isn't the same as chopping vegetables, idiot.
You have to watch the grain, avoid the bones, make the pieces even.
You can't just swing blindly!"
Sil, who had been quietly setting the table, spoke up.
"I'm done here."
Dorn hurried to stoke the fire.
Marek picked up his pace.
Everyone did their part—
Different.
Yet connected.
And in that moment, Ryn finally understood.
His rhythm…
was too smooth.
Too uniform.
Lacking weight.
Lacking variation.
Lacking true intent.
He wasn't swinging his sword to cut—
He was swinging it merely to hit.
It was no different from moving his hand again and again—
weak, meaningless, empty.
Ryn stood up, closed his eyes, and let his breathing slow into a steady flow.
He thought of the fire.
He thought of the wind blowing into it.
The fire did not change because the wind was strong—
it changed because of the rhythm of the wind.
Yes…
The first strike should never end with just a single motion.
Movement must carry itself into the next rhythm.
It must not stop simply because one intends to strike.
This was not about thinking.
It was about weighted instinct.
Ryn opened his eyes.
They were calm—
but deep within them burned unwavering resolve.
At last, he understood what "chopping vegetables" truly meant.
The next morning, the training began once more.
Ryn took his position, sword in hand.
At first, he maintained the same rhythm—
slow, steady, orderly.
Not because he lacked courage,
but because he was gathering his focus.
His breathing settled.
His mind grew still.
His body responded naturally to every breath.
And when everything aligned,
Ryn began to change his tempo.
Faster, then slower.
One short step, one long step.
His strikes no longer followed the same pattern.
Richard still evaded with ease—
but his eyes were no longer the same.
Ryn began to weave killing intent into every swing.
Not a wild, formless pressure—
but a precise force.
Focused.
Timed.
Sometimes fast.
Sometimes heavy.
Sometimes flowing, as though the blade moved on its own.
As time passed, the rhythms began to merge—
movement, strikes, breathing, and intent weaving into a single flow.
The sword was no longer something he merely held.
It had become a part of his motion.
Richard continued to evade, but this time…
he had to move more.
Retreat farther.
Twist his body more sharply.
And then, in one decisive moment, Ryn's blade came crashing down—
fast, heavy, carrying with it the crushing pressure of focused killing intent.
Clang!
Steel collided with a thunderous echo.
Richard drew his sword from its sheath and raised it in a split second, blocking Ryn's strike just in time.
The two froze in that position, vibrations running through their blades, the air around them falling into silence.
Richard looked at Ryn.
A faint smile formed at the corner of his lips.
Ryn understood in that instant.
Even though he still hadn't landed a hit—
he had forced his master to draw his sword.
They remained locked in their clashing stance, metal groaning softly in the air.
Richard's smile deepened slightly.
"Very good," he said calmly.
"You've begun to change from a cook… into a soldier."
Ryn was breathing heavily, yet his eyes never left his teacher.
Richard lowered his blade and continued,
"From now on, I still won't attack you as before.
But I'll use my sword to defend myself instead.
Now then… let's begin again."