Morning dew still clung to the red leaves of the courtyard tree.
Matteo stood at its base, wrist and ankle weights secured once again. He didn't complain this time. Not out loud anyway.
He breathed in slowly.
His core was stable.
The energy flowed on command now, humming just beneath the surface of his skin.
He'd reached a point where control wasn't just possible—it was natural.
The old man approached, his robes dragging lightly over the stone path.
He held something wrapped in faded cloth beneath one arm.
"Good. You're ready."
He tossed the bundle forward.
Matteo caught it and unwrapped the cloth.
Inside: a wooden training sword.
Its design was unusual—slightly curved, single-edged, light yet long enough to allow broad movement. A distinct dragon motif was carved along the base of the blade.
"This is your next lesson," the old man said.
"The first strike of the Draconic Style."
He raised his hand and pointed toward the open courtyard.
"The Dragon Dance."
---
The technique was as brutal as it was elegant.
A wide step forward, weighted by your center.
A twist of the hips, a downward cut timed with the breath.
Shoulders relaxed, blade trailing like flame behind wind.
It wasn't about power—it was about timing.
Precision. Flow.
Each movement was a continuation of the last.
No wasted energy. No sudden bursts.
Like a serpent striking through water, or a dragon diving through the clouds.
Matteo watched the old man perform it once.
It took less than a second.
One fluid draw.
One vertical cut.
The stone at his feet split with a soft crack.
"It is not just a slash," the old man said quietly.
"It is a declaration."
---
The Practice was slow...
Matteo gritted his teeth.
"Again."
He stepped forward, swung the wooden blade, twisted.
Too slow.
Off balance.
He stumbled.
"Again."
Swing.
Too rigid.
Too heavy.
He adjusted.
Focused on the footwork first. Then the breathing.
The weights screamed against his joints. His shoulders protested. Sweat blurred his vision.
"Again."
Yurisha sat on the steps nearby, copying his movements with a stick and making her own sound effects.
"Hyaa~!"
"Shwish!"
"Bwuthur's so cool!"
He nearly tripped over his own foot mid-swing, breaking into a laugh.
The old man didn't comment. But the faint tug at his lips gave him away.
---
Later That Evening as the sky turned orange with dusk. The sun dipped below the clouds.
Matteo sat by the fire again, stirring a pot of stew. He'd found some wild root vegetables and even caught a small rabbit in the lower valley that morning.
Yurisha was currently telling it a bedtime story.
"And then the wabbit met the bwig scawy mountain monster—who was actuwally just hungry. So dey had soup and became fwiends~!"
The rabbit twitched in its sleep.
Matteo ladled stew into a bowl and handed it to the old man.
"It's not lava wyrm tail, but it's edible."
The old man took a sip. Raised a brow.
"...You added spice."
"Of course I did. What do you think I am, a criminal?"
The old man chuckled softly, sipping again.
"Not bad, brat."
---
And then night fell with it's endless dark sky. Stars dotted the endless expanse.
Matteo sat alone in the courtyard.
Sword across his knees.
He repeated the movement slowly under moonlight.
Step.
Twist.
Breathe.
Cut.
Each repetition carved a groove into his muscles. Into his bones. Into his mind.
The technique wasn't just becoming a part of him—
It was becoming a habit.
And in this quiet moment, with stars above and stone below, he whispered to himself:
"I'm now... One step closer to my dream..."