The morning sun spilled over the training grounds, gilding the dew-damp grass in shades of gold. Luca's sabers cut through the air in a steady rhythm, each swing smooth, precise, and deliberate. His breath moved in tandem with his strikes—inhale, exhale, step, slash—like the beat of a practiced song. Sweat rolled down his temple, glistening in the light, but his eyes held a calm focus.
I've improved a lot in the past month, he thought, his muscles burning but steady. Every day, nothing but training, pushing, refining. And the results are clear...
The final swing came with a sharp whistle of steel, and Luca allowed the blades to lower. He walked over to the shade of a nearby oak and sat cross-legged, closing his eyes. The sabers rested at his side as he straightened his posture and drew in a long breath.
The world seemed to still.
