Chapter 196
Training (5)
As IAM reluctantly began his sixty swings, the repetition of repetition already building in his arms, he caught a glimpse of Henry out of the corner of his eye. Henry had walked toward the center of the room, his back to him now, facing the tall mirror mounted on the far wall.
In Henry's hands was his jian, still sheathed. He stood completely still, his eyes closed and posture was straight. He drew in a slow, steady breath through his nose.
Huuu.
IAM glanced again, curious despite himself. What's he doing? he thought. But before he could ask aloud, Henry spoke without turning around.
"I can't hear you swinging," he said flatly.
IAM kissed his teeth and refocused. And tried to make the next one louder.
Meanwhile, Henry slowly drew his sword. The metallic whisper of the blade sliding from the scabbard rang out through the empty room. The steel caught the overhead lights, flashing for a moment like a shard of lightning. Henry's grip tightened around the handle as he tossed the scabbard aside with his free hand—it clattered softly to the floor and slid to a stop near the wall.
With a quiet stillness, he lowered his right hand, letting the blade hang by his side, its point tilted toward the floor. His eyes remained closed. For a moment, there was only silence, broken only by IAM's continued strikes in the background.
Then Henry's eyes opened.
There was no amusement in them now. Only pure focus.
In a single, fluid motion, he raised the sword and brought it down in a perfect diagonal cut.
The air itself seemed to split around the blade. It was fast— it was clean and sharp, as if the sword wasn't being swung but guided by something invisible. The strike ended with a barely audible stop, the blade held steady, his stance completely balanced, not even a foot out of place.
IAM, mid-swing, happened to glance up and nearly stopped. The contrast was jarring.
The way Henry moved was effortless. It was like watching someone draw a perfect line with a brushstroke—simple, but impossible to imitate without discipline and a lot of practice.
Henry had already returned to his starting stance, his body shifting back smoothly. Then, just as fluidly, he executed the same diagonal strike again. His form didn't falter whatsoever. If anything, it became sharper.
IAM, mid-swing, found himself slowing down. He was still watching. He wasn't supposed to be watching—he had strikes to finish.
At first, IAM assumed Henry was just demonstrating the technique again, perhaps emphasizing something he wanted IAM to pick up on. But then Henry shifted again—this time, transitioning seamlessly into an upward diagonal strike.
IAM blinked.
Henry reset his stance, then launched into the familiar downward diagonal. But now, it was part of something more. Downward—upward—horizontal. The strikes came in a sequence, linked by the motion of his body and the subtle adjustments of his footing. Each one followed the other with perfect timing, like notes in a melody.
IAM stared, sword lowering slightly. He could feel it now—Henry wasn't drilling a single technique anymore. He was flowing through them, chaining attacks with the kind of skill that could only come from hundreds of hours spent refining every inch of movement.
As the pattern continued, Henry's speed began to climb. The strikes grew more varied—faster, heavier and more complex. Slashes turned into thrusts, transitions twisted with feints and sudden directional shifts. There was no moment to breathe between them.
His footwork carried him lightly across the mat. He pivoted, stepped, and glided without looking down once, like his body already knew exactly where each step needed to land.
From IAM's vantage point, it looked like a dance. The longer IAM watched, the more the awe settled in.
Henry wasn't just practicing.
He was expressing something.
It was like he wasn't even wielding a sword anymore.
The blade didn't seem like something Henry held in his hand—it moved as though it had always been a part of him, an extension of him rather than a separate object.
The way he cut through the air with seamless transitions and control was mesmerizing. There was no tension in his body. Every motion served a purpose.
IAM found himself completely still, his own wooden sword hanging loosely at his side.
He was supposed to be practicing.
But his eyes were fixed on Henry, his body momentarily disconnected from the task. The sound of the strikes, the shuffle of Henry's feet across the padded floor, the sharp exhale between motions—it was all rhythmic. Like a heartbeat. Like music.
It was almost hypnotic.
IAM blinked and snapped his focus back to himself, as he straightened his stance again. His arms ached, but it wasn't the soreness that bothered him. It was the stark contrast between the two of them.
And he was still young—barely nineteen. There was no doubt in IAM's mind that with time, with more battles, more duels, more terrifying opponents, Henry's technique would only sharpen further. His blade would grow faster, heavier, and far more lethal.
He couldn't help but admire it.
He could only wish to become even a fraction as good.
A quarter of that skill would be a miracle.
When Henry finally finished his final strike—a wide, powerful diagonal cut that split the air with force—he held the position, frozen mid-motion. His blade hovered in place, chest slightly forward, one foot planted behind him for balance. For a moment, the room was still. It was as though even the lights paused to catch their breath. Then, slowly, he rose and shifted back into his starting stance, lowering the sword with calm control.
This time, however, he turned to look at IAM directly.
"I was going to let it go," Henry said, scratching the back of his head with a sheepish expression. "But you just kept staring at me the whole time. It was kind of embarrassing. I actually made a few mistakes."
He let out a sigh, like he was genuinely panicking about it.
IAM raised a brow and gave him a flat look. Mistakes? Where? That was pure bullshit!
Henry had moved like water— it was seamless, relentless and graceful. IAM had watched the whole thing and hadn't seen a single crack in the form, not even a hint of hesitation. If that counted as sloppy, then IAM didn't want to imagine what perfection looked like.
Shaking his head in disbelief, IAM muttered, "You made mistakes?" He didn't even try to hide the skepticism in his voice.
Henry chuckled, then gave IAM a curious look. "Well, since you were staring the whole time… did you catch it? Not the technical stuff, I mean. What was I trying to say?"
IAM blinked, caught off guard by the question. For a second, he didn't respond. But then he looked down at the wooden sword in his hand, recalling how Henry's movements had felt less like strikes and more like emotion translated into motion.
"You were…" IAM paused, searching for the right word. "You were expressing something. Using your sword like… like a language. You weren't just performing moves. You were expressing intent."
Henry grinned at him like a proud dad. "Haha! Exactly." His eyes lit up. "That's exactly it. The sword is more than just a tool for cutting. It's a way of showing what's inside you. Like paint for a painter, or a pen for a writer. I'm the intent. The sword is my brush. Through it, I show the world what I feel."
IAM nodded slowly, letting the idea settle in his mind. It made sense now. The flow, the pace, the rhythm—Henry wasn't just moving his body. He was showing something... Saying something.
Henry leaned forward slightly, still smiling. "So tell me… what was I saying?"
IAM's frown deepened as he thought. He went back through the memory, remembering how sharp the strikes had been...
"…Frustration?" he offered at first, then shook his head. "No. Not just that. It was more than that... Anger."
He met Henry's gaze.
"Rage...No… hatred. You were expressing ...hatred...A deep one."
Henry's smile didn't falter, but it didn't grow either. He just nodded, the laughter in his eyes gone now, replaced with something harder to read.
"…Good eye," he said softly.