Nick's legs trembled as he staggered back toward the edge of the village. The sky had softened into a warm gradient of orange and pale blue—dawn, fully broken. Each breath seared through his throat like hot coals. His clothes clung to him, stiff with dried sweat, grime, and flecks of blood. He could barely keep his eyelids open. All he wanted was to collapse—onto a bed, a mat, even the bare floor.
Instead, a flash of silver screamed toward his chest.
Nick barely shifted in time. The object—wooden, fast, brutal—narrowly avoided piercing his lungs. The force of it knocked him back a step, pain flaring through his ribs.
"You want rest? Demons won't rest for you," came a cold, detached voice.
It belonged to the master's other trainee—a boy Nick had seen only once before. His expression was unreadable, calm like still water, but his movements betrayed sharpness. Efficiency. Brutality.
Then came the strike.
The boy was already in front of him, slamming the flat edge of a wooden sword into Nick's shoulder and knocking him to the ground.
Nick winced, gripping his ribs. "I... I don't even understand what this is for…"
Was his master delirious? Was this boy just cruel? For a moment, Nick wondered if he'd made a mistake trusting these people. His body wanted to shut down. His legs refused to listen.
But his pride refused.
He forced himself up and stumbled toward the house, past villagers who barely glanced at him. Their faces remained passive, unreadable. Nick had expected shock—or sympathy. Instead, he found apathy—an indifference so complete it almost felt deliberate. As if they'd seen dozens like him: struggling, falling, failing.
At the wooden steps of the house, he caught a flicker of something strange in Takashi's eyes. Surprise? Concern? He couldn't tell.
But the man's mouth betrayed none of it.
"You call that effort?" Takashi's tone was flat. "At that speed, even a newborn demon could slice through you before you blink."
Nick clenched his jaw. That contradiction again. There had been real surprise on Takashi's face—like he hadn't expected Nick to survive at all. But now the man sounded like Nick's mere existence was an insult.
A tsundere teacher? Nick scoffed inwardly. He was too tired to laugh aloud.
To his relief, Takashi granted a short break. Nick collapsed onto a mat, chest heaving. Every joint in his body ached. His palms—bandaged from the push-ups—pulsed dully. He stared at the wooden ceiling, trying to piece his thoughts together.
What reward was he even chasing? Did he understand what he stood to gain? Or was he just chasing pain, punishment, penance?
But the rest didn't last.
By midday, Takashi summoned him again—this time to a different clearing on the outskirts of town.
The trees here were older. Taller. Their canopies stretched high above, filtering sunlight into golden shafts. Mist hung in the air, carrying the scent of moss, pine, and white flowers clinging to crooked roots. The ground was uneven—littered with leaves, stones, and gnarled trunks like forgotten statues. Patches of violet mushrooms peeked from beneath fallen logs.
Birds flitted above, invisible in the canopy. A stream murmured somewhere in the distance.
Nick exhaled. For a moment, he forgot the pain.
Then Takashi handed him an axe and gestured toward a pile of thick logs.
"One hundred," he said. "Chop them clean. No splintering."
Nick stared. His arms still throbbed. His back ached. And yet...
He nodded.
The first few swings were clumsy. The axe felt heavier than it looked. His palms slipped against the worn handle. On the fifth strike, he nearly slammed the blade into his own shin.
Each hit sent pain vibrating through his bones. By the thirtieth log, sweat drenched him again. His shoulders burned. Every heartbeat pounded in protest.
But something inside him sharpened. Each clean cut became proof. Each flawed one—a lesson.
Thunk. Thunk. Thunk.
He adjusted his stance. Tightened his grip. Used his hips more. Steadied his breath.
Clarity emerged from repetition.
Seventy.
Eighty-three.
Ninety-four.
His breaths timed themselves. Inhale before the lift. Exhale on the fall. Not a technique—yet—but it felt natural. Ritualistic.
At some point, he stopped counting. The world narrowed to the weight of the axe and the grain of the wood.
When the final log split cleanly, he dropped the axe and sank to his knees. Sweat dripped from his jaw. The birds had gone silent.
A breeze rustled the trees.
Then, as he allowed himself a moment of pride, Takashi spoke.
"Good. Now follow me."
They walked back to town. Nick's body screamed with every step, but he said nothing.
Eventually, they reached a small dojo at the far end of the village. Its entrance was marked by a red seal and carved lanterns. A lone student moved through slow, deliberate sword forms in the courtyard—his breath audible, perfectly timed.
Nick's heart stirred.
Was this it? The breathing technique?
The student bowed toward empty space and finished.
Nick stepped forward. "Master… will I learn that too?"
Takashi didn't answer.
Instead, he picked up a long log—nearly the size of a bench—and hurled it at Nick.
Nick dove aside, slamming into the dirt.
"What—!?"
Another log came flying.
He barely rolled in time.
"Stance," Takashi barked. "Breathing is worthless without the body to hold it. Until you can dodge every log I throw—on your feet—you are not ready."
Nick coughed, pushing himself upright. His arms shook.
Another log struck him full in the gut, sending him tumbling backwards.
Pain shot through his spine. His vision blurred.
Still, he tried to stand.
He hit the ground again, air leaving his lungs in a single, ugly gasp. The world tilted. Ribs burning. Blood rushing in his ears like a war drum.
But he didn't surrender.
Arms trembling. Nails scraping for leverage. One leg bent. The other refused.
Get up.
Another log came.
He didn't dodge.
It slammed into his shoulder and sent him skidding across the yard, leaving a scar in the dirt. His tunic tore. Blood welled from a cut on his arm.
He lay still, breath ragged.
The other trainee watched from the edge of the yard—arms crossed, sword tucked away. Not impressed. Not disgusted. Just… neutral.
Nick gritted his teeth and stood.
"You're wasting my time," Takashi said. But something had shifted in his voice. It wasn't anger. Or disappointment.
It was still a test. One Nick hadn't passed.
Another log. Faster.
Nick stepped aside—just enough. It grazed his leg but didn't drop him.
Inhale.
Exhale.
Another came. He dodged more clearly.
Inhale.
Exhale.
No technique. Just instinct.
The world slowed. Or sharpened. He felt the tension in Takashi's shoulder before the throw. The weight of the air. The path of the log.
His breath aligned with movement. His steps stopped faltering.
No pride in his face. Only resolve.
He dodged three more.
Takashi stopped.
Silence.
Nick bent over, gasping. Muscles trembling. Sweat stinging his eyes.
Then he straightened.
"I'm not done," he said.
Takashi turned and walked into the dojo.
The door creaked shut.
Nick dropped to his knees—on his terms.
The trainee finally approached. Up close, something about him was uncanny. His movements too smooth. Controlled. Like he lived in perfect sync with his body.
"You're not weak," the boy said. "But you think like someone who's never failed before."
Nick raised a brow. "I've failed plenty."
The boy tilted his head. "Then you haven't learned from it yet."
He turned and walked away, his steps soundless.
Nick stayed kneeling, forehead against the earth. His thoughts flickered like dying embers.
But one stayed lit.
If this is what it takes… I'll do it.
Even if it kills me.