Chapter Four: The Shape of Discipline
The first morning of Mamoru's training arrived wrapped in silence. Snow blanketed the rooftops of Ringo, muting the world in stillness. The cold stung his skin the moment he poked his head out of the futon. He groaned, wanting nothing more than to dive back into warmth—until Onimaru leapt onto his bed and pressed a cold nose against his cheek.
"Ah! Alright, alright, I'm up!" Mamoru laughed, pushing the fox away as he scrambled into his gi.
By the time he stepped into the courtyard, the sky was still dark-blue, the sun hidden behind the mountains. Ushimaru was already seated on the veranda, posture straight, a steaming cup of tea beside him. He didn't scold, didn't even greet. He only gestured.
Mamoru sat opposite his father, legs folding clumsily under him. "Ten minutes of meditation" Ushimaru said calmly.
"Ten whole minutes?!" Mamoru whined.
"Ten minutes," Ushimaru repeated, closing his eyes.
Mamoru lasted two. His back slumped, his legs ached, his nose itched in ways it never had before. He fidgeted constantly until Onimaru climbed behind him, resting his chin across the boy's shoulder as if pinning him in place. Mamoru glared at the fox. "You're taking Father's side, aren't you?"
The fox huffed, unmoved.
By the fifth day, Mamoru could sit the full ten minutes. He began to notice the faint hiss of snowflakes as they touched the ground, the creak of the old pine under its frozen burden, the sound of his own breath keeping time with his heartbeat.
When he finally opened his eyes, Ushimaru said softly, "A swordsman who cannot quiet his own spirit will be broken by battle.
Meditation will help you focus on the task at hand .Stillness must come before motion."
Mamoru nodded , though he still didn't fully understand.
---
The First Steps
After meditation came footwork. Ushimaru gestured to the courtyard. "Suri-ashi. Sliding steps. Walk without lifting your feet. Again and again until your body understands balance."
Mamoru obeyed, but within moments his toes tangled and he nearly toppled into the snow.
Ushimaru's mouth curved faintly. "Again."
Day after day Mamoru stumbled. But each time he fell, he picked himself up, cheeks red from cold and frustration. By the twentieth day, he no longer looked at the ground. Ushimaru finally ordered, "Close your eyes."
Mamoru's eyes widened. "Close them? I'll fall!"
"You'll fall if you doubt. You'll walk if you trust."
Mamoru hesitated, then obeyed. Step, slide, gather. Step, slide, gather. He reached the far wall without falling. His eyes snapped open and his grin stretched wide.
"I did it!" he shouted.
Ushimaru gave a small nod—the closest thing to a cheer. "Good. Remember this feeling. It will be the key to unlocking a greater power in the future ."
---
The Hundred Cuts
That afternoon Ushimaru handed him a bokken. "Suburi. A hundred cuts each day. Fifty slow, fifty fast."
Mamoru's eyes shone. "Finally, I get to swing!"
His joy didn't last. The bokken felt like a log. His arms shook, his swings crooked. By the end, his palms blistered raw. He bit back tears.
Ushimaru crouched beside him. "Do not strangle the sword. Grip lightly, as you would hold a bird. Too loose, it escapes. Too tight, you kill it."
Mamoru tried again, adjusting his hands. His strikes came cleaner. By the seventh day, he could hardly lift his breakfast bowl. By the thirtieth, he no longer counted—his body carried the rhythm like falling rain.
When he finally completed his hundredth strike with steady form, Ushimaru rested a hand briefly on his shoulder. "Your spirit is beginning to sharpen."
Carrying Weight
At midday, Ushimaru set Mamoru to carrying water buckets. The first time, Mamoru spilled half across his legs. Ushimaru only said, "Again."
"Father," Mamoru panted after his fifth trip, "why do I have to do chores as training?"
" A warrior's strength is built on labor, not glory. These legs that ache will one day keep you standing when others fall."
Mamoru grumbled but pressed on. By the tenth day, he had learned to balance the pole. By the thirtieth, his steps grew steady, his stance firm. Ushimaru tested him by pressing against his shoulders, and this time Mamoru did not budge.
"You're learning to root yourself," Ushimaru said with quiet pride. "Even mountains shift less than a man who knows his ground."
Mamoru's chest swelled at the praise.
---
Evening Reflections
At night, Mamoru wrote short journals. His characters were wobbly, but he persisted: Today I dropped the bucket once. Today Father pushed me three times and I did not fall. Today my cuts felt lighter.
Ushimaru read them without correction. Only once did he remark, "Reflection and feedback are most important , the moment you stop doing these will be the moment you stop improving ."
After journaling, Mamoru cleaned his bokken, rubbing oil along the grain. "Even wood deserves care," Ushimaru had told him explained. "If you cannot cherish this little, then you cannot cherish the great steel you've been entrusted with ."
Mamoru whispered to the wooden blade as though it were alive. Onimaru tilted his head as if listening.
---
Closing Scene
One night, exhausted, Mamoru dragged himself to his futon. His arms trembled, his legs ached, his eyes barely stayed open. Onimaru curled beside him, warm fur pressed against his ribs.
"Do you think Father's proud of me?" Mamoru whispered into the fox's fur.
Onimaru's tail flicked once.
Mamoru smiled faintly. He pulled out a crumpled paper from under his futon and read aloud the childish poem he had written that morning:
Snow falls,
Sword stands,
I am small,
But I will grow tall.
He tucked the poem under his pillow like treasure. "One day, I'll be strong enough to protect him, too," he whispered.
Onimaru licked his nose before they both drifted into sleep. The boy dreamed of snow that did not chill, and a sword that gleamed with destiny.