That night at dinner, Grandpa spoke the words I had been waiting four long years to hear.
"You're good at the sword now, boy," he said, voice quiet, casual... like it wasn't the single most important sentence of my entire reincarnated existence. He spooned another mouthful of stew into his mouth as though knighthood-level praise was something he just casually dropped between bites of carrots and potatoes.
I froze with my spoon halfway up. Wait… did he just… compliment me? Out loud? With words?
"You've really improved," he continued, eyes flicking up at me over the rim of his bowl. Then, just to add to my shock, a grin tugged at the corner of his mouth. "I'll teach you my sword style. My real style."
I'm pretty sure my heart achieved temporary escape velocity. My face betrayed me immediately, spreading into the widest grin my poor facial muscles had ever attempted.
"Yes! I mean… uh, yeah, sure, that'd be cool. I'd love that. Or whatever," I said, in a voice that cracked halfway through.
Grandpa chuckled at my pathetic attempt to sound smooth. "I'll also take you on the next beast subjugation. You'll gain some real-life experience."
I nearly choked on my stew. "Are you serious?!"
"Deadly serious," he said, smirking. "And hopefully not deadly for you."
He went right back to eating, perfectly calm, while my entire soul was cartwheeling around the dinner table.
That night, I barely slept. Who could sleep when tomorrow promised this?
The next morning, training began.
Grandpa led me to our usual clearing. The grass sparkled with dew, the air smelled faintly of pine and damp soil, and somewhere in the trees, a smug little bird was chirping like it already knew how many times I was about to faceplant.
Grandpa stood tall, sword in hand, his presence steady as the forest around us.
"Listen carefully, boy," he said. "What I'm about to teach you is not about swinging harder or faster. It's about flow. My sword style is called The River Blade."
He planted his sword in the ground and folded his arms. "The river adapts. The river endures. The river wins. There are four forms to it. You'll learn them all."
I nodded so fast I looked like a bobblehead at a car dashboard convention.
The First Style: Trickle
Grandpa drew his blade in a smooth, almost lazy motion. His steps were light and deliberate, his weight shifting with the rhythm of the earth itself. His sword barely moved, yet it was always, somehow, there. A defense that wasn't rigid like a wall but subtle, fluid, alive.
"A river doesn't fight the mountain," he said, circling me with steps soft as whispers. "It flows around it."
He demonstrated. I jabbed forward clumsily (yes, I volunteered to be his test dummy), and my strike simply… slid away. His blade nudged mine aside like it was nothing, his body tilting out of reach like water finding a gap.
"Trickle is patience. Endurance. Waiting until the other fool tires himself out."
I tried copying his stance and immediately tripped over my own foot, landing with all the grace of a sack of wet laundry.
Grandpa grunted, pulling me up with one hand. "Your balance is worse than a drunk goat on stilts. Feet apart, knees soft. You're not a stick. You're water. Flow."
I muttered under my breath but tried again. My "flow" looked more like a toddler trying to ice skate for the first time, but hey... baby steps. Or in my case, baby stumbles.
The Second Style: Current
Grandpa's movements sharpened, carrying a rhythm like a heartbeat. He parried my clumsy attacks with effortless little nudges, then slid back in with quick counters that always seemed to arrive exactly where my guard wasn't.
"When the river finds a crack," he said, his blade flicking mine off course, "it carves the stone."
I tried copying him, but my "counters" were either three seconds too late or so early that I almost tripped myself before swinging. At one point, I overdid it, spun in a full circle, and ended up facing a tree instead of Grandpa.
He snorted. "Congratulations, you've invented the Tornado Style. Useless, but entertaining."
"Hey! Don't laugh! That was strategic disorientation!" I argued.
"Sure," he said, chuckling. "Strategic... for your enemy's amusement."
The Third Style: Torrent
Without warning, Grandpa surged forward. His strikes came down in relentless waves, a storm of steel that crashed into me over and over. Each blow was fast, crushing, merciless. My arms shook violently under the pressure, my knees buckled, and my lungs forgot how to breathe.
"When the river swells," he said between strikes, "nothing can stand in its path."
My sword slipped. My arms gave up. I toppled backward into the grass like a ragdoll who just lost its stuffing.
Flat on my back, I croaked, "Okay… Torrent is terrifying."
Grandpa smirked. "Good. That means you understand."
The Final Style: Still Water
Then came the last.
Grandpa stood absolutely still. His breathing was quiet. His sword lowered at his side. Even the forest seemed to pause.
"This," he said softly, "is Still Water. The river at its deepest. Perfect calm."
And then he moved. Just once.
A single, impossibly fast slash.
The air itself hummed, the earth split in a glowing line, and somewhere in the distance a tree slowly... very slowly... leaned, tilted, and toppled.
My jaw unhinged. "Wha—what—WHAT?!"
Grandpa planted the sword into the dirt, leaning on it casually. "That, boy, is Still Water. One strike, one victory. But it requires mastery of both blade and aura."
"You… cut the ground in half by being quiet," I whispered.
He smirked. "Impressed?"
"I'm rethinking every life decision I've ever made!"
And so, training began in earnest.
It was brutal. My shoulders screamed, my arms quivered, my legs turned to jelly from endless footwork drills. Grandpa barked corrections like an angry coach.
"Too stiff!""You're pushing, not flowing!""Don't fight the river, be the river!"
Half the time, I felt like I was drowning instead of flowing.
After the fiftieth failed parry in a row, I groaned, "Maybe I should just invent the Puddle Style. I'm great at lying on the ground."
Grandpa actually smirked. "The puddle still reflects the sky. Now again."
Weeks passed. Bruises covered my arms like badges of incompetence. Blisters decorated my palms like angry little trophies. But slowly, painfully, something shifted.
My feet stopped tangling over each other. My grip steadied. My strikes, once as shaky as a drunk duck, began to carry the faintest hint of purpose.
I was still far from mastering the River Blade, but for the first time, I didn't feel like a child waving a stick at shadows. I was learning to flow.
And I swore, no matter how long it took, I'd master it. For him. For me. For our family.