Ryn stopped.
He didn't rush.
He didn't strike again.
He thought of the glass of water.
The single drop.
The basket.
Not the use of power —
but the control of it.
He closed his eyes.
Adjusted his breathing.
Slow.
Steady.
The branch in his hand was not a weapon.
It was a path.
Ryn gently fed his power into it.
No impact.
No explosion.
No wasted force.
Then he struck again.
"Thunk."
The sound was different.
Not loud.
Not heavy.
But… deep.
A small mark appeared on the bark.
Richard, who had been resting nearby, opened one eye slightly.
The corner of his mouth lifted.
"Heh…"
Ryn stared at the mark, his heart pounding.
It wasn't strength.
It was direction.
He raised the branch again and continued.
Slow.
Precise.
Consistent.
Night gradually wrapped around the training ground.
The sound of thunk… thunk… thunk…
matched the rhythm of Ryn's breathing.
Ryn began to understand.
That power had to be calm.
That breathing had to be steady.
That control mattered more than force.
But every time the branch struck,
it only left dents.
Not cuts.
Not splits.
Nothing sharp.
No matter how well he controlled it,
it was still just impact.
Like hitting a tree with a log.
Ryn stopped and stared at the marks on the trunk.
Then at the branch in his hand.
The power was there.
The direction was right.
So why…
He changed his rhythm.
Faster.
Slower.
More power.
Less power.
The result was always the same.
The same dent in the same spot.
The tree still stood there, unmoved —
as if quietly laughing at him.
Richard said nothing.
No warnings.
No demonstrations.
He didn't even bother to watch for long.
When the sun touched the horizon,
he simply stood up and walked back to the house,
leaving Ryn alone with his questions.
The night passed with the sound of
thunk… thunk…
steady and stubborn.
Morning came.
The marks on the trunk were still nothing more than faint dents,
unchanged in every way.
When the supply unit arrived with food,
the laughter and whispers were the same as always.
But this time felt different.
Ryn didn't feel hurt.
He wasn't angry.
He didn't want to answer back.
He knew what he was doing now.
He just hadn't found
the final answer yet.
Breakfast passed without him again.
Richard ate everything and leaned back comfortably,
as if there were nothing in the world to worry about.
Ryn remained standing before the same tree,
with the same branch.
His body was exhausted.
His stomach was empty.
But his gaze was steadier than yesterday.
It wasn't that he couldn't do it.
He just hadn't found the right way to think about it.
The sun crossed the sky once more,
then slowly sank below the horizon.
Richard stood up and walked back to the house,
leaving Ryn with the silence
and the unanswered questions.
The training was not over.
And the tree still stood there,
waiting for his answer.
Time passed until nearly midnight.
Ryn was drained from controlling his power again and again.
His breathing grew heavy.
His arms trembled.
His palms were numb from gripping a branch
that was slowly wearing down.
The dents
were still just dents.
At last, the branch could no longer withstand the strain.
It snapped, leaving only a short piece in Ryn's hand —
no longer than the width of his palm.
He stopped and stared at it for a long moment.
A single thought flashed through his mind.
If this keeps going… eventually, there'll be nothing left to hold.
He sat down.
Closed his eyes.
And tried to rethink everything from the beginning.
Strength wasn't the problem.
Power wasn't lacking.
But what he was producing… wasn't a cut.
A cut
had to be a cut.
He opened his eyes and looked at the branch in his hand again.
If it was to leave a cutting mark…
then it had to be a sword.
But what he held was only a branch —
not steel, not sharp.
Ryn closed his eyes once more.
His breathing slowly settled,
matching the rhythm he had trained himself to keep.
In the darkness, an image became clear.
His sword.
The one he had chosen.
The one he had never truly drawn and used, not even once.
He imagined its weight.
Its sharpness.
The edge slicing through the air.
And in that same instant,
he raised the branch and struck.
Slice.
The sound was different.
Ryn's eyes flew open, his heart pounding.
On the tree trunk was a small gash —
not a dent,
not an impact mark.
A cut.
Shallow.
Small.
But it was exactly what he had been waiting for.
Ryn stood still, barely daring to breathe.
Power… could change its form.
It shifted according to the image in one's mind.
He tried again.
Closed his eyes and recreated the image of a sword —
firmer, clearer.
He struck once more.
Slice—
Another cut appeared,
still small,
still not deep enough.
But Ryn wasn't discouraged.
He wasn't frustrated.
He was beginning to understand.
This wasn't about
"how much power you put in."
It was about
how strongly you could make the power believe
in what it was supposed to be.
Time passed for many hours,
until the first light of dawn filtered through the treetops.
Ryn was still standing before the same tree.
The branch in his hand was barely holding together,
yet he kept raising it and striking, again and again.
And with every swing,
the image of his sword —
the sword he had never truly used —
remained vivid in his mind.
The laughter of the supply carriers drifted by from time to time,
a familiar background noise.
But Ryn no longer cared.
He kept thinking.
Kept trying.
Kept failing.
Until midday arrived.
The sun burned overhead, its heat seeping into his skin.
Sweat soaked his body.
Yet Ryn still stood there in the blazing sunlight,
striking the tree with a tiny branch
and thoughts that had not yet fully taken shape.