The Art of Weaponry
Kirito's POV
The training grounds were familiar now, their earthy scent and the gentle rustle of leaves offering a sense of both challenge and comfort. The soil beneath my feet had been packed down by countless hours of practice, and I knew every tree, every rock, every subtle dip in the terrain. But today, there was something different—a gleam of metal and a subtle tension in the air that spoke of a new kind of test. Lined up on a sturdy wooden table, worn smooth by years of use, were weapons I had seen before but never truly wielded: kunai with their diamond-shaped blades catching the morning light, shuriken of various sizes with their deadly points, slender senbon needles arranged in neat rows, coils of nearly invisible metal thread that could slice through flesh as easily as air, and the unmistakably imposing windmill shuriken, its four massive blades folded together like a predator waiting to strike.
Uncle Iroh stood nearby, his stocky frame relaxed but attentive, his expression serene yet watchful. The morning breeze gently stirred his robes as he stroked his beard contemplatively.
"Raiden," he began, his voice carrying its usual calm authority that somehow never felt demanding, "a true warrior must not only understand bending but also the tools that have shaped the history of battle. Our ancestors wielded these long before they mastered the elements. Weapons are extensions of your will—physical manifestations of your intent. They require precision, discipline, and respect. Each has its purpose, its strengths, and its limitations, just as each bending style does."
I nodded, stepping forward to examine the tools more closely. My fingers hovered over each weapon, feeling their presence before touching them. Their weight, balance, and even their shine spoke of potential—both for protection and destruction. The metal felt cool against my skin.
"I understand, Uncle. I'll learn to master them as I have my bending forms," I said, trying to match his seriousness while excitement bubbled inside me.
"Good," he said with a sly smile that crinkled the corners of his eyes, but then he leaned closer, his voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper that smelled faintly of jasmine tea. "Just remember, if your mother finds out we gave you a sharp weapon before your fifteenth birthday, we're all getting a water whip to the backside. Even the White Lotus guards won't be spared her wrath. So... let's not mention it, alright? What happens in training stays in training."
I couldn't help but grin at the mental image of Uncle Iroh and the stoic White Lotus guards running from Mom while she wielded her water whip like a battle goddess, her elegant frame somehow becoming ten feet tall demon when properly angry. The thought was both terrifying and hilarious.
"Our secret, Uncle. I promise I won't tell her about the sharp pointy things," I whispered back with mock solemnity.
We began with the fundamentals, as we did with all training. The White Lotus guards joined us, forming a loose semicircle around the practice area. Each demonstrated techniques with the smaller weapons, their movements refined by years of practice. One guard—a tall woman with a scar across her cheek—showed how to throw a kunai with deadly accuracy, the movement smooth and practiced, her wrist snapping forward at precisely the right moment to send the blade spinning end over end before thudding into the center of a wooden target.
Another guard, an older man with calloused hands, wielded the shuriken with a flick of his wrist, the star-shaped weapon spinning through the air with a faint whistling sound before embedding itself in the wooden target with such force that splinters flew outward.
"Focus on control, not power," the female guard advised as I tried my hand at throwing a kunai. The weight felt strange in my palm, so different from manipulating water or fire. My first attempt was clumsy—the kunai wobbled midair like a drunk butterfly and struck the target handle-first, bouncing off pathetically and landing in the dirt.
"Not everyone hits the mark on their first try," Uncle Iroh said kindly. "Even the greatest masters were once beginners."
I adjusted my grip and stance, recalling Uncle Iroh's lessons on balance from our bending practice. I centered my weight, exhaled slowly, and tried again. My next throw was cleaner, the kunai spinning properly and sinking into the outer edge of the target with a satisfying thunk.
"Better!" the guard exclaimed. "Now do it a hundred more times until your arm feels like it might fall off."
Senbon needles were a different challenge entirely. Their lightness required a finesse that brute strength couldn't replace. My first few throws missed completely, the thin needles sailing past the target and disappearing into the grass. But with guidance—small adjustments to my finger positioning, the angle of release, the timing of my breath—I began to understand the subtle flick needed to control their trajectory. By midday, I could hit the target consistently, though the precise points the guards could target still eluded me.
The metal threads intrigued me most. One guard, a slender man with nimble fingers, demonstrated how to weave them into traps or bind an opponent. He showed how a properly placed wire could redirect a thrown weapon, or how multiple strands could form a nearly invisible net. The intricate movements required patience and creativity, traits Uncle had often emphasized. I practiced threading the wires through my fingers, learning to manipulate them without tangling or cutting myself. My fingertips grew sensitive to the wire's tension, learning when it would hold and when it might snap.
"These," Uncle Iroh said, watching me practice, "are perhaps the most versatile tools you'll learn. In the hands of a master, they can immobilize without harming, or they can become as deadly as any blade. They teach restraint and precision—qualities every warrior should cultivate."
The windmill shuriken was by far the most intimidating weapon. Its size and weight demanded both strength and strategy. The guards demonstrated how to throw it, and I marveled at the way it sliced through the air with a menacing hum, its path unwavering until it embedded itself into a thick wooden post with enough force to shake it. When it was my turn, I hesitated briefly before gripping its handle, feeling its substantial weight pull at my shoulder.
Uncle Iroh placed a weathered hand on my shoulder, his touch reassuring. "Remember, Raiden, it is not the size or power of the weapon that determines its effectiveness, but the intent and skill of the one wielding it. Even the mightiest blade is useless in untrained hands, while a simple fan can become deadly in the hands of a master."
Taking a deep breath, I focused, channeling the lessons I had learned and drawing on my experience with circular movements from airbending forms. The windmill shuriken felt heavy in my hands, but I adjusted my grip and stance, finding its balance point. With a controlled pivot of my body, I released it. The massive shuriken spun through the air with surprising speed, narrowly missing the target but slicing cleanly through a small branch before embedding itself in the ground.
"Not bad for a first attempt," a guard said with an approving nod. "Most beginners can't even get it to fly straight."
"I'm just glad Mom's not here to see this," I muttered, imagining her reaction to seeing me hurl what amounted to a giant spinning death blade. "She'd freeze me in an ice block until I was thirty."
Uncle chuckled, his belly shaking with mirth. "Your mother's caution comes from love, but yes, perhaps this particular lesson is best kept between us warriors."
As the day wore on, Uncle Iroh introduced wooden replicas of larger weapons—katanas with their elegant curves, sturdy staffs that reminded me of airbender gliders, and even halberds with their imposing reach. The training area now resembled an armory more than a bending practice ground.
"Your mother," he said with a knowing chuckle that made his eyes twinkle, "would not approve of us handing you real blades for practice just yet. She still sees the little boy who used to trip over his own feet. Consider these wooden versions an extension of your training—they will teach you the forms and discipline without the risk of losing any fingers. We'll save the real ones for when you've proven yourself... or when she's busy at the clinic."
I couldn't help but laugh, remembering how Mom still fussed over minor scrapes despite knowing I could heal them myself. "She'd definitely have something to say about that. Probably something along the lines of 'What were you thinking, Iroh? He's just a child!'"
"And I would wisely bow my head and agree with her completely," Uncle said with mock seriousness. "I have learned in my many years that there are some battles even the greatest warriors should not fight—an angry mother protecting her child is one of them."
The wooden weapons felt different—lighter, more forgiving, but no less demanding in technique. I sparred with the guards under Uncle's watchful eye, learning defense and counterattacks. The wooden katana felt natural in my hands, like an extension of my arm. The staff reminded me of airbending forms, with its circular movements and redirection of force.
By sunset, my arms ached with a deep, satisfying burn, and my fingers were raw from gripping weapons all day. Sweat had soaked through my training clothes, and dirt clung to my skin, but there was a deep satisfaction in the work—a sense of having expanded my understanding of what it meant to be a warrior.
Uncle Iroh approached, handing me a steaming cup of tea he had prepared during a brief break. The aromatic steam rose between us, carrying hints of ginseng and honey.
"You've done well today, Raiden," he said, his voice filled with genuine pride that warmed me more than the tea ever could. "Weapons are tools, but they are also a way to understand yourself. How you wield them reflects your inner balance—your patience, your restraint, your resolve. I saw much of your mother's precision in your movements today, and perhaps a touch of your father's determination."
I sipped the tea gratefully, letting its warmth soothe my tired muscles and his words sink into my mind. The path ahead was still long, but I felt a growing confidence taking root within me. With each new skill, each lesson, I wasn't just becoming stronger—I was becoming more complete. The weapons were no longer just objects of metal and wood, but extensions of myself, tools to protect what mattered most.
"Thank you, Uncle," I said quietly, watching as the first stars appeared in the darkening sky. "For everything you teach me—not just about fighting, but about living."
He smiled, his eyes crinkling at the corners. "That, my nephew, is the most important lesson of all."