Wrong.
That's the word that best defined the beginning of that afternoon.
I used to be a knight before I became a lumberjack. I joined the ranks when I was still young, and for... personal reasons, I had to leave. It's been a long time since I last trained with a sword, but the movements are ingrained in me. They've become muscle memory — reflexes of someone who's fought more battles than he'd care to remember.
I looked at Samo with a hint of pride... until he swung the sword.
Wrong.
The force? Wrong.
The stance? Wrong.
The movement? Mercifully wrong.
He was, without exaggeration, the worst person I'd ever seen wield a sword.
Maybe I had expected too much. But considering he'd only ever trained with an old axe chopping logs, I had to cut him some slack. I took a deep breath, stepped forward, and patted him on the shoulder.
"Son... you're doing everything wrong."
His smile died instantly. It turned into a look of confusion and sadness that almost made me regret saying it. Almost.
"Your stance, your body, your strength... it's all wrong. Watch this."
I took the sword from his hand and repeated the same movement. Even rusty, the strike came out clean, vertical, precise. The snowflakes around us scattered from the pressure in the air.
Should I return to the field?
"Whoa..." he muttered, eyes wide. "How did you do that?"
Doubt leads to knowledge.
Knowledge leads to practice.
And practice leads to improvement.
I handed him the sword again and grabbed a stick. I began to teach him.
Stance. Strength. Rhythm.
Days of training followed.
And he was still... wrong.
No matter how much I tried, how much I taught — he didn't improve.
But there was something odd about him. He was strong. Strong in an unnatural way. He carried weights I couldn't even lift anymore — and he was only fifteen.
"Come on, one more time. Show me the offensive stance."
"Alright." He raised the sword in front of him.
"Wrong."
Slap.
I struck his back with the stick. He adjusted instantly, not a single complaint. Perfect stance. Finally.
I was being harder on him, especially after he agreed to pursue military training. He needed this. And he seemed to want it.
"Now, strike."
Samo raised his arms, drew in a breath, and launched the blow. A clean cut. Precise.
"That's it!" I exclaimed. "Remember that movement."
He panted, drenched in sweat, but smiled from ear to ear.
"Thank you... huff... father."
And in that moment, I realized something.
All this time, I'd been looking for what was wrong in him.
But now I understood.
I was the one who'd been wrong.