Merin sits quietly on the grass beside a quiet clearing, arms resting on his knees, eyes fixed on the girl moving through the air like water shaped into steel.
Inside the clearing, Asuna practices her sword technique—the Earth-Iron Sword, a middle-rank technique. Her blade arcs with weight and precision, her steps firm, her swings sharp. To the naked eye, there's no flaw in her movements. The rhythm is solid. The form is clean. But Merin knows that doesn't mean she has mastered it.
Without understanding the artistic conception behind a technique, one can never truly make it their own.
Merin watches in silence, letting her movements blur into the background as his mind drifts into deeper thought. His gaze softens—not out of awe, but focus.
What he's discovered about artistic conception continues to expand in his mind like a map slowly revealing its terrain. Artistic conception is more than just comprehension of power—it's the foundation to grasp the rules of the world itself. Natural energy, in turn, is derived from these rules. But his understanding of the rules is still shallow. If the world's laws are a mountain, then he hasn't even touched the mist at its base.
He exhales slowly, sensing the invisible presence around him.
Artistic conception… It's like a magnetic field—everywhere, constant, unseen yet always there. When someone comprehends an artistic conception, they can use their mental energy to stir that field, like iron dust responding to a current. That ripple grants influence over natural energy. A foot in the door to the true essence of the world.
Asuna finishes another graceful arc, the final movement of her sequence stilling like the last ripple on a pond. Her amber eyes, warm and sharp, settle on Merin, where he sits under the shade. Her voice is calm, but there's a tension beneath it. "Now, can you give me any advice on comprehending the artistic conception behind my sword technique?"
Merin doesn't answer immediately. He already knew she would ask this. It's the reason he came here today. Among all middle-rank Samurai across the land, only a rare one in a hundred ever comprehends artistic conception. Many don't even try. Artistic conception isn't required until one attempts to break into the Great Samurai Realm from a high-ranking Samurai.
But Asuna isn't like most. She saw Kanoru comprehend it. She saw someone her age—or younger—touch the world's rules, and she couldn't let that go. From childhood, she was called a genius, praised for her bloodline, her sword talent, and her perception. And yet, she fell behind Kanoru. Who has less potential than her?
Merin looks up at her, the wind moving softly through the trees behind her like a whisper. He understands now what she's chasing.
He thinks carefully for a moment, then gives a slow nod. "Continue performing the technique. Don't stop until I tell you to."
Asuna raises an eyebrow but says nothing. She steps back into the clearing and resumes her practice. Her sword rises, falls, circles. The movements are steady—measured. But Merin is no longer watching with his eyes.
He closes them.
With his artistic conception open, the world shifts in his mind's eye. In this strange vision, it is not trees or sunlight he sees, but magnetic threads—force lines—moving through the earth, sky, and bodies. Countless magnetic fields layer over one another, pressing, weaving, repelling.
He sees the currents of wind and the weight of clouds. He feels the tug of those fields—familiar, obedient. But he pushes past them now.
His attention narrows.
Asuna moves in the centre of it all, her blade slicing through the air with precise rhythm. In Merin's closed vision, she becomes a moving disturbance within the web of magnetic fields. Her sword doesn't just cut air—it moves through force lines and energy veins that intersect and repel throughout the space.
Most of these fields remain unaffected by her motion. But then, one of them flickers.
It's faint. A subtle pulse, barely different from the static harmony around it. But Merin catches it. The field doesn't shift constantly—only during certain sword moves. The rest of her technique flows through the space like water through a sieve, not touching anything.
He sharpens his focus. The magnetic field that flickers is unusually dense, almost sluggish. It reacts only when Asuna performs specific arcs of the sword technique, mostly downward strikes or grounded thrusts. During spinning slashes or lighter cuts, the field remains still, as if unbothered.
Merin slowly begins to understand. 'It's not about the whole technique—only part of it resonates with the artistic conception. The creator of this technique must've reached toward a specific rule, and these few movements are fragments of that insight.'
If he's right, he can test this. Not just for Asuna, but for any technique. A method to find which movements brush against the edge of an artistic conception. If the experiment works, he could uncover the seeds of understanding behind any technique crafted from true comprehension.
He stands, eyes opening.
"Stop."
Asuna halts mid-swing. Her breathing is steady but shallow, skin glistening slightly from effort. Her amber gaze fixes on him. "Did you find a way to help me?"
Merin nods. "Yes. But I don't know if it will work."
Asuna steps toward him, curiosity flashing behind her seriousness. "What way?"
Merin extends a hand. "Give me your sword."
Without hesitation, she walks to him and places the hilt in his palm.
"Now?" she asks.
He nods once. "Step back."
She retreats a few paces, silent. Her eyes never leave him.
Merin lifts the sword and begins performing the Wind and Cloud Sword Technique—slow, measured, eyes closed. He doesn't focus on the edge of the blade or the flow of his limbs. Instead, he reaches inward, drawing on his artistic conception.
Two magnetic fields stir.
As his body moves through the sequence, he senses his own magnetic field interacting with them. His movements—intentional, fluid—cause subtle ripples in the fields. Not just one, but two of them respond, intersecting with each other and with his form. His guess is confirmed: the sword technique creates movement meant to resonate with these magnetic structures, and only when one's body and intent align does the reaction happen.
This must be the foundation of comprehending an artistic conception—movement through form that brushes against a deeper rule.
But now comes the hard part.
He opens his eyes. Asuna watches him, eyes sharp and waiting.
He walks toward her and hands the sword back.
"Now, perform the technique again."
She gives a quick nod and begins the sequence.
Merin watches closely—this time with both his naked eyes and the perception of artistic conception. He filters out everything but the reactions of the surrounding magnetic fields.
He notices it again: the same magnetic field that responded to her before flickers only during a few movements. The rest, it ignores.
When she finishes, he says, "The technique wasn't created for your body."
She frowns slightly. "What do you mean?"
He points at her shoulder and hip. "The way you pivot, how your weight shifts. The sword form you're practising was likely created by someone for their own body, different height, frame, and balance. When you mimic it exactly, the intent and motion don't align."
She blinks, thoughtful.
"You need to adjust the movements—make them yours. Change the form so that it fits you perfectly. Only then will it start to truly resonate."
He doesn't tell her the rest—that he could guide her, tell her which movements cause a magnetic reaction and adjust each one precisely. But he holds back. If she finds it on her own, if she 'feels' the connection herself, it might lead to true comprehension. He doesn't yet know if full alignment guarantees understanding of the artistic conception behind the magnetic field.
So he watches quietly as she lifts her sword again. The path ahead is hers to walk.
By the time the sun dips behind the hills, Asuna lowers her sword, sweat clinging to her brow. She hasn't mastered the technique, but the fog in her mind has lifted. She now sees the road she must take. With every step forward, the distance between her and the artistic conception behind her sword narrows.
They begin the descent from their isolated training spot. But as they approach the livelier part of town, an uneasy tension cuts through the air. People rush past them in all directions. Stall owners close their shops. Mothers clutch their children. Soldiers in full armour march toward the city wall with grim faces.
Merin narrows his eyes and stops a passing man by the shoulder. "What happened?"
The man jerks his arm back instinctively, his face twisted in fear. But then he notices Merin's unshakable grip and the pressure behind it. His expression shifts instantly to flattery.
"Lord, what do you need?"
"Why is everyone running?" Merin asks. "Is the rebel army coming?"
The man pales. "Not rebels… A beast tide formed!"
Merin's heart sinks. He lets the man go, and the man bolts into the crowd.
He and Asuna exchange a look, then turn. Neither heads back toward their room. Instead, they make their way straight to the building where they'd previously met the officer. The front is now buzzing with movement, but the officer isn't present. A soldier standing nearby spares them a glance, then stiffens as he recognises them.
"What's going on?" Merin asks.
The soldier salutes. "This morning, some elders and disciples from the Axe Gang went up the mountain to deal with a group of iron monkeys gathering near the outer ridges. At first, it went well. They pushed the monkeys deeper into the forest. But then…"
He hesitates.
"Speak," Merin orders.
"They encountered a Great Beast realm iron monkey, lord. It wiped them out. Only two escaped and made it to the gate. Both were critically injured. They died shortly after reporting."
The room falls into silence as the implications settle in. Merin exhales slowly. The soldier continues, voice lower now.
"Then the guards sent scouts to probe deeper. They discovered various beasts gathering from different directions."
Merin finishes grimly, "A beast tide is forming."
The soldier nods.
Asuna asks, "Do we need to do anything?"
The soldier shakes his head. "From what I heard, the senior officers said the military will handle the beast tide for now. If needed, they'll call on civilian samurai."
Merin nods, then gestures for the soldier to return to duty. They step out into the street, walking in silence. Around them, the town buzzes with fear. Troops move in formation. Civilians pack their belongings. But Merin's mind turns inward, digging through what he knows of beast tides.
Beast tides form when the number of beasts in an area reaches a breaking point. High-level beasts often initiate them to cull the excess and reassert control. But the more dangerous cause is when a newly promoted Great Beast triggers the tide. The reasons for that kind of initiation are unclear—only that it happens with alarming regularity, and the results are always disastrous.
Behind him, Asuna says, "If the sect disciples don't arrive in a few days, I'll have to stay here until the beast tide is finished."
Merin nods.
He knows that after the first clash, if the beast horde is deemed too dangerous, the prefecture's borders will be sealed. Reinforcements will be restricted. Travel will stop. Mugen could become a battlefield isolated from the rest of the world.
Merin and Asuna quickly return to their room. Without exchanging words, they sit down to cultivate.
If the beast tide truly turns serious, surviving it with their current strength will be difficult. Neither of them can afford to waste a single breath.
Merin closes his eyes and begins circulating his energy. He's never witnessed a beast tide firsthand, but the records he studied were clear. Towns devoured. Armies overrun. Beasts tearing through stone and steel like paper. Some tides last a few days. Other weeks. A few have drowned entire regions in blood.
He understands the threat. More importantly, he understands their chances.
And so, in the quiet before the storm, Merin sharpens himself—like a blade waiting to be drawn.