Laido
By late afternoon, sweat clung to every student in the dojo. The air was heavy with the smell of worn tatami and oiled wood.
Koushirou called for a pause, then stepped into the center of the floor with his bokken. His gaze swept over the students — finally resting on Zoro.
"Today," he began, "we move to the third principle: Speed and Timing."
He walked over to the far wall, where a worn training dummy stood — a thick bundle of bamboo wrapped in straw. Deep grooves marked where countless cuts had landed over the years.
"Speed," Koushirou said, "is not about moving first. It is about moving at the right moment."
He stood still before the dummy, the tip of his bokken lowered. Then, without warning, he moved — the wooden blade blurring as it slashed clean through the top half of the straw bundle. The cut was so precise that the upper section slid off slowly, collapsing to the floor with a dull thud.
Zoro's eyes widened. He'd seen Koushirou move fast before, but not like that. It wasn't just speed — it was as if the strike had already been decided before Koushirou's body moved.
"Too soon," Koushirou explained, "and your opponent will see your intent and counter. Too late, and you will be cut down before your strike lands."
He turned to face the students. "Iaido — the art of drawing and striking in one motion — is where speed and timing are most critical. Watch closely."
Koushirou sheathed his bokken into an imaginary scabbard at his hip. His entire body seemed to still — even his breathing slowed. Then, in one smooth motion, he drew and struck, the sound of the cut sharp and final. This time, the bokken sliced so cleanly that a thin curl of straw peeled away like a ribbon.
"That," he said, lowering the weapon, "is why even a slower swordsman can defeat a faster one… if their timing is perfect."
He gestured to Zoro. "Come. Try."
Zoro stepped forward, taking his stance before the dummy. His grip was better now — controlled. His feet planted with the posture Koushirou had drilled into him earlier. He took a breath, pictured the strike, then moved.
The cut landed… but a heartbeat too late. The bokken hit the straw with force, tearing fibers instead of slicing clean through.
Koushirou nodded. "Faster… but not rushed. Anticipate the moment, and make the strike part of it — not separate from it."
Zoro gritted his teeth. He hated failing. But he also hated giving up more. He reset his stance.
From the sidelines, the other students whispered — some betting Zoro would mess it up again. But this time, Zoro didn't swing right away. He waited, watching the dummy as if it might move. Then, the instant his muscles tensed, he let the blade fly.
THWACK!
The top half of the bundle split cleanly. Not as perfect as Koushirou's, but close enough that the whispering stopped.
Koushirou gave the faintest of smiles. "Better. Speed is nothing without timing. Timing is nothing without control. Control is nothing without posture. Remember that — these principles are the foundation of all swordsmanship."
Zoro exhaled, sweat dripping down his chin. In his mind, the broken bokken from earlier was already forgotten — replaced by the image of that perfect, clean cut he'd just made
Later that day
Zoro had completed the other training not only did he do that but he increased the speed at which he completed the training .
Now he was lifting weights using a pulley system with boulders tied at the end of both ropes on the other side . With a weight in his mouth He pulled like a crazed man .
The other students stared at him like he was some sort of demon , the training they were doing was hard but what zoro was doing was just on another level and day after day he got even bigger boulders and ran even faster .
Later that evening at the Dojo yard
The courtyard of the Shimotsuki Dojo was silent in the early dawn. Mist clung to the ground, and the first light of morning cast long, thin shadows of the bamboo stalks swaying gently in the breeze. Zoro, barely ten, knelt in seiza position, sweat already beading on his forehead from the long meditation Koushirou had ordered.
Koushirou stood behind him, his geta tapping lightly on the polished wood before stopping
"Zoro," his voice was soft yet cut through the stillness. "You swing a sword with your arms. But a swordsman breathes with his whole being."
Zoro opened one eye. "Breath? What's that got to do with cutting down my opponent?"
Koushirou walked past him, stopping to face the rising sun. "Everything. Breath is life. If you can control your breath, you can control your body. And if you can control your body, you can control the battle itself."
He crouched down to Zoro's level. "From now on, you'll train in Total Concentration Breathing."
Zoro tilted his head. "Total… Concentration?"
"Yes, these are the basics required to slay demons or go up against them before you learn any type of breathing style you need to learn total concentration " Koushirou said, nodding once.
"You will inhale with force, filling every corner of your body with air. You will imagine the oxygen rushing into your blood, strengthening your muscles, sharpening your mind. Then you exhale slowly, releasing everything unnecessary—fear, hesitation, doubt."
Koushirou took a deep, deliberate breath, his chest expanding like a calm but unstoppable tide. Zoro could hear the air moving through him, steady and controlled. The man's presence seemed heavier somehow, as if even the air bowed to his will.
"Watch closely."
He placed a single bamboo leaf on the ground in front of them. "Breathe in… feel your heart beat in rhythm with the world. Exhale… and strike before the leaf shifts from the breeze."
In a flash, Koushirou's bokuto moved. The leaf split in half, still in place, as though it hadn't realized it had been cut.
Zoro's eyes went wide. "You didn't even move that fast—"
Koushirou shook his head. "Speed comes from breath. Strength comes from breath. Focus… comes from breath." He rested the bokuto on his shoulder. "Without it, you will be like a candle in the wind. With it, you will be the wind itself."
From that day, Zoro's days began with a grueling regimen: running while holding his breath to expand his lungs, meditating under waterfalls to control his breathing under pressure, and swinging until his breaths were perfectly in sync with each strike.
Sometimes, he collapsed. Sometimes, his chest burned as if it would burst. But every time, he rose again, his breaths deeper, steadier… deadlier.
And Koushirou would always say the same thing:
"… a swordsman's blade is only as sharp as the breath that guides it."