Chapter 40 — The Path of Two Blades
Dinner at the Burrow that evening was quieter than usual, though not for lack of Weasleys around the table. Ginny had tried to chatter about gnomes and Quidditch, but Molly's frown had silenced even her. Arthur, ever the peacemaker, filled the silence with rambling about "the oddest rubber contraption in the Ministry's Misuse of Muggle Artefacts Office," though it was plain Molly wasn't listening. Ron kept his head low, finishing quickly. His mind wasn't on treacle tart or potatoes—it was already upstairs, in his room, sharpening ideas instead of knives.
When he slipped away, Ginny's eyes followed him, half in curiosity, half in worry. Molly noticed too, her lips tightening, but she let him go.
Up in the attic room, Ron sat at his desk, the bokken leaning against his bed. The katana—still sheathed, gleaming faintly in the lantern light—lay atop the trunk. He sat staring at it, arms folded.
"What kind of swordsman do I want to be?" he muttered.
In his memory, flickers of stories swam. Naruto's shadowy ANBU, blades flashing for speed and silent strikes. Bleach's great slashes, raw power crashing like waves. Demon Slayer's flowing cuts, breathing shaping strength into something beyond flesh. And Kenshin's precise strokes—technique honed to perfection, every movement measured, every strike a decision.
Ron's brow furrowed. "Dual katana, or single?"
He imagined himself with one blade, moving fluid and sure. Strong, yes—but predictable. With two blades… his arms shifted unconsciously, testing the air. One for striking, one for guarding. One for speed, one for restraint. Balance. His lips curved faintly.
"Two," he whispered. "It has to be two."
Downstairs, Molly wiped the same spot on the table for the third time. Arthur sipped tea and watched her. "You'll scrub the polish right off, Molly."
"He's nine years old," she said sharply. "Nine! And already speaking like some duelist."
Arthur raised his brows. "He's always spoken like he's older than he is. Books do that."
"These aren't books, Arthur. These are swords."
Arthur tilted his head. "And what's the difference, really? He's learning. Knowledge isn't dangerous by itself. He's not running off hexing chickens, is he?"
Molly scowled, but her silence was answer enough.
Back upstairs, Ron stood, pacing. "Offense, or defense?" He jabbed with his right hand, testing the motion. Too clumsy. With his left hand, the swing felt smoother, more natural. Strange. He had always been right-handed with quills. But the left handed blade felt alive when swung downward.
He frowned, then looked at the katana and imagined its mirror—curved edge facing inward instead of out. "The sakabato," he murmured. "A reverse blade. No killing edge. Defense in my right hand, offense in my left."
It felt right. Like balance itself.
Ginny padded up the stairs, holding a biscuit stolen from the tin. She poked her head into his room. "Still thinking about swords?"
Ron didn't look at her. "Thinking about balance."
Ginny wrinkled her nose. "That's boring."
"Not when it means living instead of dying," Ron muttered.
Ron turned back to his parchment. He began to write, dividing the page carefully:
Forms:
• Kamae — the stance, how to stand before striking.
• Batto — the draw, the moment the sword leaves its sheath.
• Cut and Thrust — tsuihan, the stroke that decides everything.
• Neto — re-sheathing, returning the blade as if the fight had never happened.
He tapped the quill against his lip, then wrote again:
Principles:
• Fluidity and Precision. Movements must flow like water but land exactly where chosen.
• Breathing and Rhythm. Strength comes from the body's song; lose rhythm and you lose control.
• Balance. Between attack and defense, between two blades, between recklessness and restraint.
• Mental Focus. Without it, even the sharpest sword is clumsy.
He leaned back, staring at the lists. His heartbeat slowed. The room seemed quieter, as if the world had stilled just to listen.
"Principles aren't just for swords," he whispered. "They're for me. For magic. For everything."
The thought settled deep, like a stone sinking in a pond.
Downstairs, Molly leaned against the sink, eyes fixed on the ceiling. "He's too young."
Arthur put his cup down gently. "Too young to want to be ready? Molly, you've seen him. The boy doesn't play like Ginny. He doesn't fritter time like the twins. He… prepares. I don't understand it either. But maybe we shouldn't fight it. Just guide it."
Molly's lips quivered. She thought of her son bent over parchment, drawing diagrams no nine-year-old should know, talking of potions and herbs and now swords. Her heart ached with pride and fear all at once.
"I only want him safe," she whispered.
Arthur touched her hand. "So do I. But safety means something different to him, I think."
Upstairs, Ron had laid the bokken across his knees. He closed his eyes, steadying his breath. The list of principles echoed in his mind. Mental focus. Breathing and rhythm.
He sat straighter. Breathed in. Out. Counted silently. He had read once—in a tucked-away paragraph of a fan-fiction story online, though he could never say so aloud—that meditation could make a wizard feel the flow of magic inside themselves. Was it true? Could he find it?
He shut out the creaks of the Burrow, the distant clatter of dishes, Ginny's humming down the hall. All that remained was his heartbeat, the rise and fall of his breath, the stillness inside.
For a moment—just a flicker—he thought he felt something. Not heat, not cold. A current, faint and elusive, like a river running beneath his skin. It slipped away before he could grasp it, but it left a trace.
His eyes snapped open.
"That's it," he murmured. "That's where I begin."
The night deepened around the Burrow. Molly sighed in the kitchen. Arthur tinkered absentmindedly with a Muggle plug. Ginny fell asleep with a biscuit still clutched in her hand. And Ron sat in his room, bokken on his lap, mind sharper than ever, chasing the first threads of discipline and magic intertwined.