As the sunlight brightens the horizon, Kenshi steps out onto the flat, uneven ground before the cave.
The cold morning air brushes against his skin, sharp and biting, but the warmth of the rising sun sooths his broken body and hollow soul.
He slid the sword from its sheath, from the skeleton in the cave, the steel catching the light.
For a moment, he simply stared at it — not with awe, but with understanding.
Knowing that only the blade and his memories, fragmented as they were...
Of his times as a general, albeit an ordinary human ....
Planting his feet wide, Kenshi raised the blade in both hands.
The stance was awkward. His body still stiff from rest, his arms too tense, his breathing uneven.
Yet, he repeated the motion — feet planted, blade raised high, cut downward.
A clean arc.
Again.
And again.
The sound of steel cutting air broke the silence of the mountainside. Each swing lacked polish, lacked flow, but in repetition there was rhythm.
A rhythm that he remembers all too well...
The rhythm that his now young body needs to master.
The sun climbed higher as sweat gathered on his brow.
His grip burned. His shoulders ached. His palms felt raw against the hilt. But Kenshi did not stop.
Upward slash.
Downward cut.
Side sweep.
One sword. Simple motions. Nothing elegant, nothing of a master's art — only the beginnings of a foundation.
He swung until his breath came heavy, until his arms shook from the weight of the steel. At last, he held the sword before him, tip leveled with the horizon where the light broke across the ridges.
"This body will grow," he muttered under his breath, his voice coarse. "And so will this blade."
The morning wind carried his words into the valley, swallowed by silence.
Yet Kenshi felt something — faint but steady. The first steps of discipline.
The first steps towards forging his own path.
Kenshi steadied his breath, blade resting in both hands. His arms trembled from the countless swings, but he refused to stop.
He stepped back, lowering into stance, his feet digging into the earth.
This time, instead of a simple cut, he inhaled deep, letting the tension coil inside him. His gaze fixed on a jagged boulder standing some distance away from the cave mouth.
The blade rose high.
Memories start to flash before his eyes.
The desperate struggle with the children, their slaughter.
The massacre along the hilltop.
Every time he was on the verge of death.
Every question he had.
And the voice.
One serene, the other seductive.
One respectful and the other proud.
Both in him, apart of him.
A part he is yet to understand.
He swung.
At first, it was just another downward slash — but the air trembled.
A faint pressure left the steel, a thin crescent of force that split from the edge and tore forward.
The strike hissed through the air, crashing against the boulder with a sharp crack.
Stone dust exploded outward as a shallow groove cut across the surface.
A flying slash.
Kenshi froze, blinking in disbelief. His chest rose and fell with ragged breaths, sweat dripping down his chin.
He raised the blade again, uncertain.
Had it been an accident? A trick of the light?
Slowly, he swung once more, pouring more of himself into the motion. His grip tightened, his breath surged with the strike—
Another flash of air. Another crescent tearing out. It struck the ground this time, carving a shallow line into the dirt.
Kenshi lowered the sword, staring at the faint scar left on the earth. His lips curled into a grim smile.
"…So it wasn't luck."
For a brief moment, he felt the same rush as in battle — the memory of that desperate swing, when death had been at his throat.
Only now, in the quiet morning, it was practice, not survival.
The skeleton inside the cave sat silent, bearing witness to the birth of something more.
The air cracked as Kenshi's second flying slash tore into the dirt, leaving a thin scar across the ground. He stood there, chest heaving, his arms heavy from exertion. The sound of his own breath filled the silence, mixing with the faint whistle of the wind.
Then—
A laugh.
Soft. Light. Childlike.
Kenshi's eyes darted back toward the cave.
In the half-shadow, leaning against the rock, stood a small figure.
A girl, no older than ten by appearance, barefoot, dressed in a ragged black kimono far too big for her tiny frame. Her eyes glowed faintly, and a sly smile curled her lips.
"Heeh… you really think waving that sword around makes you strong?" she teased, her voice sing-song, mocking yet strangely sweet.
Kenshi's grip tightened on the hilt. "Who—?"
The little girl tilted her head, hands behind her back as she stepped closer, her bare feet making no sound against the stone. She stuck out her tongue at him, giggling.
"Your swings are clumsy. Your cuts are dull. You'd never last against someone real." She lifted one finger and traced the air, mimicking his slash with a mocking flourish.
"Swoosh~! Swoosh~! You look like a lost puppy."
Her words struck oddly deep, like they weren't just mockery — but truths meant to provoke him.
Kenshi narrowed his eyes, lowering into stance again. "Are you… my sword spirit?"
The girl only grinned wider, tilting her head so her long bangs shadowed her eyes.
"Maaaybe… maybe not. But I am watching. Always." She twirled in place, arms spread out like a child at play, then stopped abruptly, pointing at the scar in the dirt where his flying slash had landed.
"That," she said with sudden seriousness, her voice dropping lower, darker, "was real. But it's still only a taste. You'll need more than desperation and sweat if you want to use me properly. You lack intent. Not that samurai spirit!"
"You are not some tragic hero, fighting for a destroyed country anymore. Just a kid. In an unkown place. Fighting battles in a way you still have no clue about."
And just as quickly, her mischievous tone returned. She clasped her hands behind her back, leaning forward at him with a toothy grin.
"So c'mon, Kenshi~! Show me again. Swing harder. Make me feel it."
The cave wind howled, carrying her laughter — light and cruel — across the empty mountainside.