"Sheathe it, don't stare around like a petty thief!" the teacher's voice rang out, with a chin flick full of challenge.
John gripped the haft. He drew a long breath, then pulled hard. The steel flashed, cutting straight into the wooden target. The white chalk line on the target's neck split in two, chalk dust flying blind.
The teacher glanced once, curled his lip:
"Better than yesterday, but still slow. If you pull like that, your opponent'll have time to comb his hair before you cut him down."
John laughed, sweat beading on his brow but his voice tight:
"I think it's fast enough."
"Fast my foot, a tortoise could catch up." The teacher stepped forward, took his wrist, adjusted each finger. "The haft has to press against the back of your hand, try relaxing a bit and I'll bet the blade'll fly out of your hand."
John tried again. The blade popped from the scabbard, the steel streaked across the target's neck noticeably faster.
The teacher nodded, snorted:
"There, that's the speed for a Blade Sweep. Throat or wrist, all in one breath. There's no third choice."
He suddenly raised his arm to cover his neck.
John didn't hesitate, changed direction instantly, the blade sliced down to the wrist. Clack! The dry, crisp sound rang out, the tip striking right on the chalk mark.
"Not bad. But remember, half a beat of hesitation and you're done. On the battlefield no one gives you time to think."
John withdrew the blade, sweat running in streaks, forced a wry smile:
"You always try to scare me."
"I scare you so you live longer. If you want sweet talk, go to arts class, not Survival."
Evening fell, the training room washed in dim gold. The teacher reset the target and drew another red mark, right on the chest.
"Second move: Thrust. Prepare."
John brushed sweat from his face, set his hand on the haft. He lunged, the blade thrusting straight, but it missed, dipping to the belly of the target.
"Wait!" the teacher barked, his voice echoing through the room. "The heart! It has to be the heart! You trying to intimidate your opponent with a bellyache?"
John clenched his lips, cheeks flushing.
"I just slipped."
"On the battlefield, if you slip you're the one lying down." The teacher tapped the target's chest with his finger. "Stab straight at the heart. If you miss, immediately slash the belly. There are only two outcomes: he dies, or you die."
John inhaled hard, reset his stance. He drove the blade forward, this time the tip sank right into the red mark with a solid pop.
The teacher nodded, the corner of his mouth lifting:
"Alright. You're starting to listen."
John panted, still cocky:
"If I didn't listen you'd scold me until my ear fell off."
"As long as you can still gripe, you're not tired enough. Do it two more times."
John groaned, but had to grit his teeth and go. Draw, thrust, draw, slash. The motions grew fluid, sweat soaking his shirt.
The teacher stood with folded arms, nodding:
"Right. The Thrust is the finishing move. Once you strike, you can't let your opponent have breath left."
Before he could rest, the teacher waved a hand:
"One last move. Guard against the desperate."
"Let me breathe a bit" John barely got the words out before the teacher's figure lunged. His arm swung down like a desperate strike.
John panicked, instinctively pulling the blade in front of his chest, stepping back.
Clang! The metal hit with sharp sparks.
The teacher stopped, his eyes lighting up:
"Exactly! Guard against the desperate is not to kill, it's to survive. A dying opponent will take a risk. If you don't defend, you'll die yourself."
John kept his stance, breathing hard:
"You always catch me off guard like that, I'm going to croak early."
The teacher chuckled in a hoarse voice:
"Good that you complain. But remember, this guard is also for a second attacker. In a real fight, don't expect only one enemy."
John nodded, more serious now, a flash of determination in his eyes.
Two months passed like that.
Mornings he meditated, breathing slow, focusing on drawing his supernatural energy from the air. Afternoons he endured the Three Techniques. The third-floor training room slowly turned into a forge: the tiled floor stained with sweat, the wooden targets riddled with chalk marks, the air full of the echo of steel cutting wind.
Classmates dropped out one by one. He was the only one left. The teacher was bitter-mouthed, but clearly had pinned his hopes on John.
Once the teacher said:
"You're the only hope this class has. If you fail the exam for the top school, the crowd will swallow you. Want to be ordinary or want a place to stand, you choose."
John replied flat:
"I want a place."
The teacher didn't ask more, just tossed him the blade and told him to start over.
One day, the teacher set up three wooden targets in a row.
"Blade Sweep!"
John drew the blade, the steel sweeping across the neck of the first target.
"Thrust!"
He shifted, the tip driving straight into the heart of the second target.
"Guard against the desperate!"
Another trainee lunged out unexpectedly. John spun, held the blade horizontally, blocking the fake strike. Clash, sparks flew, he nearly lost his balance but stayed on his feet.
The teacher burst into laughter, the first time in two months:
"Not bad! Three moves in succession, you did it. From draw, to finish, to guard. You've put one foot through the gate of life and death."
John was exhausted, his shirt sticking to him, but a smile tugged at his lips. He knew he was no longer the clumsy beginner from day one.
On the last day of the second month, the teacher put a hand on his shoulder and slapped hard enough that John almost toppled backward.
"Enough! If you train more your wrist'll break. You've got the Three Techniques down."
John grimaced, rubbing his shoulder:
"If you pat like that, I thought you were trying to sharpen me more than the blade."
The teacher laughed hoarsely:
"You've got spirit now! Keeping your mouth while you're tired is good, keeping your blade when it's dangerous is better."
John chuckled softly, drew the blade one final time. The steel cut the air, then stopped in a guard. He exhaled, this time not tense, just like he'd learned a normal motion.
The teacher folded his arms, nodded:
"Good. Down now, train again tomorrow. I still have tea to drink."
John sheathed the blade and headed down the stairs. His shoes clicked steadily on the concrete steps, not heavy but like a familiar drumbeat.
In the training room, the blade lay tilted on the table, the lamp reflecting a long streak of light, glinting like a smile that appeared and then faded.