19, 447 A.R. – Night (Past Timeline: June 19, 452 A.R.)
The cold hospital air hit Rei's lungs like a blade as his eyes snapped open. His broken body lay motionless in the thin bed, legs dead weight, hands barely responsive.
Back in the future. Back in this dying shell.
"You're awake earlier than yesterday," Darius observed from the corner, where he sat sharpening a knife with methodical precision. "Getting used to the transition?"
"Getting used to dying every night?" Rei's voice came out rough. "Not sure that's something you get used to."
Darius chuckled darkly. "Fair point." He set the knife aside. "You wanted to learn more theory. I've been thinking about what to teach next."
He pulled his chair closer, settling in with the patient focus of someone who'd taught young soldiers how to survive.
"Yesterday was foundations, stances, footwork, weight distribution. Today we move to economy of motion." Darius leaned forward, his hands moving as he spoke. "Every movement in swordplay should serve multiple purposes. Defense becomes offense. Retreat becomes repositioning. Nothing exists in isolation."
Rei absorbed every word, his mind already translating theory into movements his past-body could practice.
"Think of it like a conversation," Darius continued. "Your opponent makes a statement with their blade, a thrust, a slash, a feint. Your response isn't just a block or a dodge. It's a counter-argument that sets up your next point. The best swordsmen don't just react, they control the dialogue."
He stood, using the knife to demonstrate in slow motion. "See this parry? Most people think it's defensive. But watch, " He moved the blade in a smooth arc, redirecting an imaginary attack. ", the same motion that deflects their strike positions my blade inside their guard. Now they're vulnerable. Now I dictate what happens next."
Rei's eyes tracked every movement, cataloging angles and possibilities.
"The principle applies to everything," Darius said, sitting back down. "Footwork, a step back isn't retreat, it's range control. Creates space, forces your opponent to overextend, sets up your counterattack. A pivot isn't evasion, it's repositioning to strike from an unexpected angle."
"Three moves ahead," Rei murmured, remembering their earlier conversation.
"Exactly. But here's the advanced concept, " Darius' expression turned serious. "The best fighters make their opponent think they're three moves ahead while actually controlling five. They show you the conversation they want you to see while conducting a different one entirely."
"Deception."
"Strategy." Darius corrected. "A feint isn't just a fake attack. It's information gathering. How does your opponent react? Do they overcommit? Hesitate? Each response tells you something about their training, their instincts, their fears. And once you know that"
"you can exploit it," Rei finished.
"Now you're learning." Darius pulled out a scrap of paper, beginning to sketch. "Let me show you a specific technique, the displaced guard. Most people keep their weapon between themselves and the threat. Obvious. Predictable. But if you position your blade slightly off-center, here" He marked the diagram. ", you create an apparent opening. Your opponent sees it, commits to the attack, and suddenly your 'weak' position becomes a trap."
They worked through variations, high guard that baited low attacks, low guard that invited overhead strikes, neutral stance that offered no information until the critical moment.
"The hardest part," Darius said, "isn't learning the techniques. It's learning to read the space between techniques. The moment of transition, when you're moving from one position to another that's when you're most vulnerable, and that's when the best opportunities exist."
"So you never truly commit to a single technique," Rei reasoned. "Every movement is the beginning of multiple possibilities."
"Exactly." Darius nodded with approval. "You're thinking like a swordsman now, not just a student memorizing forms. Good."
They continued until exhaustion began pulling Rei back toward the past. But before the darkness claimed him, Darius added one final lesson:
"Remember, a sword is just metal. The real weapon is your mind. The blade is just how you translate thought into consequence. Master your thinking, and the steel becomes irrelevant."
The words followed Rei as consciousness stretched across five years...
June 20, 447 A.R. – Dawn (Past Timeline)
Rei's eyes opened in his childhood bed, his whole body intact, ready to move.
He rolled out of bed and grabbed his training gear, Darius' lessons fresh in his mind.
The alley was still dark when he took his first stance, weighted practice shaft in hand, the harness redistributing weight across his shoulders.
But this time, everything was different.
Economy of motion. Every movement serves multiple purposes.
He practiced the forward step, not just moving toward an opponent, but positioning for a thrust while maintaining defensive posture. The lateral shift became simultaneous protection and angle creation. The pivot transformed from simple evasion into offensive repositioning.
Think three moves ahead. Control the conversation.
His practice strikes became more deliberate. Each one set up the next. Each defensive position created offensive opportunity. Nothing wasted. Everything connected.
The best fighters make their opponent think they're three moves ahead while actually controlling five.
Rei began adding feints to his routine, half-committed strikes that would bait reactions, movements that offered false openings, stances that hid his true intentions.
Sweat dripped into his eyes as the sun rose, but the movements were smoother now. More fluid. Less like separate techniques and more like a continuous flow of possibility.
The blade is just how you translate thought into consequence.
By the time he climbed back through his window, he understood: Darius wasn't just teaching him swordplay. He was teaching him how to think like someone who'd survived when others hadn't.
And that was exactly the kind of thinking Rei needed for what came next.
Castell Trading Company – 9:00 AM