The night was quiet. Moonlight spilled across the courtyard as Haruto swung his wooden sword again and again. His palms were blistered, his shoulders ached, but his eyes stayed sharp. Each cut carried no hesitation, no wasted motion.
Behind the wall, the Patriarch stood in silence. He had watched for months. What began as curiosity had turned into astonishment. No child should be capable of this.
The boy paused, his breath ragged, sweat dripping down his small face. He raised the wooden sword again, repeating the final stance of the clan's technique — The Fifth Form: Severing Current. The blade moved like flowing water, smooth, unbroken.
The Patriarch finally stepped forward. His presence alone was heavy enough to make the air tighten.
"Haruto."
The boy stopped instantly and bowed. "Father."
The Patriarch looked at the wooden sword in his son's hands. "Show me again."
Haruto obeyed without hesitation. He moved through the forms one by one — First Form: Rooted Stance, Second Form: Rising Edge, Third Form: Falling Gale, Fourth Form: Splitting Arc, Fifth Form: Severing Current.
Not a single step faltered. His footing was steady, his breathing controlled. Each movement was clean, sharper than most of the sect's young disciples could manage even after years of training.
The Patriarch's expression hardened, though his eyes betrayed a spark of surprise. He raised his own practice blade — a heavier oak sword.
"Attack me."
Haruto gripped his wooden sword tightly. His small frame trembled, not with fear, but with the strain of containing his energy. Then he moved. His strike came swift, aimed true, yet the Patriarch parried with ease. Again, Haruto struck, this time chaining the Second Form into the Third. The wood clashed again and again, the sound echoing in the courtyard.
Finally, Haruto used the Fifth Form. His body twisted, his blade flowing like water, slipping through the smallest opening. For the briefest moment, his wooden sword tapped against his father's sleeve.
The Patriarch froze. His son had touched him.
Lowering his blade, the Patriarch studied Haruto. He saw not the body of a child, but the soul of a warrior forged long before this lifetime.
"From today," his father said, voice firm, "you will train under me."
Haruto bowed deeply, hiding the small smile that tugged at his lips. For the first time in this life, he had taken a step forward.
The boy's body was still weak. But now, under his father's eye, his true strength would begin to awaken.