That evening, the Mountain Guest told Vale a story.
He did not announce it as a lesson.
He simply spoke while sharpening the blade.
"There was once a butcher," the Guest said, "who cut oxen for a living."
Vale recognized the tale faintly. A parable, old even by mortal standards.
"At first, the butcher relied on strength," the Guest continued. "His blade dulled often. His arms ached. Each cut was effort."
The sharpening stone made a soft, dry sound.
"After three years, he no longer saw the ox," the Guest said. "He saw space. Gaps. Natural separations."
Vale leaned forward.
"He did not cut bone," the Guest said. "He did not force flesh. He guided the blade where resistance did not exist."
The Guest stopped sharpening.
"After nineteen years, his blade was still sharp."
Vale understood.
"He didn't improve the blade," Vale said quietly. "He stopped fighting the ox."
The Guest smiled. "Now you see."
He placed the saber on the table.
"Fast Saber is not invented," he said. "It is discovered. Every opponent has gaps. Every technique has joints. Even sound itself has seams."
Vale's chest tightened slightly.
"And if there are no gaps?" Vale asked.
The Guest met his gaze. "Then you are looking at the wrong scale."
That night, Vale dreamed of cutting nothing at all—and waking to find the world already parted.