Looking back, there had never been an easy road in my life.
How many times had I rolled across the ground while swallowing the metallic taste of blood? I suddenly recalled my childhood. Was it when I first began training? The first moment I tasted iron.
A swordsman and his sword always had to share the same fate. The process by which a swordsman was born was little different from that of forging a blade.
The body was hammered instead of iron. Flesh heated to its limits melted its muscle fibers, and only after endless tempering did the hardened body earn the right to grasp a blade.
Was that not truly dreadful training?
At the very least, it was not something a child could endure without complaint. So I fell countless times, and just as often, I wanted to give up.
What had I been told then?
My idle thoughts scattered with the sword-light. My blade danced, leaving a long scar through the air.
We had already exchanged thousands of blows.
My opponent’s responses were as skillful as my intricate offensive. She freely moved the two arms stained pitch-black, demonstrating considerable finesse as she subtly diverted my sword.
But it was not as though I had no plan.
The trajectory drawing an honest straight line twisted slightly. As I rotated the sword with my wrist, a minute error appeared in the…