What was the life of a swordsman?
It was no different from the process of becoming a single sword.
One grasped a wooden sword from the earliest years of speech. As childhood drew to its end, one became accustomed to the chilling edge of a true blade. To be recognized as an adult capable of bearing one person’s share, one had to wield the sword like one’s own hand.
Were they not people who even met death when the body of their blade broke?
The conversations swordsmen shared had no need for tongues. Three inches of flesh could never speak more honestly than the blade one had swung throughout a lifetime.
Thus, our single exchange was a dialogue.
A straight line collided with a curve.
Two trajectories intertwined rapturously, using the air as their canvas. Considering power, speed, and every other element, the exchange stood far from my true strength.
And yet, why was it?
Cold sweat had already formed upon my forehead.
“You use excessive force.”
A single sword stroke completed what deficient language could not.
My slash entered from lower left to upper right, aiming for an opening, but followed the old man’s graceful guidance and traced the tangent of a circle. The nameless mercenary’s sword penetrated the space left by…