Soul of a Samurai

Six months had passed.

Half a year of nothing but training.

At first, I could barely keep up. Every morning, I woke up with aching muscles, and every night, I collapsed into bed, exhausted. The days blurred together in an endless cycle of pain, sweat, and pushing myself past my limits.

Wake up. Eat. Train. Eat. Train. Sleep. Repeat.

But now?

Now, things were different.

My body had changed.

In the beginning, I struggled to complete even a single lap around the field. My legs would tremble, and my breath would become ragged. Now, I could run multiple laps without slowing down.

Push-ups, once impossible beyond a certain number, were now part of my daily routine. Squats, sit-ups, endurance drills—I had gotten stronger.

I no longer collapsed after training. My body had adapted.

I was still exhausted by the end of each day, but it was a different kind of exhaustion. Before, I felt like I was being crushed under the weight of the training.

Now?

Now, I felt satisfied.

My routine had become second nature.

Every morning, before the sun had fully risen, I woke up and ate breakfast with my mother and father. I no longer struggled to lift my chopsticks, and my hands no longer shook as I ate. My body had become used to the strain.

As soon as breakfast was over, training began.

• Running. My father had increased the distance over time, forcing me to build endurance. I could run longer, faster, and without stopping.

• Strength training. Push-ups, squats, sit-ups—these were my daily companions. The soreness in my muscles, once unbearable, was now familiar.

• Balance and agility drills. My father had introduced more complex exercises to improve my coordination. Walking on logs, jumping over obstacles, and dodging attacks from wooden poles he set up around the field.

It was no longer just about making me stronger—it was about making me faster, sharper, better.

My father had no mercy.

If I slacked, he pushed me harder. If I failed, he made me do it again.

But he never stopped me.

He never told me to rest.

Because he knew I wouldn't give up.

One afternoon, as I ran laps around the training field, I realized something.

I wasn't gasping for air.

My legs weren't on the verge of collapsing.

I wasn't struggling like before.

I was stronger.

I didn't need my father to tell me—I could feel it.

When I first started, this kind of training felt impossible.

Now, it was routine.

The blue particles were still there.

Everywhere I trained, I saw them.

Floating in the air. Scattered across the field. Lingering around my father, my mother, and the other villagers I saw.

And most interestingly—

I had started to see them around myself.

It was faint, barely visible, but there were small blue particles surrounding me too.

I didn't understand what it meant.

But just like my training, I would figure it out.

Half a year ago, I was just a boy watching his father train from afar.

Now, I was training under him.

And I had no plans of stopping.

I still had six more months before I turned five—before I would finally be allowed to hold a sword.

Until then, I would keep pushing forward.

Because one day, I would be strong enough to stand beside my father.