Soul of a Samurai

Today was the day.

One year of grueling physical training. One year of pushing my body to its limits. One year of preparation for this moment.

I was finally five years old.

And today, I would finally hold a sword.

Like every morning, I woke up sore but ready. I ate breakfast in silence, my mother watching me carefully, while my father sat across from me, his expression unreadable as always.

I wasn't nervous.

I was excited.

For a whole year, I had watched my father swing his sword with precision and power. And now, it was my turn.

Once breakfast was done, I followed my father outside to the training field. The air was crisp, the morning sun casting long shadows over the ground.

That's when I saw it.

In his single hand, he held two wooden swords.

One for him.

And one for me.

Without a word, he tossed one of the swords toward me.

I caught it with both hands, gripping the wooden handle tightly.

It felt strange.

The weight, the shape, the way it rested in my grasp—it was nothing like lifting boulders or running with weights tied to my body.

This was different.

Before I could fully process the feeling, my father spoke.

"Hold onto that sword. From now on, we will train like this every day."

I blinked, confused.

I thought today was the day I would learn sword skills.

Yet, all he said was that we would continue training as usual—just with the sword.

That didn't make sense.

Wasn't he going to teach me how to swing? How to strike? How to cut?

I furrowed my brow, gripping the sword tighter. My father must have noticed my confusion, because he looked down at me and spoke again.

"Moving with a sword is different than moving alone." He tapped his own wooden blade against his shoulder. "Your balance will be off. Your center of gravity will shift. And if you cannot move properly while holding a sword—" his eyes narrowed slightly "—then you have no right to wield one."

I swallowed hard, his words sinking in.

So this was still part of my training.

I wasn't just learning how to hold a sword.

I was learning how to live with it.

I nodded. "Okay."

And just like that, training began.

The moment we started, I could feel the difference.

Running was harder. My movements felt off-balance. Every time I swung my arms or changed direction, the wooden sword in my grip made everything feel uneven.

It wasn't heavy, but the simple fact that I was holding something changed everything.

Push-ups, squats, and endurance drills all felt awkward. The sword always got in the way, forcing me to adjust how I moved.

Every single exercise I had mastered over the past year suddenly felt foreign.

I struggled.

I tripped more than once while running. I nearly dropped the sword multiple times when climbing. I even lost my footing during balance training.

But through it all—

I never let go of the sword.

That was one thing I understood immediately.

No matter how much my body ached—no matter how unbalanced I felt—no matter how much my muscles screamed at me—

I never let go.

And I knew that's exactly what my father was testing me on.

Because a samurai's sword was his life.

To drop it was to die.

So I held on.

I adjusted.

I kept pushing forward.

Hours passed, and finally, we finished the physical portion of the training.

My body was drenched in sweat, my arms were sore, and my grip was shaky—yet, I still held onto my wooden sword.

I thought that was the end of today's training.

But then, my father turned to me and said—

"Now, swing it. A thousand times."

A thousand?

I was already exhausted from training all morning, but I didn't hesitate.

I widened my stance, raised my sword, and brought it down.

Once.

Twice.

Three times.

Each swing was deliberate. I focused on my form, trying to keep my movements as clean as possible.

Ten swings.

Fifty swings.

A hundred swings.

By the time I reached two hundred, my arms were on fire.

By three hundred, my grip was slipping from sweat.

By five hundred, I had to grit my teeth just to keep my arms moving.

But I didn't stop.

My father stood nearby, watching silently. He didn't count my swings. He didn't correct my form.

He only observed.

I had no idea how much time passed, but by the time I reached seven hundred twenty-eight swings—

Everything went dark.

I didn't even realize I was falling.

My body simply collapsed.

I didn't feel the impact as I hit the ground.

All I felt was exhaustion.

And then, I was asleep.