Soul of a Samurai

Half a year had passed.

The boy I was six months ago—he wouldn't even recognize me now.

My body had grown stronger, my movements sharper.

What once felt impossible was now effortless.

Morning Training.

The cold air stung my skin as I stepped onto the training field.

I was no longer bothered by it.

My father stood waiting, his one-armed frame as imposing as ever.

I bowed, gripping my wooden sword.

Then the training began.

The physical routine.

It was the same foundation I had built myself upon.

Push-ups. Sit-ups. Squats. Sprints.

But with my increased strength, everything had doubled.

More weight. More repetitions. More intensity.

Carrying boulders, dragging logs, sprinting uphill while my father stood on my back—this was normal now.

Pain had become my companion.

And I welcomed it.

The second half of training.

I had gone from dodging to blocking.

And now—I could deflect with precision.

The first time I tried, the stones my father threw battered me black and blue.

Now?

I knocked them aside without thinking.

One. Two. Three.

Stones flew at me from every direction.

I barely moved my feet—just my sword.

Each rock redirected with just enough force to send it flying in another direction.

Not too much energy.

Not too little.

Just enough.

This was the difference between six months ago and today.

The Blue Particles.

They were no longer a mystery.

Well… mostly.

I still didn't understand what they were.

But I understood how to use them.

Whenever I grew exhausted, I reached out—not physically, but mentally.

And the blue particles responded.

They seeped into me, filling my body with warmth.

My tired muscles would feel lighter.

My breath would slow.

The weight of fatigue would lessen.

I didn't use them constantly.

I didn't want to depend on them.

But in the moments when I was on the verge of collapse…

They gave me just enough to keep going.

The Final Task.

Every day ended the same.

1,000 swings.

But now, there was no struggle.

No hesitation.

No collapsing.

Each swing was fast, precise, and powerful.

1.

100.

500.

1,000.

I finished standing.

For the first time, I did not fall.

My grip remained steady.

My stance was strong.

I looked at my father.

He looked at me.

And then—he smiled.

Not a large one.

Not even a grin.

Just a small, satisfied smile.

But to me—it meant everything.

Half a year ago, I was just a boy trying to survive training.

Now?

I was a warrior in the making.

And this—this was only the beginning.