Soul of a Samurai

The day after my birthday, training resumed as usual.

There was no hesitation, no delay.

The moment I woke up, I knew—it was time to get back to work.

But I hadn't expected my father to change the training schedule again.

"From today onward, we spar."

I stood in the open training field, gripping my wooden sword.

Across from me, my father held his own training blade, his stance relaxed, yet unshakable.

I blinked.

Sparring?

I had expected more physical conditioning. More drills. More swings.

But this?

This was different.

This was a fight.

It started simple.

Father barely moved, only reacting when I attacked.

At first, I hesitated.

I had only ever swung my sword in training—not against an opponent.

But then, I remembered his words.

"A sword that never strikes is nothing more than a stick."

So, I attacked.

A straightforward downward swing.

It was the obvious move. The wrong move.

Before my sword even reached him—I was on the ground.

I didn't even see what happened.

One moment, I was standing. The next, I was staring at the sky.

Father hadn't even hit me.

He had redirected my attack, using my own momentum to knock me off balance.

I clenched my jaw, getting back up.

I tried again.

And again.

And again.

Each time, I failed.

Father was barely moving.

I could tell.

His feet stayed planted. His grip on his sword never tightened.

He was only using minimal movement to counter me.

But even that was too much for me to handle.

My attacks were predictable. My stance unstable.

Every mistake I made—he exploited it.

I was thrown, knocked off balance, disarmed, or simply countered.

It was frustrating.

But at the same time…

It was exhilarating.

Hours passed.

My body ached. My hands trembled. My breathing was heavy.

But still, I didn't stop.

I couldn't stop.

Because even though I was losing—I was learning.

Father wasn't just beating me down.

He was teaching me.

Each time I fell, he would speak.

"You're too stiff. Flow with the movement."

"Your grip is weak. A sword must be an extension of your arm."

"You attack with your body, but not with your mind. Read your opponent."

Little by little, I started to understand.

Swords weren't just about strength.

They were about control. Timing. Precision.

By the time the sun began to set, I could barely stand.

Father finally lowered his sword.

"That's enough for today."

I let out a heavy breath, my body screaming for rest.

I had lost every single match.

I had been defeated countless times.

But I didn't feel discouraged.

Because for the first time since I started training—

I wasn't just swinging my sword aimlessly.

I was actually fighting.

And tomorrow, I would fight again.