Five days had passed since Velren's trip to Elyndra.
Now, beneath the soft glow of the morning sun, he stood near the garden, tightening his grip around the hilt of his katana. His arms ached, and his body was drenched in sweat, yet he did not falter. Before him, Gramps sat leisurely on his wooden bench, drinking from his usual bottle of booze, watching with his ever-critical eyes.
Velren exhaled sharply, adjusting his stance. With a deep breath, he brought the katana above his head and swung downward in a clean arc.
Again.
And again.
For five days, this had been his routine.
The old man had given him a task—to master the weapon completely. The training regimen was relentless: five thousand downward slashes, five thousand sideways cuts, five thousand diagonal swings. And that was only the first part. The goal was not only to train his muscles but to carve the very motion into his bones.
Gramps had even allowed him to neglect his usual daily chores and hunting, all so he could fully immerse himself in this training.
Another swing cut through the air.
"Wrong," Gramps suddenly called out.
Velren's eye twitched. He reset his stance, inhaled, and swung again.
"Wrong. Again."
Velren gritted his teeth, adjusting his form before delivering another slash.
"Still wrong. Do it again."
This had been a constant struggle for the past five days. No matter how many times he swung the katana, no matter how much he corrected his form, the old man would only shake his head and tell him to try again.
Yet he never said what was wrong.
Finally, Velren snapped, slamming the tip of the katana into the dirt as he turned toward the old man in frustration.
"Arghh! Can't you just tell me already what's wrong with my form?!"
Gramps sighed deeply, setting his bottle down before standing up. He walked over to Velren. Then, without answering, he held out a hand.
"Give me the sword."
Velren hesitated before handing over the katana.
Gramps took it with a practiced ease, wrapping his fingers around the hilt naturally, like it was an extension of his own body. He stepped forward, adjusting his stance, before lifting the blade above his head.
"A weapon like this... isn't just swung. It flows."
With one smooth motion, he brought the blade downward. The air itself seemed to split apart as the steel carved through it without resistance. It was a simple slash, yet it felt different from Velren's own. It was precise. Controlled. A movement free of unnecessary force.
Gramps turned to face him.
"Your grip is too tight. Relax your fingers. If you hold it like you're strangling it, you lose fluidity."
Velren frowned but followed the instruction.
"Next—your stance. Too rigid. A strong stance isn't one that's stiff, but one that can flow between attack and defense. Keep your knees slightly bent. The power isn't in your arms, but in your whole body. A true slash starts from the feet, flows through the hips, and finally guides the blade."
Velren adjusted his posture, listening carefully.
Gramps raised the katana again.
"And finally—the swing itself. You're trying to cut with strength alone. That's wrong. A sword like this cuts not by force, but by edge alignment and precision. Think of it like a brush painting a stroke—not hacking through meat, but guiding the blade where it wants to go."
He demonstrated once more, and this time, Velren saw it clearly—the elegance of the movement, the way the blade whispered through the air rather than forcing its way through.
"Now," Gramps said, flipping the katana back to Velren.
"Try again."
Velren took a deep breath, tightening his grip—no, adjusting his grip—before lifting the sword again.
He swung.
And again.
And for the third time.
For the first time in a while, Gramps hadn't said a—
"Still wrong."
Velren growled under his breath as the old man stood, stretched, and reached for his bottle. Taking a deep sip, he turned toward the hut.
"Keep practicing," he called over his shoulder.
"And don't laze around. I'll know."
"That damned fucking geezer…!"
***
The katana cut through the air again and again. Velren was exhausted, and his arms were heavy, but he pushed through the strain.
"Kid."
A familiar voice. He turned his head slightly to see Fenrir approaching him with his usual quiet presence.
"How are you holding up?"
Velren swung again.
"Tired."
Another swing.
To be honest, he wanted to say he missed Fenrir's training. Sure, it was brutal, exhausting—but at least he gained something out of it. This, though… This felt like it was getting him nowhere.
"Where's Skoll?" he asked, taking a moment to catch his breath.
"Still out hunting," Fenrir replied.
"Me and Skoll had to double our hunts ever since you started this training."
Velren winced.
"Yeah… sorry about that."
The wolf shook his head.
"It's fine. How do you think we survived before you learned how to hunt? For us, this is just back to normal."
Velren smirked at the wolf's remark.
Then Fenrir added:
"That said… I do miss my free time. You being on the hunting schedule made things easier."
Velren chuckled dryly.
"Maybe I'll help later after all. Feels like I'm gaining nothing from this."
Fenrir huffed and shook his head.
"No need. You should focus on your training. It might not seem like much now, but the fact that the Grandmaster agreed to train you at all says something."
Velren paused.
"What do you mean?"
Fenrir's lone eye met his.
"Of course you already knew that before this, the Grandmaster only ever drank, meditated, and wandered off to the capital sometimes. He never trained anyone."
Velren had no argument. It was true. Aside from the basics, Gramps had never taken an active role in his development before. This was the first time the old man had truly guided him.
Fenrir turned away, heading back into the deeper part of the forest.
"Don't waste this opportunity."