Three months of training…
and I can finally control the blade.
Ryo stood still in the open training ground, his fingers tightening slowly around the hilt. The sword no longer felt foreign. The weight that once dragged his arm down now moved with him. His grip was steady. His stance, firm.
He had learned.
But his eyes weren't on the blade.
They were fixed upward.
High above, where the strike needed to land.
His jaw tightened.
But I still can't reach it.
A cold breeze passed through the field, brushing against his face. Around him, the training ground was alive.
Metal clashed. Boots hit the ground. Controlled breaths echoed in rhythm.
One of the trainees leapt.
Clean.
Effortless.
No gear.
His body rose high into the air as if pulled by nothing but his own strength. The blade struck the elevated target perfectly—right at the chest mark.
A clean hit.
Ryo watched in silence.
They don't need it…
Another trainee followed. Then another.
Some used gear—but only lightly. As if it was nothing more than a tool, not a necessity.
They moved with control.
Confidence.
Ryo looked down.
His hand slowly reached for the straps at his side.
The gear.
Cold metal plates. Tight bindings. Cables coiled like restrained force.
He secured it around himself.
The weight settled onto his body.
Uncomfortable.
Unnatural.
I don't have a choice.
He stepped forward.
Took a breath.
Then launched.
Too fast.
The force pulled him forward violently, his body losing balance the moment he left the ground. The world tilted. His vision blurred for a second.
His arm moved—
Too early.
The blade sliced through empty air.
Ryo's eyes widened.
No—
He hit the ground hard, rolling across the dirt before stopping.
Dust rose around him.
A few voices drifted from behind.
"Still using it…"
"Guess he can't do it without that thing."
Ryo stayed down for a moment, his fingers digging into the ground.
Then slowly—
he pushed himself back up.
Ignore it.
He reset his stance.
Again.
Launch.
This time, he tried to control the speed.
But his body lagged behind the movement.
Too slow.
Too unstable.
His balance broke mid-air, and the blade veered off course.
Miss.
Again.
Launch.
Too high.
His body twisted awkwardly, the momentum dragging him sideways. The blade slipped from alignment.
Miss.
He landed harder this time, stumbling forward.
His breathing grew uneven.
Frustration crept in.
"…again."
He reset.
Again.
Launch.
Higher this time.
More controlled.
For a moment—
it felt right.
His body aligned.
His arm moved.
The blade cut forward—
Too late.
Miss.
His teeth clenched.
Why…
His breathing grew heavier.
Why is this so hard?
Another attempt.
This time, he overcorrected.
The gear pulled too sharply.
His body twisted violently mid-air.
The blade slipped completely off course.
He crashed down.
Pain shot through his side.
Dust scattered across the ground.
Ryo stayed there.
For a few seconds.
Staring at the sky.
They make it look so easy…
His fingers tightened against the dirt.
So why can't I do it?
A shadow passed nearby.
Another trainee landed.
Clean strike.
Perfect control.
No hesitation.
Ryo turned his head slightly.
Watching.
That's the difference…
Not strength.
Not effort.
Control.
He closed his eyes.
Then slowly—
pushed himself up again.
"I'll get there."
There was no anger in his voice this time.
Only certainty.
Days passed.
Bruises spread across his arms and legs. His shoulders ached constantly. His palms hardened, skin rough from endless repetition.
Still—
he kept going.
A week later—
He stayed in the air longer.
But his strike still missed.
Two weeks later—
His jumps improved.
But his timing failed him.
Ryo stared at his hands again.
I can control the blade…
His grip tightened.
So why can't I hit anything?
He launched again.
This time, he forced himself to wait.
A fraction longer.
The wind rushed past him.
His body rose—
Now—
Too late.
The blade cut through nothing.
He landed, dropping to one knee.
His breath came out sharp.
"…damn it."
Time moved forward.
Relentless.
Six months later—
The blade was no longer the problem.
Ryo could swing it mid-motion, adjust its angle, control its weight even while moving through the air.
That part—
he had mastered.
But the gear—
The gear was chaos.
He launched again.
Balanced at first.
Controlled.
His body held steady—
for a moment.
Then the pull shifted.
His center broke.
His timing slipped.
The blade struck—
just short.
Ryo landed, sliding back.
His fists clenched.
So close…
The whispers never stopped.
They stayed behind him.
Low.
Constant.
Like a shadow that refused to leave.
He stopped listening.
Months passed.
Not in days.
Not in weeks.
But in repetition.
Launch.
Miss.
Land.
Reset.
Again.
Each attempt chipped away at the gap.
Slowly.
Painfully.
There were days he improved.
And days he didn't.
Days where everything aligned—
only to fall apart at the last moment.
But he didn't stop.
His body adapted.
Muscles hardened.
Reflexes sharpened.
The gear no longer felt separate.
Not completely—
but enough.
And the blade—
never betrayed him now.
Only one thing remained.
Timing.
Just a little more…
One evening, the sky burned orange as the sun dipped low.
The training ground had emptied.
Silence stretched across the field.
Ryo stood alone.
He adjusted the gear again.
His hands no longer fumbled.
The straps fit naturally now.
The weight—
familiar.
He took a breath.
Then launched.
Not too fast.
Not too slow.
Controlled.
His body rose.
Steady.
For the first time—
he wasn't fighting the movement.
He was moving with it.
His eyes locked onto the target.
Chest level.
The exact point that mattered.
Now.
His arm moved.
Clean.
Precise.
The blade cut through.
A sharp sound echoed.
Ryo landed.
Light.
Controlled.
No crash.
No stumble.
Silence followed.
He stood still.
Breathing heavily.
His chest rising and falling.
Slowly—
he turned.
The mark was there.
Perfect.
Right where it needed to be.
His grip tightened.
I… did it.
For a moment—
he didn't move.
Didn't speak.
After all this time…
After one year and eight months of training—
after every fall, every failure, every missed strike—
he had finally closed the distance.
The wind passed through the field again.
But this time—
it felt different.
Ryo lifted his gaze forward.
Not at the target.
But beyond it.
His stance steadied.
His breathing slowed.
The doubt—
was gone.
Only focus remained.
He tightened his grip on the blade.
This time—
there was no hesitation.
And after 1 years and 8 months
of training.
He was ready.
For the test.