The next morning, frustration was a bitter taste in Russell's mouth. He was back at the dummy, executing the same cuts—Men Giri, Kesa Giri, Tsuki—but something was wrong. He was going through the motions with full focus and determination, but the movements felt hollow. Stiff. He was thinking about his elbows, his feet, his wrist angle, and in doing so, he was losing the flow. Emma felt heavy and uncooperative in his hands.
The training grounds were quiet in the early hours. Cold air clung to the metal floors, and a thin white mist curled around his feet with every step. His breath steamed as he exhaled, each cloud carrying more frustration than the last.
He swung again.
And again.
But nothing felt right.
A diagonal cut that should've felt smooth ended with a jarring tremor in the blade. His follow-through was sloppy. His grip tightened too much, and the vibration stung his palms.
"…Why isn't this working?" he muttered under his breath.
He stepped back, lowering his blade, his chest heaving. He didn't know what to do. He was doing everything he was supposed to, but it wasn't working. It wasn't coming together.
His arms hung at his sides, numb and heavy. Sweat rolled down his temples, but it wasn't the physical exhaustion that bothered him—it was the mental pressure. The silent question creeping in:
What if I can't do this?
He stood there, defeated, watching the more experienced hunters in other sectors. Their movements weren't just technically proficient; they were fluid, economical, and aware. And then it hit him. He was missing the heart of it. The why. He was learning the anatomy of a technique but not its spirit.
Across the arena, a pair of veteran Hunters sparred. Their blades clashed in sharp, ringing notes, each movement timed down to the heartbeat. They weren't just cutting—they were reading each other, sensing distance, anticipating angles. Their footwork wasn't rigid but adaptive, alive.
Russell watched them in awe.
One Hunter executed a perfect step-in Kesa Giri. His cut ended cleanly—but instead of relaxing, he shifted seamlessly into another guard posture, eyes alert, breath steady. As if the fight hadn't paused at all.
That's it, Russell realized. They're not thinking about individual moves. They're thinking about the fight.
Closing his eyes, he reached back into the historical files, past the physical descriptions, to the core philosophy of the samurai. Two concepts surfaced, cutting through his frustration like a blade.
1. Zanshin (Lingering Spirit):
A state of relaxed awareness. After a strike, the warrior does not drop their guard or their focus. They remain mentally and physically prepared for the next immediate threat, their spirit "lingering" on the opponent and the environment. It was the opposite of his wild, all-in swings that left him completely exposed.
2. Maai (Distance/Timing):
This was more than just distance. It was the comprehensive understanding of the space between combatants—encompassing not just physical space, but the time it would take to close that space, the rhythm of the opponent, and the precise moment to strike or evade. It was the real skill of a swordsman, not just the cut itself.
His eyes snapped open. A new determination, calmer and sharper than before, settled over him. He wasn't just practicing cuts; he was practicing combat.
He lifted Emma again, but the blade didn't feel as heavy this time. His grip softened. His breath grew controlled.
He approached the dummy again, but this time, his mindset was different. He didn't just perform a Kesa Giri. He focused on his Maai, ensuring he was at the perfect distance for the cut to land with maximum power without overextending. As the cut finished, he didn't relax. He immediately flowed back into a guarded stance, his eyes sharp, his body coiled—Zanshin. He was ready for a counter-attack that would never come from the dummy, but the habit was being forged.
He imagined a real foe standing before him — breathing, moving, striking back. He listened to the rhythm of his own feet and the space around him.
Step in.
Turn hips.
Cut.
Recover.
Guard again.
The difference was immediate. The movements began to feel less forced and more natural. The techniques started to connect, flowing from one to the next with purpose. He was finally learning.
The dummy, silent and unmoving, suddenly felt like a partner in an invisible dance. Russell's blade moved with intention, not panic. His eyes no longer darted to his feet or elbows—his body knew where they needed to be. His breath regulated itself, steady like a warrior in meditation.
By the end of the session, the basic cutting techniques felt more integrated. They were becoming part of him, not just a series of steps to remember.
He sheathed Emma for a moment and rolled his shoulders. Muscles burned, but the burn felt good—earned, not wasted.
Now, it was time for stage three. The art that separated a warrior from a mere brawler. He picked up his scabbard.
---
Drawing & Sheathing (Iaijutsu / Battōjutsu)
This was the ultimate test of Zanshin and Maai.
The air around him seemed to shift as he adjusted his posture. Iaijutsu wasn't about power or strength. It was about intent. Precision. Absolute clarity of mind.
He inhaled deeply.
1. Iai (Quick Draw):
He practiced the motion slowly, over and over. The subtle flick of the thumb to loosen the blade in the saya (scabbard), the smooth, lightning-fast draw, the immediate integration of the draw into a cutting motion. It was one fluid, continuous action—a lightning-fast surprise strike meant to end a fight before it truly began. He focused on making it a single, efficient expression of intent.
Flick.
Draw.
Cut.
The whistle of the blade slicing air made his pulse quicken.
He imagined an enemy lunging at him.
He pictured the strain of timing.
The consequences of being even one fraction too slow.
Again.
Again.
Again.
His feet moved with silent precision, the steel flashing with growing confidence.
2. Noto (Sheathing):
This was just as important as the draw. It wasn't just putting the sword away. It was a controlled, smooth return of the blade to the scabbard, done with focus and precision, never looking away from where the threat had been. It was the final act of Zanshin, a demonstration of total control and readiness even in the moment of resheathing.
He exhaled softly as he guided Emma's edge along the back of his thumb, lowering the blade into its sheath with an audible click at the end.
Not once did he let his gaze drop.
Not once did he break posture.
Draw.
Cut.
Sheath.
Repeat.
Each motion was a meditation. Each repetition burned the philosophy of the warrior deeper into his muscle and mind. The frustrated rookie was gone, replaced by a student on the path.
His body was exhausted, but his spirit was awake — more awake than he had ever felt since stepping into The Crucible. As he continued the motion, sweat dripping from his jaw, his breath steady and controlled, he felt it:
A connection.
A rhythm.
A whisper of something deeper.
Not magic.
Not aura.
Not supernatural.
But the beginning of understanding.
Emma no longer felt like a tool.
She felt like a companion.
And for the first time since training began…
Russell felt like a swordsman.