Lin Tian stood in his courtyard and looked at the sword in his hand, then he set it down on the table again. He closed his eyes for a moment and felt his breathing slow, then he felt the deep warmth behind his cultivation, the stored power that always waited, like it had patience.
He opened his eyes and muttered, "Not today."
No one answered, and that was fine.
He picked up the practice sword instead and stepped into the open space of his yard. His first swing was slow and clean, and his second swing matched it, and he kept moving with steady rhythm. He focused on the basics, and he focused on how his shoulders moved, and how his feet landed, and how his breath stayed even.
After a while, sweat dampened his collar.
He stopped, wiped his forehead with his sleeve, and spoke quietly as if someone could hear him. "If I rush, I will look unstable," he said. "If I act desperate, they will call it proof."
He shifted his stance and started again.
