The following day, the real training began.
The students lined up in the academy's inner courtyard, wooden swords clutched in their hands, unease clear on their faces.
This was not a test of pressure.
Not survival.
It was reconstruction.
A man stood before them—middle-aged, broad-shouldered, his features stern, his eyes carrying the confidence of someone who had lived his entire life with a sword.
He spoke clearly.
"Welcome, students.
I am Instructor Hao Shen."
"Some of you may already have your own styles.
Some of you may even consider yourselves warriors.
But here—everyone starts from zero."
His gaze swept across the rows.
"Your habits will be torn down.
Your instincts will be broken.
Only then does real training begin."
He slowly raised his wooden sword.
"Today, we begin with a basic sword style.
It is called The Silent Blade Steps."
He moved.
The first movement was simple—
the sword lifted in a straight line, then descended at a fixed angle, no force, no haste.
The second—
a rotation of the wrist, a horizontal cut, the body unmoving.
The third—
a step forward, a short thrust, an immediate withdrawal.
The fourth—
a twist of the torso, an upward slash.
The fifth—
a half-step back, full guard.
He stopped.
"These are the first five movements.
Practice."
The courtyard filled with the sound of wooden swords cutting through air—
hesitant movements, uneven rhythms, some confused, others overly confident.
But the instructor noticed something.
In the front row—
Jin and Xing Yuan.
They stood still.
Swords in hand, yet unmoving.
Their eyes were closed.
Their breathing calm.
The instructor approached, his footsteps heavy.
"What are you doing?"
Jin opened his eyes and replied calmly,
"Learning."
The instructor frowned.
"And the sword?"
Jin answered without hesitation,
"There is nothing else."
Anger flared in the instructor's eyes—
but he restrained himself.
"Show me what you saw."
He stepped back.
Jin moved first.
He raised his sword.
And the moment he moved—
hesitation vanished.
The first movement—
was not a copy.
It was refinement.
The blade descended along a cleaner line—faster, heavier.
No wasted motion. No empty space.
The second—
the rotation was smoother, yet the cut was fiercer,
as if the air itself had been split apart.
The third—
the thrust was no longer short.
It was decisive.
Step, pierce, withdraw—within a single breath.
The fourth and fifth merged—
the body moved as one,
no separation between foot and blade.
Then—
He didn't stop.
He flowed into the sixth movement…
then the seventh…
then the tenth…
Movements that had never been explained.
Never shown.
And yet—
they were correct.
Then, without pause,
he completed all fifteen movements—
No.
He didn't perform them.
He danced them.
The entire style flowed like water,
the sword carving sharp arcs,
the body sliding, cutting, guarding, striking—
in terrifying harmony.
When he finished—
the blade stood still.
Silence fell upon the courtyard.
A sword style refined over decades,
polished by elders and masters.
And a boy—
who saw it once,
didn't even see it in full—
yet grasped its essence,
and sharpened it further.
The instructor couldn't speak.
The sight before him defied reason.
Slowly, his gaze turned to Xing Yuan.
Xing Yuan stepped forward.
He raised his sword.
The first movement was slow—
heavy.
The second—
sharper.
The third—
violence surged within it,
as if the sword were no longer made of wood.
The fourth—
roared.
Even the air seemed to groan.
Each movement added pressure.
Each transition grew more brutal.
There was no beauty.
No elegance.
Only intent.
By the fifteenth movement—
the style was no longer basic.
It transformed.
Into a formless demonic art—
no clear lines,
no merciful rules.
Strikes fell like a storm,
withdrawals like ambushes,
brief pauses like breaths before death.
Disturbing violence.
Quiet—yet lethal.
When he stopped—
The silence was heavier than before.
The instructor opened his mouth…
then closed it.
What… am I witnessing?
Finally, he spoke, his voice hoarse.
"You may rest."
Then he turned to the others.
"The rest of you—
continue training."
And he left.
Leaving behind a courtyard
that would never forget
what it had seen.