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talonkarrdeI watch the blade fall.
Though I try to follow its movements, it is like lightning. I will my hands to raise my own sword to block. I will my body to move, but I am as fast as mud, and the wooden sword strikes me in the shoulder, knocking me to the ground.
"Had it been real," the shifu says, "You would be cut in half. Again. Faster."
I grit my teeth and slowly make to climb back to my feet, knowing that tomorrow, my shoulders will be sore and purple. It's been three months of training, and this is the first day I am allowed to even hold a sword, though I am not given a chance to do anything but block. I look between my tormentor's legs, and see the other children, practicing flowing movements with each other, practicing with staves and halberds and-
"Again," the shifu says, his voice cold, as he lands a stinging blow with the flat of the sword against my head to hurry me along.
I am set apart from the other children, and they do not see me as a friend or as an equal, but instead an oddity or an outcast. Or worse-
I set my stance, and ready, and stare at the sword, waiting. It moves like a cobra, left to right, and then darts in, and I attempt to block right and jump left, and instead I do neither.
The sword hits me in the neck and I am sent to the ground again.
I hear laughter in the background, and I blink away the hot tears, lunging to my feet before the shifu starts to speak.
I think to myself of my parents. Of that fiery night and those red eyes, and of the cold nights on the streets after. I think of these ninety days of gruel and hard bread, of a shifu who never smiles or gives a kind word.
"You may leave," the shifu says, looking right through me.
I narrow my eyes at him, scowling, and ready my guard again. I will learn to defend myself.
I watch the blade fall, and I block it with what I judge to be a careful, calculated movement. The tip of the razor sharp blade brushes past me, but its point has been directed a centimeter away from my sleeve, and passes harmlessly into the air.
"No," my shifu says. "A waste of motion."
I stare at him, though I keep the scowl from my face. This is the hundredth strike that I have deflected, the thousandth since one has nicked my robe, the ten-thousandth stroke that I have studied. I am his best student and-
"No," my shifu says again. "You took energy to parry move that blade when you simply could have stepped aside."
Before I can protest, his sword is back up.
"A stronger opponent will wear you down," he says, and repeats his attack. I make to block again, but this time, I feel like I am pushing against the mountains themselves, and the tip of the blade finds my chest, where it slices a piece off my robe, but does not touch my skin.
"A faster opponent will not have been caught by your movement," he repeats. I make to block, already moving fast, and yet, his blade is already on my other side, and another piece of fabric flutters to the ground.
"A smarter opponent will feint," he finishes, and even seeing it coming - even knowing his action, I am completely powerless, my blade deflected carelessly and casually to the outside as he scores, yet again.
I bow, chastised, humbled. I am only glad that there is no one else here to see my embarrassment, that all the other students have gone on, having nothing more to learn. I still had so much more to learn.
"And yet," he says, after a pause. "It was better than before."
I blink at him, and then let the faintest smile pass my lips before I ready my guard again. I will become better, still.
I watch the blade fall, and I have already stepped aside. I thrust forward, and my sword passes cleanly through the demon's neck, where it has no armor. I anticipate the next one's inward sweep, and parry that as well, instinctually. I side-step, letting my blade circle, waiting for the perfect moment, and as I see the muscles in its forearm tense as it commits to the attack, I thrust as I roll, sending a blade into its abdomen.
The battle is a dance, and I hone my skills with each beat. Their army is larger than ours, but they did not train for this; each swordmaster we have is equal to a hundred of their men, armor or no. The ten of us from the school are enough to turn the tide of the battle, and the peasants and soldiers that stand behind us watch us as if we were gods, descended from on high.
In battle after battle, our school makes a difference. In some cases, it is through individual combat, but as time goes on, I start to see our sigil - a gold dragon - on the banners of the men we serve beside. We are more than swordmasters; to them, we are a shield against the enemy, an infallible force. We are hope.
I fight for my country, of course, and my brothers and sisters. But I fight so that others have the courage to stand and fight as well.
I watch the blade fall.
It is a curved blade, obsidian black, and I know it well. It took my shifu's life a fortnight ago, and I watched then as it struck him, carving him open from neck to navel, and we lost the battle and by all accounts, almost the war. Before that, it took many of the school. It is wielded by a monster from across the seas, and it comes for me now.
But I have studied for this moment for all my life, and I have waited for ten thousand sword strokes to step aside this one, to parry the next one, to thrust past the last one.
I do not escape unscathed, but I honor my shifu and I win the duel. It is my opponent that does not rise from the field of battle this time, my opponent whose armor does not protect him and whose technology is overcome.
I watch the blade fall.
I sigh at the clumsy attempt to block it, at the student's desire to block and jump at the same time.
"Had it been real," I say to my student, "You would be cut in half. Again. Faster."
Though I try to follow its movements, it is like lightning. I will my hands to raise my own sword to block. I will my body to move, but I am as fast as mud, and the wooden sword strikes me in the shoulder, knocking me to the ground.
"Had it been real," the shifu says, "You would be cut in half. Again. Faster."
I grit my teeth and slowly make to climb back to my feet, knowing that tomorrow, my shoulders will be sore and purple. It's been three months of training, and this is the first day I am allowed to even hold a sword, though I am not given a chance to do anything but block. I look between my tormentor's legs, and see the other children, practicing flowing movements with each other, practicing with staves and halberds and-
"Again," the shifu says, his voice cold, as he lands a stinging blow with the flat of the sword against my head to hurry me along.
I am set apart from the other children, and they do not see me as a friend or as an equal, but instead an oddity or an outcast. Or worse-
I set my stance, and ready, and stare at the sword, waiting. It moves like a cobra, left to right, and then darts in, and I attempt to block right and jump left, and instead I do neither.
The sword hits me in the neck and I am sent to the ground again.
I hear laughter in the background, and I blink away the hot tears, lunging to my feet before the shifu starts to speak.
I think to myself of my parents. Of that fiery night and those red eyes, and of the cold nights on the streets after. I think of these ninety days of gruel and hard bread, of a shifu who never smiles or gives a kind word.
"You may leave," the shifu says, looking right through me.
I narrow my eyes at him, scowling, and ready my guard again. I will learn to defend myself.
I watch the blade fall, and I block it with what I judge to be a careful, calculated movement. The tip of the razor sharp blade brushes past me, but its point has been directed a centimeter away from my sleeve, and passes harmlessly into the air.
"No," my shifu says. "A waste of motion."
I stare at him, though I keep the scowl from my face. This is the hundredth strike that I have deflected, the thousandth since one has nicked my robe, the ten-thousandth stroke that I have studied. I am his best student and-
"No," my shifu says again. "You took energy to parry move that blade when you simply could have stepped aside."
Before I can protest, his sword is back up.
"A stronger opponent will wear you down," he says, and repeats his attack. I make to block again, but this time, I feel like I am pushing against the mountains themselves, and the tip of the blade finds my chest, where it slices a piece off my robe, but does not touch my skin.
"A faster opponent will not have been caught by your movement," he repeats. I make to block, already moving fast, and yet, his blade is already on my other side, and another piece of fabric flutters to the ground.
"A smarter opponent will feint," he finishes, and even seeing it coming - even knowing his action, I am completely powerless, my blade deflected carelessly and casually to the outside as he scores, yet again.
I bow, chastised, humbled. I am only glad that there is no one else here to see my embarrassment, that all the other students have gone on, having nothing more to learn. I still had so much more to learn.
"And yet," he says, after a pause. "It was better than before."
I blink at him, and then let the faintest smile pass my lips before I ready my guard again. I will become better, still.
I watch the blade fall, and I have already stepped aside. I thrust forward, and my sword passes cleanly through the demon's neck, where it has no armor. I anticipate the next one's inward sweep, and parry that as well, instinctually. I side-step, letting my blade circle, waiting for the perfect moment, and as I see the muscles in its forearm tense as it commits to the attack, I thrust as I roll, sending a blade into its abdomen.
The battle is a dance, and I hone my skills with each beat. Their army is larger than ours, but they did not train for this; each swordmaster we have is equal to a hundred of their men, armor or no. The ten of us from the school are enough to turn the tide of the battle, and the peasants and soldiers that stand behind us watch us as if we were gods, descended from on high.
In battle after battle, our school makes a difference. In some cases, it is through individual combat, but as time goes on, I start to see our sigil - a gold dragon - on the banners of the men we serve beside. We are more than swordmasters; to them, we are a shield against the enemy, an infallible force. We are hope.
I fight for my country, of course, and my brothers and sisters. But I fight so that others have the courage to stand and fight as well.
I watch the blade fall.
It is a curved blade, obsidian black, and I know it well. It took my shifu's life a fortnight ago, and I watched then as it struck him, carving him open from neck to navel, and we lost the battle and by all accounts, almost the war. Before that, it took many of the school. It is wielded by a monster from across the seas, and it comes for me now.
But I have studied for this moment for all my life, and I have waited for ten thousand sword strokes to step aside this one, to parry the next one, to thrust past the last one.
I do not escape unscathed, but I honor my shifu and I win the duel. It is my opponent that does not rise from the field of battle this time, my opponent whose armor does not protect him and whose technology is overcome.
I watch the blade fall.
I sigh at the clumsy attempt to block it, at the student's desire to block and jump at the same time.
"Had it been real," I say to my student, "You would be cut in half. Again. Faster."
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Date: 2024-08-13 12:40 am (UTC)