novelraw Chapter 107 : The Flow and the Breath
Chapter 107 : The Flow and the Breath
(Rooga POV)
The morning started like any other—mist clinging low over the field, the smell of wet earth, and Kain’s voice cutting through the stillness.
“Feet apart. Grip firm. If you drop that blade again, I’ll make you run laps until you dig a trench.”
I grinned, adjusting my stance. The wooden sword felt lighter in my hands now, its weight familiar.
Ever since Kain started teaching me, each swing felt less like work and more like rhythm—like a song I was learning one note at a time.
“Good,” he said. “Now breathe. You don’t hit with your arms, you flow with your lungs. The air carries the cut.”
I exhaled, moved with the rhythm, and the blade whispered through the morning air.
Kain’s smile twitched. “See? The sword doesn’t resist you anymore.”
Before I could answer, a voice called from the fence.
“Hey! Are you training already?”
It was Crome, a little out of breath, his hair sticking up like he’d run all the way from the village.
Kain turned his head slightly. “If you’re here to watch, you’d better not stand too close. The kid swings wild.”
Crome hopped down from the fence, grinning. “Then I’ll stand back here.”
I laughed. “You came early.”
He shrugged. “Calen said you train every morning. I wanted to see what kind of monster you’ve become.”
Kain smirked. “Brave words for someone who hasn’t picked up a stick yet.”
Crome blinked. “Wait, me?”
“Unless you came to gossip.” Kain tossed him a spare wooden sword. “Go on, show me your stance.”
Crome caught it awkwardly, nearly dropped it, then scrambled to hold it upright. “Like this?”
Kain stared for a moment. “…We have work to do.”
For the next few minutes, Crome tried to mimic everything Kain said—feet, grip, posture—but it looked more like he was wrestling the sword than swinging it.
“Relax your shoulders,” Kain said. “And breathe with the cut. Don’t think about striking—think about moving with the air.”
Crome blinked at him. “Breathe with the… what?”
“The flow. Inhale before the motion, exhale through the swing. Let the wind and your body align.”
Crome frowned, looking between us. “I don’t get it.”
Kain tilted his head. “What’s there not to get?”
“I’m breathing, but the sword isn’t doing anything.”
Kain rubbed his temple. “Oh, right… I forgot you’re five.”
Crome stared at him. “But he’s five too!” He pointed straight at me.
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Kain grinned. “Yes, but he’s different.”
Crome frowned deeper. “How’s that fair?”
Kain shrugged. “It isn’t. Life rarely is. Swing again.”
I watched quietly as Crome tried again, huffing with each motion, his stance still uneven but full of stubborn energy.
Kain didn’t correct him harshly this time—just stepped beside him, guided his hands, and said, “Feel the weight. The flow will come when you stop forcing it.”
Crome nodded, breathing heavier now. “Like this?”
Kain smiled faintly. “Better. See? Even the stubborn ones learn eventually.”
I chuckled under my breath.
When Crome’s last swing finally cut clean through the air without wobbling, Kain folded his arms. “Good. That’s enough for today. You’ll thank me when your arms stop feeling like wet noodles.”
Crome dropped the sword with a groan. “They already feel like that.”
Kain laughed, and for once, so did I.
As we sat under the shade of the old tree, catching our breath, Crome glanced at me. “He’s tough, huh?”
“Yeah,” I said. “But he means well.”
Crome smiled faintly. “I can tell. Still… I’ll never understand what he means by flow.”
Kain, who’d been leaning nearby with his arms crossed, spoke without looking at us. “You will—when your sword stops feeling like something you hold, and starts feeling like something that listens.”
Crome frowned. “That doesn’t make sense.”
Kain chuckled. “It’s not supposed to. Yet.”
He looked at me next, his grin softening. “And you—stop smiling like you’ve got it all figured out. You’re only a step ahead, not at the top.”
I nodded quietly.
And for the rest of the morning, the three of us stayed there — swinging, breathing, laughing — until the sun rose high and the shadows faded.
The sun had already started to dip when I wandered back toward the training field.
The air smelled of dust and sweat, and the steady sound of thwack… thwack… thwack echoed through the clearing.
Father was there again, as he always was — swinging his sword in perfect rhythm.
No wasted motion. No hesitation.
Just the steady rise and fall of a blade that had never known rest.
I’d lost count of how many times he’d swung, but it had to be in the thousands by now.
Every movement looked the same, yet each one carried something heavy — not practice, but remembrance.
Then I noticed Kain watching from the fence, arms crossed and grin forming slowly.
He muttered to himself, “Still at it, huh?”
Then, without another word, he picked up a practice sword and joined in.
The sound doubled — Darius’s calm, heavy rhythm, and Kain’s faster, rougher pace beside him.
Two old warriors moving in sync, their shadows stretching long in the evening light.
Crome and I stood a few paces away.
At first, I thought he’d watch for a while, maybe copy a few swings before losing interest.
But when I glanced over, he was already holding his practice sword.
He inhaled, stepped forward, and started swinging.
At first, he struggled — every swing uneven, his shoulders jerking, his breath quick.
But he didn’t stop.
I counted silently, expecting him to drop after a hundred.
Then two hundred.
By three hundred, his arms were shaking, sweat dripping down his face.
Still, he kept going.
Each swing slower now, heavier, but clean.
The sound of the wooden blade cutting air fell into rhythm with Father and Kain’s — three different tempos, one sound.
By the time he reached a thousand, he could barely breathe.
But his face…
It wasn’t the face of someone in pain.
It was the face of someone determined.
When he finally stopped, panting, I handed him a waterskin.
He drank half of it before he even looked up.
“Why’d you keep swinging that long?” I asked. “It’s not like you’ll learn a skill from it.”
Crome leaned on his sword, breathing hard. “How do you know I didn’t?”
I blinked. “The HUD didn’t—” I stopped myself. “Never mind.”
He smiled faintly. “I don’t swing because I want to learn a trick or a skill. When I see Mr. Darius out here every day, never stopping… it makes me think maybe, if I keep swinging too, I can be like him someday.”
He looked up, eyes shining in the fading light. “And one day, I’ll swing until he’s the one who gets tired first.”
For a second, the field went quiet — even Kain stopped mid-swing to look at him.
Father’s blade lowered slightly. He turned, his expression unreadable but softer than usual.
“I hope that day will come,” he said. Then, glancing at me, added quietly, “At least someone here still carries the spirit of the sword.”
I didn’t argue.
I just watched Crome straighten his back again and start another round of swings, slower but steadier, his breath falling into rhythm with the wind.
Kain chuckled under his breath, shaking his head. “He’s got your stubbornness, Darius.”
Father smirked faintly. “Then maybe the world isn’t hopeless after all.”
And as the sun sank behind the hills, the three of them kept swinging — steel, wood, and will moving as one.