— One Week Later —
The golden morning light softly streamed through the translucent paper of the shoji doors, bathing my room in a warm glow. I woke to the faint scent of freshly cooked rice and the distant sound of footsteps echoing through the mansion's corridors. My body was still sore from the previous day's training, especially my arms and legs, but it was a curiously satisfying ache the pain of someone who had taken the first step toward self-growth.
After getting up to go to the bathroom, brush my teeth, and get ready by putting on a simple blue kimono, I walked to the dining room. As always, my family was already gathered around the low table. My father, Ren Sakai, maintained his impeccable posture, silent and attentive. My mother greeted me with her gentle smile, and Sora, my older brother, merely nodded, as if assessing how much I would endure in that day's training. On the opposite side, Rui, my older sister, adjusted her kimono sleeve and looked at me with a mix of indulgence and curiosity. Rui always had a lighter demeanor than Sora.
"Already wide awake and eager," Rui said between mouthfuls, with a smile that sought to tease. "Going to the dojo again today?"
I smiled back, a little embarrassed.
"Yes. I want to train again."
Rui tilted her head, assessing me with the green eyes she inherited from our mother.
"Be careful not to exhaust yourself," she said. "Training is important, but rest is also training."
It had already been a week since I started training in the Dojo.
My father merely observed, with no comments. Perhaps he enjoyed hearing my older sister look after me more than he let on.
Breakfast was the usual: rice, miso soup, and grilled fish. I swallowed the portions with the etiquette taught since childhood, but my thoughts were already on what would come next: lessons with Professor Saito and, especially, the afternoon at the dojo.
Lessons with Professor Saito were always calm, and despite paying attention, I couldn't keep my mind away from the dojo. Mathematics, grammar, and geography passed by me like moving images as I tried to concentrate. Professor Saito, as always, ended the session with a slight smile and a warning.
"Review your exercises for tomorrow, Haruki." I nodded, picking up my notebooks, already in a hurry.
I ate lunch quickly, alone in my usual spot. The silence of that meal helped to organize my thoughts. After finishing, I went to change my kimono for light training clothes.
As I slid open the shoji door of the dojo, a warm and comforting air enveloped me. The wood smelled of slow recovery, the tatami seemed to breathe with the atmosphere, and the filtered light drew patterns on the floor. I calmly placed the shinai beside the small altar and began a slow warm-up: neck stretches, shoulder rotations, stretching arm and leg muscles. The warm-up pulled each sore muscle firmly but gently, preparing the body for work.
When I felt ready, I picked up the shinai (bamboo sword) and positioned my feet, assuming the Kamae stance (guard posture). The most basic stance, the backbone of kenjutsu. Feet aligned, right foot forward, left foot back, rear heel slightly raised, and the body ready for any impulse. I held the shinai firmly, but tried not to stiffen my shoulders. Breathing became, as always, the first instrument of control.
I stood motionless.
What once seemed like just standing still proved to be a profound challenge: every fiber of my body protested, my muscles begged for rest, and my mind launched intrusive thoughts to destabilize me. I kept my focus on the shadows of the tatami, on the small point of light piercing the room, on anything to avoid losing my posture. My breathing became rhythmic: inhale, hold the air in my lungs, and exhale. One second, two, three. My legs trembled, my arms strained, sweat began to bead on my forehead.
When I finally rested, I felt that the stance lasted longer than in previous training sessions. A small victory. I felt my body differently, less tense, a little firmer. I chuckled softly with satisfaction; progress came in small steps, the past week had been worth it.
However, I knew that the stance alone would not make me a warrior. A weak body would neither keep up with the sword nor withstand long battles. Thus, I devised a simple plan, adapted to my age and stamina, with daily repetitions that, cumulatively, would make a difference.
I started with light runs around the dojo. First step: controlled breathing. Second: maintain the rhythm without losing focus. I circled the tatami, my feet setting a pace that resonated with my breath. With each lap, my chest worked harder, my tongue dried out, but I continued: three laps, then five, and finally ten laps.
Next, push-ups. With each descent, the weight of my own body seemed like a greater challenge; performing a set of 10 push-ups was a personal hell. At first, my hands gave out quickly; I barely managed to complete two repetitions. But I converted this into a goal: to perform at least three repetitions throughout the day.
Squats came next. My thighs burned, the rhythm accelerated. I breathed between sets, adjusting my center of gravity. I didn't want haste; I wanted constancy and balance: standing on one leg, then the other, adjusting my core muscles. It was a simple, yet physically painful, dance to forge stability in the lower limbs of my body.
At the end, I sat on the tatami, panting and damp with sweat. I closed my eyes and tried, once again, to meditate, as I had done every day for the past week. I took a deep breath, listening to the echo of my own lungs, trying to concentrate my attention on my breathing, feeling the air pass through my nose, fill my chest, and slowly exit.
Meditation was a practice of patience. Each session was a brick laid in the foundation; a house was not built with a single day's work.
While I meditated, Hana had arrived and brought water, which she placed within my reach. The dusk colored the dojo in orange tones, and long shadows began to stretch across the tatami.
I stood up, picked up the shinai and held it for a moment, just to feel its familiar weight.
"Tomorrow," I told myself, "I will do a little more."
This was my personal mantra.
And so I left the dojo, my legs still shaky, my body sore, and my chest light. The road would be long, but the commitment was firm.
I stepped into the corridor; the afternoon breeze brought with it the scents of the garden. I thought of the future: the sword, the posture, meditation, and, one day, the Nen that, despite not being fully felt...
But one day, with hard work and patience, I would get there.