Two months had passed since the day I first set foot in the dojo with the shinai (bamboo sword) in my hands. Sixty days. Sixty mornings beginning with the aroma of freshly cooked rice, sixty afternoons of sweat dripping down my face, sixty nights sleeping with an aching body, but with a surprisingly calm and determined mind.
Two months, and yet, I felt as though I was only just beginning.
The soft morning light gently streamed into my room through the translucent paper of the shoji doors. The golden glow mingled with the fresh scent of the wind coming from the garden, bringing with it the smell of damp leaves and the plum blossoms that were beginning to bud. It was one of those dawns that seemed to invite silence.
I sat up slowly, feeling the weight of the rigid muscles from the intense routine of the past few days. The pain was still there as always in my shoulders, forearms, and calves but it was no longer an agonizing pain: it was almost comfortable, familiar, as if it were saying: "You are making progress."
I got up, carefully arranged the futon, went to the bathroom, brushed my teeth, and washed my face. The cold water fully woke me up. I chose a simple but sturdy dark gray kimono, tied the sash at my waist, and headed out into the silent corridor.
Upon arriving at the dining room, I found my family already gathered around the low table. The scene was always similar, but today it seemed to have a more solemn air, I think.
My father, Ren Sakai, was in his usual position, his posture erect, his expression unwavering. He always seemed more sculpted than alive, as if every feature had been molded by discipline. My mother smiled when I entered, that gentle smile that always managed to alleviate some of the weight I carried.
Sora, my older brother, gave me a brief, calculated look before returning to his grilled fish. He had been observing my movements more closely for a few weeks, perhaps trying to gauge how much I was changing.
On the opposite side, Rui adjusted her hair behind her ear while taking a sip of tea. Her green eyes sparkled for an instant when she saw me.
"Good morning, Haruki," she said, with a calm energy. "You're waking up early every day… that's new."
I smiled shyly.
"Training demands it," I replied.
She arched an eyebrow, amused.
"Just don't let the training demand your whole body, or we'll have to drag you back to your room one of these days."
Before I could reply, my father set his hashis down on the table with delicacy, yet with enough firmness that everyone understood he was about to speak.
"Discipline only has value when accompanied by lucidity," he said, without looking directly at anyone. "Exaggeration is the downfall of the impatient."
I felt my cheeks warm; it wasn't exactly a direct criticism, but it wasn't a compliment either.
Sora smiled faintly, amused. Rui gave me a look that said, "don't mind him, he's just like that." My mother simply placed more rice on my plate without saying anything.
After finishing breakfast, I got up, bowed to my parents, and left for my lessons with Professor Saito. The hours passed as Always Mathematics, History, Kanji but my mind was focused on something else. The dojo was calling me. Training was waiting for me.
The midday sun illuminated the tatami when I slid open the dojo door.
The air inside was always different: silent, dense, almost sacred. The smell of wood warmed by the sun mingled with the scent of tea that someone had prepared hours earlier. The tatami bore subtle marks from my daily training; it was as if the floor itself already recognized my steps.
I bowed at the entrance and began the daily ritual: warm-up.
I stretched my neck, shoulders, back, and the muscles in my legs and arms. The strained fibers gradually yielded, like detuned strings being forced into harmony.
And then, I picked up the shinai.
It felt lighter than it had two months ago, or perhaps my arms were stronger.
I assumed the Kamae stance (guard posture).
Right foot forward, left foot back, heel raised, center firm, hands aligned, breathing at the correct pace.
And I stood there, for minutes. Maybe much longer.
There was no immediate tremor, no quick collapse. I had evolved.
When I felt I could advance, I performed the first strikes. Upward cut, downward cut, diagonal. Hip movement, torso rotation. Repetition. Repetition. Repetition.
The air was sliced around me, creating that soft whistle of wood cutting through the wind.
Until I heard the dojo door slide open behind me.
That silence... that presence...
I knew even before turning around.
It was him, my father. Ren Sakai.
He walked onto the tatami without haste, without sound, with the posture of someone who carries a hundred years of tradition on his back.
"Continue," he said simply, crossing his arms.
My heart accelerated.
I executed one strike and then another. And another.
My breathing was heavy, but not chaotic.
Sweat poured down, but I maintained the rhythm.
"Stop," he said, finally.
I lowered the shinai and turned toward him, still panting.
My father walked toward me in silence. His eyes weren't just looking at my posture they analyzed my entire being.
"Two months," he said. "And you are still here."
I nodded, swallowing my saliva.
"Yes, Father."
"Most children would have given up," he continued. "Or would be playing at training. But you… you are truly training."
My chest warmed inside, but I didn't let it show, since my father disliked exaggerated displays.
"Show me your stance," he ordered.
I immediately assumed Kamae.
He circled around me like a silent wolf.
"Your balance is better," he murmured. "Your body axis, too. Your feet… still a little too wide. Your shoulders… tense. Your breathing… stable, but not deep enough. And your arms… have finally learned to support the weight without collapsing."
And then he stood before me and said:
"Now attack me."
My body froze.
"A-attack you?" I asked, my voice failing.
"I asked you to attack," he repeated, without altering his tone.
I swallowed hard.
I took a step forward, raised the shinai, and brought it down with controlled force.
Clang.
My father blocked it easily. He had a shinai hidden beside the wall. He wielded it at the last instant.
He stood still before me, waiting.
And then he said, for the first time in many years:
"Get up… Haruki."
A shiver ran through my body.
My name coming from his voice felt like a rare blessing.
I stood up. Even trembling. Even exhausted.
Even barely able to breathe.
Because this was what it meant to be a Sakai.
My father looked me in the eyes and concluded:
"You are ready to train with me every day. But remember, I will not teach someone who cannot get back on their feet alone."
And then he turned to leave.
When he reached the door, he spoke without looking back:
"Tomorrow... at the same time."
I stood there, still, gripping the shinai with trembling hands.
It hurt a lot. But for the first time in a long time, the weight of that pain was accompanied by something greater: Acknowledgment.
And as the sun set, painting the dojo with golden and red colors, I whispered to myself:
"Tomorrow... I will do a little more."
My mantra, my promise.
My path.