Seen A Ghost

The setting sun painted the practice grounds in hues of amber and gold, its dying light casting long shadows across the worn earth. Marcus stood alone in this fading day, his sword moving through the air with methodical precision. There was nothing flashy about his movements – no elaborate footwork, no dramatic flourishes. Just a single, forward swing repeated with unwavering dedication.

His form was beyond mere perfection; it spoke of something deeper. Each swing carried the weight of countless repetitions, like a monk who had spent decades perfecting a single prayer. The blade cut through the air with such natural grace that it seemed an extension of his very being, the movement so pure it appeared almost meditative.