A Little Timeskip
The morning sun poured through the lace curtains, illuminating the modest kitchen with a warm golden glow. It was a quiet morning, as most were these days. But the silence didn't bring her peace; instead, it made her chest ache.
Ray had gone out again. For the past two weeks, her grandson had been... different.
She couldn't quite place it. He was still the same boy, but something about his demeanor had changed.
Her gaze fell on the wall, where a small collection of photographs hung. Her fingers brushed against one frame—a picture of Ray's parents, Emma and George, on their wedding day.
They looked so young and happy. Emma's bright smile seemed to light up the photo, while George's arm wrapped protectively around her shoulders, his expression one of quiet pride.
Her eyes lingered on another photo: a candid shot of Emma holding a baby Ray in her arms, her face glowing with joy. George stood behind them, his hand resting gently on her shoulder, his expression softer than she'd ever seen in life.
It had been twelve years since the accident. Twelve years since a drunk truck driver had taken Emma and George away from her.
Her throat tightened. She had begged them not to go that night, her heart had warned her something was wrong. But George, ever the careful driver, had reassured her with a smile.
She could still remember the phone call, the numbness in her legs as she collapsed to the floor, and the way Ray had clung to her, too young to understand the gravity of what had happened.
Ray had always been a resilient boy, but losing his parents had left a mark on him. He rarely talked about them, but she knew he carried their memory with him. And now, as she stared at their pictures, she couldn't help but wonder what they would think if they could see him now—so grown-up, yet still just a child in her eyes.
For the past two weeks, Ray had thrown himself into training with an intensity that frightened her. He would leave the house before dawn, returning hours later drenched in sweat and with an almost haunted look in his eyes.
And when he wasn't out, he was helping her more than usual—doing chores without being asked, folding laundry with meticulous care, and even cooking simple meals.
Her eyes shifted to the window, where Ray's figure moved with a strange, almost unnatural intensity. He was training again, as he had been for the past two weeks. She'd watched him every day, trying to make sense of his behavior.
"Grandma, you shouldn't strain yourself," he'd said the other day, taking the laundry basket from her hands. "Just sit down and relax."
She glanced at the pile of folded laundry he had done last night, his hands meticulously smoothing every crease.
For a brief moment, she had wondered if he might be possessed by a ghost. She dismissed the thought just as quickly. Her boy didn't act maliciously, and there was no darkness in his eyes. If anything, his love for her hadn't changed; it only felt stronger.
But his sudden change? That wasn't natural. Ray was now more calm, collected, and far too focused for his age.
And then there was his training.
Ray was running himself into the ground. She had seen him push himself relentlessly: jogging before dawn, coming home only to practice strange stances with a wooden stick, and muttering words she couldn't understand. "First stance... Too slow... Adjust the angle."
The stick looked foreign in his hands. She didn't know where he'd learned those movements, but they didn't seem like something a child would know.
It wasn't like the casual swordplay she had seen in the movies. His swings were precise and calculated, and his focus was unnerving. Refined, but also awkward at times, like he was trying to force his body to do something unnatural.
Ray had always been a Nike Tyson fan, so she could somewhat understand his workout, but what is that stick play? Swordsmanship? Sigh, only he knows what is going through his head...
And then there was her health.
-COUGH! COUGH!
She coughed lightly, her hand went to her chest as a dull ache spread through her heart. She didn't have much time left, and she knew it, even if she hadn't told Ray.
Perhaps that was why she hadn't reprimanded him for quitting school. After she was gone, there would be no one else to make decisions for him. He would need to take care of himself on his own.
But she couldn't help but worry. The world wasn't kind, especially not to boys like Ray—alone and vulnerable. And the way he was pushing himself...
He was about to become an adult in a few years, so she believed he could somewhat make his own decisions on his own, but still, she prayed he wasn't training like this for something dangerous, like the illegal fighting rings she'd read about in the newspapers.
She closed her eyes, trying to push the thoughts away. All she could do was trust him. Trust that he could take care of himself after she was gone...
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***
The wooden stick felt heavy in his hands as Ray stood in the backyard, sweat dripping down his face. His arms burned, his legs ached, and his lungs begged for rest, but he ignored the pain.
"Again," he muttered to himself, raising the stick.
He swung it in a wide arc, the motion smooth but imperfect. His grip wavered slightly, and he adjusted it, frustrated with his lack of precision.
The past two weeks had been grueling. His body, small and weak, was a far cry from what it had been in his past life. Every swing, every step, every movement was a reminder of how far he had to go.
He paused, closing his eyes. His mind drifted to the memories of his previous life, to the first time he'd seen someone wield a katana with true mastery.
Her name was Mikazuki, an A-ranked hunter known for her unparalleled speed and precision. He could still see her in his mind's eye, her katana slicing through the air like a streak of lightning.
"Speed is strength," she had told him once, her voice calm and confident. "The faster you are, the less your enemy can do. A fight should end before it even begins."
He had already created his Sword Art at that time, but those words still impressed him. Before his regression, his style had been brute force, muscle compression, and relying on raw strength and heavy strikes. But Mikazuki's philosophy now opened his eyes to a new way of fighting, one that valued efficiency over power.
But now, he was starting from scratch.
-WHOSSHH!!...
It happened again.
He was going back to his old habits carved into his soul. His one-handed sword art is now interfering with his new Katana art. The katana demanded a completely new approach, and it frustrated him.
A one-handed sword was straightforward. Its weight and balance allowed for controlled, and powerful strikes. But the katana? It required fluidity and an entirely different posture. Every time he moved, his body resisted, the memory of his old techniques clashing with the demands of the new weapon.
"Damn it," he muttered, resetting his stance. His hands burned from gripping the stick too tightly, his muscles screamed from the awkward movements, and his legs ached from hours of footwork drills.
He practiced relentlessly, slashing and stepping, over and over. Adjusting his footwork. Changing his grip. Refining his angles. Sweat poured down his face, soaking his clothes. The frustration in his heart only fueled him further.
His body wasn't built for the katana yet. His muscles lacked the strength and flexibility, his movements lacked the fluidity, his instincts lacked adaptation, and his balance was all wrong.
He took a deep breath, adjusting his stance.
"Relax," he told himself. "Flow, don't force."
'Empty your mind... Be water...'
(A/N - ...I know...)
He swung the stick again, this time focusing on the movement of his entire body. His feet shifted slightly, his hips rotated, and the stick cut through the air with a satisfying whoosh.
Better, but not good enough.
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***
*Two weeks later*
Just like before, mornings began with intense physical conditioning—push-ups, sit-ups, squats, and sprints. His body protested every step of the way, but he pushed through the pain, knowing that he had to rebuild his foundation.
His muscles were beginning to adapt. The soreness didn't go away, but it became manageable, a dull ache instead of a sharp pain.
In the afternoons, he focused on his swordsmanship. He started with basic drills, swinging the stick in repetitive arcs to build muscle memory. Once he felt comfortable with the motions, he moved on to footwork, practicing quick dashes and pivots to improve his agility.
He remembered how Mikazuki had moved, her steps light and precise, as though she were gliding across the battlefield. He tried to emulate her, but his movements felt clumsy in comparison.
"Faster," he whispered to himself. "You have to be faster."
He began combining his footwork with his strikes, trying to create a seamless flow between offense and movement. It was far from perfect, but he could feel himself improving, little by little.
Each evening, he collapsed into bed, his body too exhausted to move. But even in his dreams, he saw himself training, his mind replaying the motions over and over again.
His strikes became more fluid, his footwork more confident.
Still, it wasn't enough.
He remembered Tianhu, and the helplessness he'd felt during that final battle. No matter how strong he'd been, it hadn't been enough.
But that red bastard... He didn't even see the attack he used, or if there was even an attack...
"Tch, Faster," he whispered to himself, his grip tightening on the stick.
He swung again, his movements growing sharper, more controlled. He could feel the foundation of his new Katana-based sword art taking shape, the techniques he had spent years perfecting slowly returning to him and combining with his new Swordsmanship.
And just like that, one month has passed...
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(image)
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