Beginner

"Jino, again."

"...Yes!"

I was already exhausted.

Under the midday sun, even though there was still snow on the ground in the Holy Land of the Sword, my body felt like it was overheating, with sweat pouring down my small frame.

I definitely had some misgivings about a three-year-old like me being given such rigorous training, but it wasn't that I disliked what was happening.

After all, I had been looking forward to this for a long time.

And as I swung the small wooden sword in my hand up and down, with my father standing to the side with his arms crossed over his chest, I noticed out of the corner of my eye that there was a smile on his face.

Or at least, it was his version of a smile. My father was a little harder to read, and definitely not the most expressive person, but he clearly expressed approval. I could tell because, instead of a frown, his mouth was rather flat. It was his version of a smile, usually. But I didn't pay much attention to it, concentrating entirely on my own movements.

It was the first time I'd ever done anything like that. I had high expectations of using a sword, especially after so many years, but for some reason, it didn't disappoint.

Just thinking about the movements of my arms and trying to keep my grip firm on the wooden pommel as the small blade in my hands bobbed up and down in the air, I felt an indescribable thrill well up within me.

There was something about the simplicity of those actions, the tranquility of my strokes, that made me happy.

Especially with my father nearby, also enjoying the moment.

He didn't seem to mind my inefficiencies, which made a certain amount of sense.

After all, to him, I was just a small child trying it for the first time; not just any child, but his own son practicing the activity to which he had dedicated his life.

He should have felt a certain pride, although that only increased the slight pressure I felt to do it well.

After watching the adults train, practice, and duel for those long and sleepy years, I had at least a slight idea of when someone's posture was correct and when it wasn't. Unsurprisingly, it was obvious that I was doing many things wrong; that knowledge, and the fact that he was watching me, contributed to fueling the slight embarrassment I felt about my careless movements.

But I easily ignored it.

By doing something so fun, something so simple and pleasant as wielding a sword, I could avoid any of those negative emotions that would normally threaten to overwhelm my thoughts.

Simply by holding that small training sword for the first time, and honestly understanding how much work that action required, understanding how great the distance was between me and even the low-ranking members of that community, I felt my respect for that man beside me grow enormously.

I felt that my respect for all the people I had observed for so long was also increasing.

My affection for my mother, who even after having me continued to practice diligently with the sword, but beyond her, my thoughts turned to the God of the Sword.

As I balanced myself, my mind was occupied by the image of that man, the image of that day when I was six months old, still etched in my memory with the utmost clarity, even after more than two and a half years.

I felt that an admiration for that man, like nothing I had ever experienced before, was beginning to illuminate my chest.

I gripped the sword tightly, fingers clenched, legs apart and planted on the ground, slightly unsteady under the uneven weight of my young body.

Everything felt clumsy, but I tried to adopt the correct posture as best I could.

I struck again and again; those wandering thoughts about those acquaintances faded as all my attention shifted to the small sword in my hand.

That simple repetition, holding it above my head, swinging it down, breathing deeply, constantly paying attention to my feet and hands, repeating the whole movement a second and a third time...

I lost count of my repetitions almost immediately, and the world around me faded unconsciously.

I entered a state where I reflected deeply on each movement and corrected any mistakes I saw afterward.

If I could make a small improvement each time I swung and slightly improved something, over time, I would achieve something good: I would reach a movement with which I would be satisfied.

Thinking about that moment, that moment in which I could let my thoughts and worries fade away to completely focus on the image in front of me...it didn't seem like training at all, it was more like a form of meditation...simply a way to relax and relieve the stress in my chest.

So I continued, again and again, as I swung. That repetitive movement would blank my mind as I felt the good and bad in my body.

I lost track of the world around me; time passed at an impossible rate to know.

It was easy to do, almost too easy. It was dangerous to let go of the whole world at once.

But I continued without hesitation.

Everything could fade, everything could disappear, my eyelids could droop and my fingers could lose strength, and I could still sink deeply into the fading that rose at the edges of my mind.

It was an indescribable feeling

What I was doing at that moment was a form of meditation, undoubtedly also a form of training, but it was something far beyond all that, beyond anything physical.

There was a quality to those actions that could only be described as nebulous, ethereal.

I felt as if I were reaching for something very high, above my head, and barely grazing something that was far beyond my childish and simplistic understanding.

I could almost call it sacred.

But when I felt a hand slowly hitting my shoulder, I immediately left that state, the state of fluidity into which I had somehow fallen, separated from the totality of the world.

Suddenly my father appeared there, standing over me, while the light of the sky faded and fell upon the snow that surrounded us.

His face held some kind of strange and indescribable emotion.

"...Good work, Jino. That's enough for today" he said

At that moment I realized I had dropped the sword to the ground.

At some point in the process, my hands gave up.

I was too exhausted to hold the blade, even as I repeated the movements without thinking.

"..."

I tried to speak, but before I could utter a word, my knees hit the ground and my eyes darkened even more.

Before I lost consciousness, I felt a gentle pressure holding my body as I fell.

My mind rose from turbulent and hazy depths, and finally pierced the surface of my consciousness and reached the light again.

The first thing I heard were two calm yet arguing voices in their tone.

"His first day! Are you crazy? He's only three years old!"

"You should have seen it. It would have been a sin to break that incredible concentration, and that's right! He's only three years old, imagine what it will be like in ten years!"

It was my parents arguing, my father had his arms crossed responding with an almost sarcastic tone while my mother stared at him.

"That's not the point!" My mother screamed "You stood there with your arms crossed and let him train until he lost consciousness. He's your son, you idiot! We don't have anyone who knows how to use healing magic, do you know that?"

"Calina!...don't call me stupid again" My father raised his voice and my mother relaxed her posture.

"You more than anyone, you should understand that this is a good thing. Having such incredible concentration at his age is a true blessing. I'm sure he'll grow up to be someone special..." My father continued

I sat up in the small bed where they'd put me while I was sleeping and faced my parents, who were standing in the room.

Even though I heard their arguments, I didn't care at all. In fact, there was only one thing on my mind at that moment, something I couldn't stop thinking about.

I spoke first, my voice still weak and trembling from exhaustion.

"I'm awake..."

They walked towards me; my mother rushed to the side of my bed, while my father stayed back.

But when they were about to speak, I interrupted them first.

Although I'd like to attribute my next statement to the resilient nature of a child's body, it was honestly because it was the only thing I could think about.

"When can we do it again?"

Unfortunately, I was too tired after that session to get up and start again the next morning, and my mother would have made a fuss anyway.

However, after a few more days, I was able to get up and continue training under my father's supervision, with some guidelines established, such as the allowed training time.

It was, without a doubt, the most enjoyable thing I've ever done in my two lives.

Every time I swung that small training sword, feeling its impact in the cold air, I felt myself improving.

It was something small: maybe a slight correction in my posture, a change in my grip, or even a change in the rhythm of my breathing.

My father made occasional corrections, but generally, after showing me the correct form of my swing, he would stay by my side, watching me until he was satisfied. After a few minutes of simply repeating the movements, we would move on to a new type of attack.

After about a week, with the training simply introducing me to the fundamentals of the sword god style and starting the physical training, which included basic jogging, stretching, and agile movements of the arms and legs, my father began to distance himself from the routine.

Although he seemed happy to train me, he was still a Sword Emperor, after all. He couldn't neglect his own work at the central dojo, under the tutelage of the Sword God.

From that point on, my mother took over, supervising me and correcting any mistakes I made in my form, although she didn't teach me anything new. It seemed that my father was my main instructor for the time being, and my mother only filled in when he wasn't available.

However, after another two months of this basic introduction to training and some training sessions with my father, both of us using practice swords and me simply attacking repeatedly, my parents told me that I was good enough to join the other children my age at the beginner's dojo on the edge of the community to train for the intermediate rank of the sword style.

Although it meant being with noisy children all day, I accepted without a problem. After all, the decision showed that I was at least improving a little: I had reached the beginner level. I was good enough to move on to real training.

It was... less fun than I expected.

The kids at that beginner's dojo weren't as young as I expected; each one was at least three or four years older than me, and each one had a physical strength that I couldn't match.

We trained with older instructors, some of them with a very advanced mastery of the sword style, and they all seemed to look down on me for being the youngest.

Although it made some sense, looking at the situation from that perspective, after all, what kind of child, no matter how intelligent, should be in a sword dojo at such a young age?

And there I was, training and working alongside other students who were twice my age or even much older than me.

But it still bothered me terribly...