TRAINING

At the start of his second year at the academy, Mohit's mindset changed. The carefree days of his first year were behind him. Now, he was focused.

Each morning, he rose at 4 a.m., long before the sun appeared. While the academy still slept, he made his way to an old, abandoned training ground far from the noise. It was there, surrounded by silence and morning mist, that he pushed himself harder than ever before.

He began with the techniques taught in the first year. But something felt off.

Too flashy… too much wasted motion, he thought.

Mohit realized that this sword style didn't suit him. It was elegant, yes — but not efficient. So he began crafting his own style, one based on precision and economy of movement. Every swing had a purpose. Every strike aimed at a vital point. After two hours of solo training, sweat dripping and breath steady, he returned just in time to start the new term.

When Mohit and Arthur arrived, they noticed a change. Their homeroom teacher had been replaced by an elderly man with sharp eyes and a battle-worn face — Sakazuki.

"That's our new sword instructor?" Arthur asked.

Mohit nodded, intrigued.

Sakazuki's fighting style, as they would come to see, was almost a mirror of Mohit's. He moved with minimal effort, yet every strike was precise and lethal. For Mohit, it felt like fate.

Later that day, the academy held the first sparring session of the second year. The students gathered around the combat arena, buzzing with energy.

Mohit was paired against Shinji, while Arthur faced a well-known powerhouse, Love.

---

Match 1: Arthur vs. Love

Arthur stepped into the ring with a relaxed posture. But the moment the fight began, he exploded with instinctive aggression. His strikes weren't refined, but they were brutal — heavy, fast, and relentless.

Love, usually a dominant fighter, struggled under Arthur's assault. He barely had time to counter, constantly pushed back by sheer pressure.

The match ended in four minutes. A new record.

---

Match 2: Mohit vs. Shinji

Next up was Mohit versus Shinji.

Shinji entered the arena yawning and twirling his sword lazily. His eyes half-lidded, he smirked at Mohit.

"Take it easy on me, alright?" he joked in his usual lazy tone.

Mohit laughed but didn't drop his guard. Shinji might look laid-back, but he's ranked third in swordsmanship for a reason.

As the match began, Shinji immediately went into his tricky footwork — feints, shoulder fakes, sudden angle changes. His goal was simple: confuse and frustrate his opponent.

But Mohit didn't fall for it.

He kept his stance low and steady, responding with minimal movement. His strikes were sharp, surgical, and untelegraphed. He aimed for Shinji's wrists, his collarbone, and his inner thigh — forcing him to react rather than act.

Shinji parried and dodged, adapting quickly. He wasn't an amateur. But as the seconds passed, his usual smug grin began to fade.

Mohit noticed it.

He grinned and taunted, "What happened to that smirk, Shinji?"

For the first time in the match, Shinji's expression changed. His playful mask slipped away, revealing something else — focus.

He stepped back, took a deep breath, and narrowed his eyes. "You've been busy," he muttered. "Your movements… they're tight. Controlled. No waste."

Mohit raised an eyebrow but didn't speak.

Shinji smirked again, this time not out of arrogance, but respect. "You're not flashy, but you cut deep. That sword style… it's dangerous."

They clashed again — wood against wood, spark against spark.

And for the first time in a long while, Shinji looked like he was enjoying himself.

Shinji's Shift

As the spar between Mohit and Shinji intensified, a quiet tension settled over the watching students. The two fighters circled each other, their wooden blades poised.

Shinji's usual smirk had faded.

When did Mohit get this good? he thought, eyes scanning his opponent. Back in our first year, he was above average — but not like this. Now his attacks are precise, calculated… just like Sakazuki-sensei.

He narrowed his eyes, adjusting his stance.

If I want to overwhelm him, I'll need to step it up.

Shinji suddenly increased his speed, launching a series of rapid movements filled with cleverly placed feints. He darted left, then spun right — his blade dancing with intent. One of his tricks managed to disrupt Mohit's rhythm. The moment Mohit shifted his guard to defend a fake strike, Shinji aimed a thrust toward his right shoulder.

The blade missed by an inch.

Mohit had side-stepped perfectly, his footwork light and instinctive.

"Well, aren't you good with your footwork now," Shinji muttered under his breath, a flicker of both frustration and respect in his voice. "Let's see how you handle this."

He launched into a flurry of feints, striking from every angle. His goal was to keep Mohit constantly guessing, never giving him a clear window to retaliate. Each swing was followed by a fake, each step designed to bait a reaction.

But Mohit blocked every real strike — or simply let the fakes pass without moving at all.

Then, without warning, Mohit turned the tables.

He used a feint of his own — a deceptively smooth shoulder fake paired with a flick of his wrist that mimicked an upward slash. Shinji read it as a real attack and moved to intercept.

Too late.

Mohit slipped beneath his guard and drove the wooden blade into Shinji's midsection with a controlled, precise thrust.

Thud.

The impact knocked the breath from Shinji's lungs as he stumbled back, clutching his stomach.

The crowd gasped, and silence followed for a moment.

Then Shinji looked up, a wide grin breaking across his face. Not a mocking one — but a grin of genuine admiration.

"Heh… You really got me there, Mohit."

Shinji stood up slowly, brushing the dust off his uniform and rubbing his stomach where Mohit's strike had landed. His breath was slightly uneven, but he wasn't angry. He gave Mohit a curt nod and stepped out of the sparring ring.

The crowd was still quiet — not because they were shocked by Mohit's win, but because of how he won. It wasn't luck, brute strength, or blind aggression. It was calculation, calm, and control.

Arthur, leaning against the wooden railing outside the ring, whistled low.

"Damn, you really leveled up," he muttered, eyes still fixed on Mohit. When Mohit walked toward him, Arthur crossed his arms and raised an eyebrow.

"I'm not gonna lie, man. Last year, you were decent. But now? That was cold. You weren't fighting — you were dissecting him."

Mohit stayed quiet, wiping sweat from his forehead. He wasn't trying to brag.

Arthur continued, his tone sharp but honest. "Shinji's not weak, and you made him look like he was thinking in slow motion. That feint at the end? You had him dancing on your string. I don't know what the hell you've been doing in that old training ground, but it's working."

Before Mohit could respond, the silence was broken by the firm clap of boots on the wooden floor.

Sakazuki-sensei stepped forward, arms behind his back. His eyes were as unreadable as ever — cold, focused, and judging.

"Mohit," he said, voice rough with age and experience.

Mohit stood straight, his heart beating fast.

Sakazuki nodded once. "That style… it's yours, isn't it? Not something I taught. You crafted it yourself."

"Yes, Sensei."

The old man studied him for a moment longer.

"It's efficient. Minimalistic. You're not wasting energy. But…" — he stepped closer — "…you lack endurance. If Shinji had drawn that match out another two minutes, you would've started slipping. Precision is good. But precision under exhaustion is what separates a warrior from a tactician."

Mohit swallowed but nodded. "Understood."

Sakazuki looked at Shinji. "You, on the other hand, got comfortable. You relied too much on tricks. That only works if your opponent panics. Mohit didn't. So your strategy collapsed."

Shinji sighed and nodded. "Yeah. I noticed."

Sakazuki turned back toward the class. "Let this be clear to all of you. Raw strength doesn't win fights. Tricks don't win fights. Only clarity under pressure wins. And today, Mohit showed that."

Then, without another word, he turned and walked off — his message delivered.

Arthur clapped a hand on Mohit's shoulder. "Well… looks like we're gonna have to spar soon. I wanna see if that new blade of yours can handle raw instinct."

Mohit smirked, tired but confident. "You bring the instinct, I'll bring the precision."