Sweat dripped down my face as I swung my wooden sword, trying to mimic the way my dad moved. His strikes were smooth and precise, like a flowing river, yet every swing carried the weight of a thunderstorm. No matter how hard I tried, my movements felt clumsy in comparison.

“Remember, son,” Dad said, stepping back to observe me, his voice firm but carrying that encouraging tone I always relied on, “swordsmanship isn’t just about strength. It’s about control and precision. Every swing has a purpose. Every step, every stance—it all matters.”

He paused, standing tall as he rested the blade on his shoulder. The sunlight glinted off the polished metal, making the sword look even more imposing. “You can’t rely on brute force alone. That’s the mistake most people make. A true swordsman knows how to balance power with finesse.”

I nodded, gripping my practice sword tighter. “I’ll get there, Dad. Just... don’t laugh if I mess up again.”

“Laugh? Never,” he said with a chuckle that betrayed his words. “Now, try again. This time, focus on your footwork. You’re letting your stance collapse when you swing.”

I adjusted my footing and took a deep breath. With a determined grunt, I swung the wooden blade, trying to emulate the balance he spoke of. It wasn’t perfect, but Dad nodded approvingly.

“Better,” he said, sheathing his sword. “It’ll take time, but you’ve got the spirit. That’s what matters most.”

As we began to wrap up the session, Dad suddenly rested his hand on my shoulder. “Duke, there’s something important you should know. Swordsmanship is more than just swinging a blade—it’s a journey. And like every journey, there are milestones.”

He gestured for me to sit down on the grass, taking a seat beside me. “Just like magic, swordsmanship has ranks to measure your progress. From F, the lowest, up to S, the pinnacle of mastery. Each style you learn will have its own ranking system, a way to track how far you’ve come and how far you still have to go.”

I listened intently, my excitement building. “What rank are you, Dad?”

His lips curled into a mischievous grin. “That’s for me to know and you to find out.”

“Aw, come on! You can’t just leave me hanging like that!”

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He laughed, ruffling my hair. “Patience, son. For now, focus on mastering the basics. You’ve got a long way to go before you start worrying about ranks.”

The sun dipped lower in the sky as we walked back to the house, our shadows stretching long across the yard. Inside, the smell of roasted meat and fresh bread made my stomach growl.

Mom greeted us with a warm smile, wiping her hands on her apron. “Training hard, I see. Sit down, both of you. Dinner’s ready.”

I barely waited for her to set the plate in front of me before digging in, the savory stew and warm bread tasting like heaven after a long day.

“Hungry, are we?” Dad teased, taking his time as he tore a piece of bread and dipped it into his stew.

“You work him too hard,” Mom said, her tone light and teasing as she sat across from us. “Let the poor boy enjoy his meal without thinking about tomorrow’s training.”

Dad chuckled. “He’s stronger than he looks. Isn’t that right, Duke?”

I grinned between bites. “Stronger than you, old man.”

“Oh, is that so?” he said, raising an eyebrow. “Maybe tomorrow we’ll step things up a notch, see how strong you really are.”

Mom shook her head with a fond smile. “Leave him be, Michael. He’s already doing so well. Speaking of which, have you thought about teaching him the sword styles? He’s old enough to start learning more than just the basics.”

Dad nodded thoughtfully. “We touched on that today. I’m planning to introduce him to a few styles soon, starting with something simple. He needs a solid foundation before we move on to anything advanced.”

“What’s the strongest style?” I asked, my curiosity getting the better of me.

Dad leaned back in his chair, his expression serious. “There’s no single strongest style. It all depends on the swordsman. Some styles focus on speed, others on defense, and some on raw power. What’s important is finding the style that suits you best.”

Mom reached over, placing a hand on mine. “And when you find it, I just know you’ll master it. You’ve always been a fast learner.”

We continued eating, sharing stories and laughter. Mom told us about her day, how she’d helped a neighbor with a stubborn healing spell, while Dad recounted tales of his own training days, back when he was a boy.

After dinner, I helped Mom clear the table while Dad sat by the hearth, muttering to himself about tomorrow’s training plans. His words were a mix of terms like “stance” and “grip,” and I couldn’t help but smile.

Later that night, as I sat in my room flipping through an old textbook on sword styles, I heard muffled noises coming from my parents’ room. At first, I tried to ignore it, but the sounds persisted.

I paused, my face growing warm as I realized what was likely happening. My thoughts wandered, and I couldn’t help but wonder: What if I end up with a sibling?

“A little brother?” I mused aloud, then grinned. “Or maybe a sister? That’d be great... definitely a girl.”

The idea made me smile, and I imagined what they’d be like—a tiny version of Mom, maybe, or a bold, mischievous little troublemaker like me.

Shaking my head, I focused back on the book, though the excitement lingered. The thought of a new addition to the family was both awkward and thrilling. Eventually, I drifted off to sleep, the possibilities swirling in my mind like a comforting dream.