Percy’s grip tightened on the hilt, his confidence steadying. He took a stance, focusing on Emerett, who stood across the workshop with a calm, open posture. Despite the serenity in Emerett’s gaze, there was an intensity, a quiet readiness, as though he were prepared to respond to Percy’s every move.

"Alright, show me what you can do", Emerett said. “Remember, Percy, it’s not the blade that will show its skill. It’s you.”

With a slow, measured breath, Percy lunged forward, testing the waters. Emerett’s hand moved in a blur, deflecting Percy’s strike with an effortless twist of his wrist. The blade never struck, instead slicing through the air and redirecting Percy’s momentum. Percy stumbled but quickly caught his footing, feeling a small surge of frustration.

“You’re still thinking about strength alone,” Emerett observed, his voice calm. “Let the blade guide you, not the other way around. Follow it's momentum, move with it as it swings.”

Percy adjusted his stance and attacked again, this time with more fluidity, letting his movements follow the sword’s natural weight. Emerett parried each strike with ease, but Percy could feel the subtle shift. Each clash felt smoother, less forced, and the sword seemed to be responding to him in a way that almost felt... alive.

Suddenly, Emerett moved, a quick step that brought him just out of reach, and Percy found himself overextended. Before he could recover, Emerett’s sword was at his shoulder, the faintest brush against his armor—a silent warning.

“Patience, Percy,” Emerett said, his voice now softer, almost reverent. “A weapon like this needs harmony. When you overreach, it will betray you. When you let it flow, it will protect you.”

Percy nodded, breathing hard, eyes locked on Emerett. He could see now that Emerett wasn’t just teaching him how to fight; he was teaching him how to listen, how to understand. Taking a deep breath, Percy steadied himself. He moved forward again, this time slower, more attuned to the blade’s weight and his own instincts. And as they moved, Emerett’s expression shifted—something between pride and a quiet, fierce respect—as he saw Percy begin to unlock the true strength that lay within.

“Good,” Emerett said softly, lowering his blade. “The real challenge isn’t in swinging your sword. It’s in knowing when not to.”

Percy’s brow furrowed. “When not to swing?”

The narrative has been stolen; if detected on Amazon, report the infringement.

Emerett’s gaze sharpened. “Every battle is a dance, Percy. The sword is just the partner. You must understand the rhythm, the flow. If you force a step where there should be none, the dance falters. The blade will falter with it.”

Percy was silent for a moment, trying to grasp the depth of Emerett’s words. He was beginning to understand that fighting wasn’t just about speed, power, or even skill. It was about timing, intuition, and knowing when to act... and when to wait.

“Show me,” Percy said, his voice quieter this time, filled with the resolve of someone who was ready to learn.

Emerett’s lips curled into a small, almost imperceptible smile. “Very well.”

In a flash, Emerett moved. It wasn’t an attack; it was a subtle shift, a change in positioning that made Percy’s senses snap to attention. He swung his sword in response, but Emerett had already anticipated the move, stepping just out of reach. The air seemed to hum as Emerett effortlessly dodged, his movements fluid, almost ghostlike.

Percy spun, trying to bring the blade back around, but before he could make contact, Emerett was upon him, his own blade a whisper of motion that caught Percy’s sword with a soft yet commanding force.

"Feel the rhythm," Emerett said, his voice low but intense. "It’s not always about the strike. Sometimes, it’s about what happens after the strike."

Percy’s mind raced. He couldn’t keep up with Emerett’s pace, each movement a blur of efficiency. Every time he thought he saw an opening, Emerett was gone, just out of reach, leaving only the faintest trail of his presence in the air.

Emerett’s gaze softened as he stepped back, lowering his sword. He studied Percy for a moment, his expression not one of judgment, but quiet understanding.

Percy stood still, breath heavy and uneven, the sound of his heartbeat pounding in his ears as he tried to process the flurry of movements that had just unfolded. His mind raced, trying to grasp the elusive rhythm Emerett had shown him.

“You’re getting there, Percy,” he said, his voice calm but full of resolve. “The sword isn’t a tool to force your will upon the world. It’s a means to listen, to understand when the world is asking you to act... and when it’s asking you to wait.”

Percy looked up, eyes meeting Emerett’s. His hands still gripped the hilt of the blade, but now, for the first time, he felt its true weight—not in his arms, but in his spirit. It wasn’t about mastering the sword. It was about mastering himself.

"I think I understand,” Percy said, his voice steadier now. “It’s not about winning each moment. It’s about controlling myself, not just the fight.”

Emerett looked at him with a mixture of pride and something else—something deeper, perhaps even ancient. “Exactly,” he said quietly, lowering his blade. “Only then will you truly begin to master not just the weapon, but the art of the fight itself.”

Percy stood there for a long moment, feeling the weight of his progress, his connection to the blade, and to Emerett’s teachings. There was still much to learn, but for the first time, he felt like he was on the path to truly understanding the way of the sword.

"Alright, Percy. It looks like you’ve found your companion. Now, it's time for you to start forging the rest of your path. You’re not just a warrior anymore—you’re a partner to something greater." Emerett said, grinning again.