It had now been nearly five months since Ryan Ashworth had stepped into the garden that served as his training ground. In that time, the once soft and hesitant boy who flinched at each strike had evolved into someone forged by sweat, bruises, and relentless discipline.
The first three months had been consumed by intense martial arts conditioning under Mei Lin's unwavering eye—his body hardened through punches, rolls, falls, and grueling drills. She built his strength, taught him how to take hits, how to breathe in motion, how to survive.
The following one and a half months had shifted focus. No longer just building the foundation, Mei Lin began teaching him how to stand with a sword—how to exist with a katana in hand. Those six weeks were filled with repetition, correction, and quiet moments where she made him watch the blade glint in the sunlight and simply feel its weight.
Now, the training had entered a new phase.
That morning, as he stood in the garden barefoot, the dew still clinging to the blades of grass, Ryan felt the shift. The katana hung at his hip, solid and silent. Mei Lin approached with her usual quiet authority, her expression unreadable.
"You've learned to walk," she said, drawing her own blade in one smooth motion. "Now, learn to strike without moving your feet."
He frowned slightly, confused.
"Iaijutsu," she said. "The art of drawing and cutting in one continuous motion. Speed, precision, and calm. When mastered, your enemy will fall before they realize your blade has moved."
She stepped aside and let him mirror her stance. "Show me your draw."
He reached for the hilt and pulled, his body twisting to guide the blade forward. But the follow-through was clunky, the edge lacked fluidity. The katana hissed through the air but stopped short of its intent.
"Again," she said.
He repeated.
And again.
And again.
She offered no praise, only silent observation between corrections. His thumb was too tense, his pivot delayed. His hips weren't aligned with his shoulder. He was drawing the sword, but not yet drawing as one with the sword.
By mid-morning, his shoulders were burning. Sweat traced down his spine. Mei Lin added motion drills—forcing him to pivot while drawing, to step backward as he sheathed, to strike in a single breath and freeze.
Then came the practice targets.
She placed a vertical bamboo pole in the middle of the lawn.
"Cut," she instructed.
Ryan drew fast, but the blade stuck halfway. He lacked the angle.
"Again."
He adjusted his stance. Drew. Struck.
A chunk of bamboo flew clean off.
"Better. But still reactive. You must draw with intent, not hesitation."
The following days grew harsher.
She wrapped cloth around his eyes and made him train blind.
"Feel the blade," she whispered behind him. "Don't think. Let your breath guide you. Listen for the enemy in the wind."
Sometimes, she would clap her hands from a distance, and he had to turn and draw in that direction—cutting air with precision based on sound alone.
She pushed him through footwork patterns, forcing him to step in angles, in half-turns, over pebbles, across logs. She balanced pebbles on the back of his hands while he performed slow draws. If they fell, he started over.
"Balance is control," she'd say. "And control is life."
One particular morning, she added a new sequence.
"You've learned Nukitsuke and Kiritsuke," she said. "Now learn saya-banare. The soul's release."
She demonstrated, her blade flashing as she drew in an upward arc and spun, slicing in two directions before re-sheathing with surgical grace.
"Again. Slowly."
Ryan mimicked her movements. At first, clumsy. Then tighter. The spin took effort. His coordination faltered.
"Keep your center low," Mei Lin said, tapping his thigh. "The katana is not for leaping. It is for presence."
Evenings were worse.
As the sun dipped low, she made him repeat the same strike-sheath combinations hundreds of times. His hands blistered. His arms trembled. She wrapped his wrists and forced him to keep going.
"You don't stop when it hurts," she told him coldly. "You stop when it stops helping."
Some days, she would switch it up, suddenly turning the session into a surprise spar. No warning. No mercy.
She would draw and strike without a word, and Ryan had to block, counter, or fall.
More often than not, he fell.
But every time he rose, the look in her eyes changed ever so slightly.
One late afternoon, as Ryan rested against a tree, drenched in sweat, panting with his katana laid across his lap, Mei Lin crouched beside him.
"You've progressed," she said.
"But not enough," he murmured.
"No. You're far from mastering it. You still hesitate when the mind gets in the way. When fear clogs the flow. Iaijutsu isn't just speed—it's decision without thought."
Ryan looked down at his blade, the edge catching a ray of the dying sun.
"How long until I stop hesitating?"
She stood up, voice calm but firm. "That depends. How long until you stop doubting who you are?"
By now, Ryan had trained three months in martial arts, another one and a half in basic katana stance and form, and for the past few weeks, he had plunged into the sea of advanced Iaijutsu techniques. Yet, even now, he had not reached basic mastery.
He could feel it—that gap between repetition and instinct. Between knowing and being.
But he wasn't discouraged.
Every slash, every misstep, every fall was a step closer to readiness.
This chapter of training wasn't over.
And neither was he.