[Gima Naoya]

Dark stained slats of wood ran down the length of a great hall, all pristine but for deep sanguine stains that marred upright bamboo dummies and were haphazardly painted into the floor. Nothing, at this late hour, was more omnipresent than the silence. It was dense, almost paradoxically audible, if only for the ability to hear the ringing in your ears left after escaping the wall of sound that was Ichiba’s night market streets as they roared to life.

At the center of the training hall, in a simple gi, unadorned by emblems of achievement or intricate designs, was Naoya. And, in the boy's hands, was a wooden sword. It was a mirror of his surroundings, made of a similar dark oak and stained with years of use, though, polished and rounded, it was never designed to do any real harm.

At this stage in his career, Naoya wasn’t allowed to carry a bladed instrument, forced to use these training tools. But this was a weapon still, and it was weighted to behave like the real thing. Experience with true instruments of death would come in time.

It was on this quiet day that Naoya intended to begin his weapons training in earnest. He’d received some basic instructions prior on how one performed some elementary kata, how he should attune to his weapon, but he hadn’t begun to work on his growth in kenjutsu by himself until now.

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[Gima Naoya]

Even though he lacked much familiarity with the weapon within his grasp, something about the stance he took just felt correct. Bare feet pushed into the floor below, steadying him and planting his weight evenly. A steady breath rose from his core, tensing muscles as it passed them and leaving them taut, prepared to strike like a coiled cobra.

Pale hands, decorated by an assortment of small band-aids, wrung the handle between them, turning his knuckles white and rousing an audible squeak from the wood.

Without further hesitation, the boy’s stance completely shifted. His right foot shot forward, his stance getting low. His left hand dropped to his obi and his right reached forward in a lunging cut. In less than a second, had there been an opponent before him, he would have cut them down.

'Exhale.' He reminded himself.

He drew back, straightening out and allowing his form to relax somewhat as he sheathed his weapon back into the fold of his belt, mimicking the form he’d been taught to do so; catching the back of the blade with the hand that rested on his belt and guiding the blade back home without looking.

He smiled, having managed to pull off one of the most basic of techniques at, what he estimated, was a passing grade. He craned his neck to look where an only slightly damp pile of notes and guides sat beside him, and checked for what was next.

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[Gima Naoya]

Next was basic defensive stances; varied positions from which, once his sword was drawn, Naoya would be able to deflect incoming attacks while preparing to launch strikes of his own. The boy knelt down to rifle through his notes and found a few poses he wanted to try before standing up.

Once again, his hand found itself at the hilt of his weapon, fingers stretching to curl around the handle and grip it tight. He drew the bokken with a measure of poise but didn’t bother attacking from the draw. Iaijutsu was definitely on his radar, but the focus today was general forms; nothing that specialized yet. If all that came of this extracurricular training was an increased familiarity with his chosen weapon, Naoya would be more than pleased.

To start, he brought his sword high above his head. The diagram he was following had the sword behind him, in a tight vertical line down his back that threatened an overhead cut. His brow furrowed in confusion. Wouldn’t that leave his midsection completely exposed?

A test overhead cut had him worried about tight spaces and, when he tried to draw the sword back into a position from which he could protect his torso, his elbows fought one another and made the movement slow and clumsy. He tested out a few more movements but immediately felt uncomfortable, letting his arms fall as he kicked his notes aside to see what other overhead options there were.

He didn’t want to be picky, and maybe an instructor could have guided him into a better implementation, but he didn’t want to bother for now.

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[Gima Naoya]

Another diagram had the sword in what was an almost direct opposite position from the former, held in a high guard and forming a vertical line down his front, yet angled up slightly so as to be in a forward position, as opposed to being perfectly perpendicular to the ground.

Naoya tried it, drawing the sword up similar to where he had it before, but held it in front of him as the diagram had shown. It was immediately more comfortable and he felt far safer with a visible guard. What’s more, the position promised, to him at least, the potential for far more lethality than the former pose.

His legs parted naturally with the new form, his left leg coming forward and his right leg back. It wasn't a direct match to the notes but it seemed like it would offer him a lot of power if he went for a heavy slash, stepping in with his right. Though, maybe that would be an overly telegraphed movement. His opponent would see an offense like that coming from a mile away. But, again, that level of subtlety was probably best to learn from an instructor, before he taught himself a bunch of bad habits.

For now he resigned to moving the sword back and forth in basic small cuts, testing out from what angles he could block and parry with confidence, and even trying a few sweeping horizontal cuts from overhead, curving the sword briefly behind him in order to gain the momentum for a hefty chop.

The overhead guard was a far more natural position from which to launch strikes for Naoya and he dropped his guard again, this time with a soft smile, before returning to his notes.

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[Gima Naoya]

Up next was something pretty basic, a forward center guard. But, the goal would be not just to get to the rudimentary position, but to transition to and from it as well as get a feel for what kind of strikes could be launched from it.

The boy brought the weapon forward, directly in front of him and pointed straight out. Wait, that didn’t seem right… He broke his stance for a moment to peer down at his notes and try to figure out why the position felt so strange. It was as simple as angling the weapon a bit toward the sky, which immediately took strain off his wrists and made rotating them far easier.

He nodded in approval to himself before trying to get his feet right. Counter to the overhead guard, he felt most comfortable with his left foot back this time. The weapon was already forward so he didn’t see the need to shift his weight for any added oomph. Even squaring his feet felt better than bringing his right leg back. He might see the point of bringing his right foot back for certain movements, but for now he stuck with a default of relatively even footing.

He practiced bringing the weapon up into the previous overhead stance, and then back down, before finally sheathing and unsheathing it again. He practiced his fluidity, moving between these various stances, before being satisfied with trying some offensive maneuvers.

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[Gima Naoya]

As he had done with all previous stances, he gave a few mock swings and blocks to identify any weak movements or particularly natural cuts he could muster. Interestingly, the position he was in now seemed to lend itself to thrusts, especially if he didn’t put too much weight on either leg. This was probably the place where his right leg would come into play, for, as he lunged forward in a thrust, he found his right leg moving forward to extend his reach.

The simplicity of the pose opened the door for tons of offensive options, but defense was what this felt the most useful for. Naoya could comfortably move his weapon to guard overhead strikes and protect himself from any attacks coming headlong from the side or either upper quadrant. And, if he let one hand fall away, he could reliably parry any cuts from below as well.

Considering his own strengths in this stance, Naoya weighed his potential opponents' options as well. Any thrusts from his foe could be met with a center parry, though he wondered if it was reasonable to try that, as opposed to just backing up. Maybe it held value in a potential counterattack? But mostly it just felt overly risky without working on his reflexes separately, something he’d have to do with a partner no doubt.

Regardless, he had had enough practice with fighting air for one day. He wanted to take a crack at some of these training dummies.

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[Gima Naoya]

The boy moved over to meet his foe head on, an old training dummy that held a history of use in cracks and dents all over its form. Instead of arms and legs, there were large bamboo panels that served as places to punch and kick. And you could tell, given the tinting of deep crimson.

Naoya squared up to his target, bringing the weapon sheathed in his belt out slowly. If this were a true fight, he’d need to do this portion of the routine faster or at a greater distance. Maybe he would look into some of those aforementioned Iaijutsu techniques after all.

He leveled the weapon against his opponent before bringing it up high in the first guard he’d favored. With a sharp inhale, he began.

The silence of the great training hall evaporated in a sea of the thwacks and cracks of wood on wood, starting slow and methodical but divulging into a flurry of strikes before long. Each strike aimed to achieve some level of randomness, either alternating from one quadrant to another, occasionally repeating the same chop with a flourish to hint at change, or switching up the speed of strikes, offering quick little nicks and slow heavy chops in equal amounts.

It was a dummy, sure, but you trained like you fought, if you could help it. And, if Naoya knew anything about martial combat, it was to avoid being predictable. And, well, not getting killed was important too, but one begets the other.

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[Gima Naoya]

Naoya could feel a steady bead of sweat run down the side of his face and his breathing grew heavier. He did his best to control his breaths, to keep them from getting ragged and halting all of his potential for the day, but he was already quite tired. These were all foreign movements for him, regardless of how natural they may have come to him, and his muscles were begging for a reprieve.

But the boy refused to oblige them as he continued to hack away at his quarry. He was doing good work and he maintained a strong pressure with each strike. Were this more than wood and iron supports, he’d be doing some considerable damage.

He took one step back, coming into a more even stance as he dropped his weapon down to the center guard he’d practiced just earlier. He led with a heavy thrust, which, to his surprise, actually managed to rock the dummy a bit, its massive form teetering backward a few inches before coming back forward and steadying itself. The boy’s eyes widened at his accomplishment but he didn’t let up.

He levied side swipes from either direction, a chop here and there and the occasional thrust to mix things up. Every now and then he’d toss out a guard, imagining that his opponent was resisting him and that Naoya had to deal with strikes of their own. Eventually he’d have to do some real sparring with someone so he could get more accustomed to those types of mix-ups.

But for now, all he could do was practice form, strengthen those muscles that would aid him in execution, and grow his comfort level with the weapon in his hands.

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[Gima Naoya]

The boy stepped away, his guard failing and his hands falling to his side. He could hardly keep them up anymore. His grip loosened and the wooden practice sword fell to the floor with a clatter. His foe looked much the same as it had when Naoya had arrived, though he hoped some of the dents he saw here and there were of his own doing; that he had contributed something to the legacy of this place.

He clutched the hem of his shirt and lifted it to meet his face, wiping the sweat that had built up over the hours he’d been training off. His whole body ached; he didn’t want to think about how he’d feel tomorrow. But despite the toil he’d taken on his own body, he felt accomplished.

The dummy was returned to its place against the wall and Naoya’s wooden sword to its place at his hip. At the center of the room were the manuscripts and training notes he’d taken with him, the core of his earliest steps toward expertise in kenjutsu.

He knew that for him to truly grow into a master, he’d need to seek out more than just the torn out pages of notebooks and copied lectures of ancient teachers. He’d need to beat and be beaten. To learn where he was screwing up in ways he could never perceive on his own, but that required a trained eye. But the day had been productive nonetheless.

That familiarity he had been hoping for felt solid, and, what was greater to him, was a feeling of confidence that he carried with each step on his way out of the training ground and back home to rest.

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