The air sings as his blade cuts it again and again in an age-old, honoured rhythm.
Just because he does not play by the old rules, does not mean that the old techniques are not to be mastered, perfected, and used.
Light from the candles used to keep the darkness at bay bounces off the blade, reflecting a sliver of illumination that dances along the ceiling.
Sweat slides down his back as he pushes himself harder and harder – a turn here a twist there, a jab with a hidden dagger, and his invisible enemies fall one by one.
A very faint noise by the door catches his attention and he spins, weapons at the ready – he may be surrounded by his own men here at the Itto-Ryu school,
but he would be foolish to believe he was safe.
“Magatsu!” he cries out softly at the sight of his friend crumpled in a bloody heap in front of the doorway. Anotsu sheaths his blades and quickly moves to Magatsu’s side.
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