Continuation of Chapter 2

LIN ONGRO

His words linger in the air long after he had gone, a ghostly echo of a future that none of us wanted to believe.

Training Field

The sun hangs low in the sky, casting long shadows across the training field where two young boys, Giboin and Hiroshima, stand facing each other. The air is thick with tension, the kind that comes before a storm. Both boys are ready, their swords grips tightly in their hands, eyes lock in a silent challenge.

Giboin moves first, his muscles coiled like a spring. He reaches across his body, fingers wrapping around the hilt of his sword. In one fluid motion, he draws the blade and snaps it forward, pointing it directly at Hiroshima. His stance is precise, feet parallel, knees bent, body upright—a textbook example of readiness.

Hiroshima mirrors his movements, drawing his own sword with practiced ease. They stand in silence for a moment, the only sound the rustling of the wind through the trees. Then, with a shout that pierced the quiet, I gave the command. “Fight!”

Giboin explodes into action, charging at Hiroshima with a ferocity that seems to shake the very ground beneath them. His feet shuffles rapidly, maintaining his balance even as he raises his sword high above his head. The blade flashes in the dim light, descending toward Hiroshima with deadly intent.

But Hiroshima is ready. His sword comes up in a swift, defensive arc, the blade angles to form a protective roof over his head. Giboin’s strike landes with a sharp clang, the force of the blow dispersing harmlessly against the steel. Hiroshima sidesteps, letting Giboin’s momentum carry him past, then snaps his sword down toward his opponent's unprotected shoulder. But Giboin is quick, too quick, and the blade sliced through empty air.

The two boys turn to face each other again, both breathing heavily, eyes fill with the focused intensity of the fight. Giboin wastes no time, launching another attack, this time aims at Hiroshima’s ribs. The movement is swift, a blur of motion as he closed the distance between them. Hiroshima parries the strike, his sword moving with a grace born of experience. He knows something about Giboin—something that gave him the edge. Like many of Megan’s fighters, Giboin is skilled in kendo, a style that was more sport than true combat. It is a game of precision and control, where strikes are limited to certain parts of the body, and brute force is frowned upon. But this is not a game. This is a battle.

Hiroshima have no interest in playing by the rules. As Giboin sets up for another ear-splitting attack, Hiroshima makes his move. He parries the strike, then turns sharply, his leg sweeping out in a low, powerful kick that cathes Giboin just below the knees. The boy collapses, hitting the ground with a thud, his sword slipping from his grasp.

Before he can recover, Hiroshima’s blade is at his throat, the cold steel pressing against his skin. I step forward, my voice carrying across the field. “That’s enough, Hiroshima! Well done. You fought with skill and control. Giboin, next time, try to fight with ease.”

Giboin, still catching his breath, nodded. “I’m trying,” he said, his voice tinged with frustration.

“Try harder,” I advised. “You fight with too much rage. Anger can cloud your judgment, make you reckless. In a fight, it’s better to remain calm. A calm mind thinks clearly, strategizes, and conserves energy. That’s what Hiroshima did, and it’s why he won.”

As I finish speaking, Akilhi approaches me, his face pale with worry. “Lin Ongro, I need to speak with you,” she said, her voice trembling slightly.

I nod, sensing the urgency in her tone. “Drax, take over. Call the next group to train,” I instructed, then turned to follow Akilhi.

To be continued…