The blade was crude.
The edge wasn't perfect, and the balance pulled slightly forward. Its spine was too thick, and the hilt, wrapped in worn leather, bit into Haneul's palms.
But when he held it… it felt alive.
Not because it was beautiful.
Because it was his.
He stood barefoot beneath a sky the color of pale steel, the cold mountain wind curling past him like a lazy spirit. The forge slumbered behind him, the hearth embers dimmed. Morning frost still clung to the grass.
He stepped forward.
Whsssh.
A single arc through the air. Wide. Steady. The edge did not sing—it rasped, like an unfinished thought. But it cut clean.
He stepped again.
Thrum.
The sword didn't resist him, but it didn't guide him either. Unlike the bamboo poles or training blades, this one had weight—and not just in iron. It held the weight of memory. Of heat. Of hammer. Of sweat.
Haneul practiced as the sun rose, his movements flowing into the forms from the scroll. His feet traced familiar circles in the frost. His shoulders shifted with each breath.
By midday, his arms ached.
By dusk, they burned.
But he did not stop.
The sword felt wrong and right at the same time—like walking on a road that didn't yet know where it led.
"You're going to snap your wrist if you keep compensating like that," the old man said from behind him.
Haneul exhaled and turned. "Then help me fix it."
The smith walked forward and took the blade. He gave it a few testing swings, then nodded to himself.
"The hilt wrap's uneven. You're adjusting your grip too often."
"I noticed."
"Then fix it."
Haneul nodded.
They returned to the forge together.
For hours, he re-wrapped the hilt, trimmed the leather, balanced the core with a few careful file strokes. When he stepped out again, the weight had shifted—marginally. But it felt like night and day.
The blade no longer dragged him.
It moved with him.
—
Days passed.
Each morning, Haneul practiced in the woods. Sometimes along the river. Sometimes in the clearing above the forge. His footwork deepened. His forms slowed.
Each cut spoke more clearly.
The sword, though still crude, began to become an extension of thought.
And then one afternoon, during a passing storm, it happened.
A single downward slash through the rain.
The water parted—not wildly, not with force—but with stillness. A curtain split in silence, droplets hanging momentarily in the air.
Haneul lowered his sword.
"…Again," he whispered.
He repeated the cut. Slower this time. Intent sharpened like flint.
The raindrops sliced again. This time, thinner.
The sword was still rough. Still imperfect.
But something inside it had awakened.
Or maybe something inside him had.
—
Later that week, as he shared tea with the old man beside the forge, he spoke without thinking.
"I think I understand what the scroll meant by flowing through the centerline."
The old man didn't look up. "Took you long enough."
"I thought it was about speed."
"It never is."
"It's about intent. How you move when you stop trying to win."
"Now you're talking like a martial artist," the smith muttered. He sipped. "Scary thought."
Haneul smirked. "You scared of me now, old man?"
"I'll be scared when you stop limping after three cuts."
They sat in silence after that, the snow falling gently outside, the smell of coal and tea filling the air.
The blade rested near the hearth.
No longer crude.
No longer just his.
It was becoming something that remembered each failure.
And moved with him anyway.