Plum Blossom swordsmanship did not begin with movement.
It began with stillness.
Yeon-seo stood in the center of the training yard, feet planted, wooden sword held low. Frost clung to the stones beneath her sandals. Her breath fogged the air in steady intervals.
Around her, senior disciples circled.
"Do not react," the instructor said. "Reaction is admission."
A blade cut toward her shoulder.
She did not move.
The strike passed close enough to disturb the hem of her sleeve. Her grip tightened, but her stance held.
"Again."
Another attack. Faster this time. Angrier.
Still, she waited.
Sweat gathered beneath her collar, chilled immediately by the mountain air. Her legs burned from maintaining posture. Her arms ached from restraint rather than effort.
"Those who rush," the instructor said, "wish for an ending. Those who wait choose it."
The words settled into her bones.
Hours passed. Strikes came from every angle. Sometimes the blades grazed her clothing. Sometimes they missed by inches. Each time, she held.
Waiting sharpened awareness. Waiting taught control. Waiting stripped away panic.
When she was finally dismissed, her legs trembled violently. She bowed anyway, precise to the last degree.
As she left the yard, she realized something that unsettled her more than exhaustion.
Waiting felt less like strength.
It felt like learning how to endure being struck.
She pushed the thought aside and straightened her back.
Plum blossoms bloomed because they endured the cold.
Not because the cold spared them.