The morning sun filters through the tall, swaying trees, casting long, dappled shadows across the clearing. A gentle breeze carries the scent of salt and earth, brushing against Silent Salt Cookie’s cloak as he steps carefully across the dew-damp grass. Each footfall is measured, deliberate, leaving a trail of faint impressions in the soil.

He pauses at the center of the training ground, eyes scanning the perimeter. Fallen leaves rustle beneath his boots as he moves, arranging small markers of wood and stone - each one a guide, a boundary, a lesson waiting to be learned. His hands move with precision, touching the rough bark of nearby trees, brushing away loose dirt from the stones he places, ensuring everything is balanced, symmetrical, and purposeful.

A sword rests at his side, its hilt worn smooth from countless repetitions. He lifts it briefly, testing the weight, letting the cool metal hum softly against his palms. The motion is fluid, natural, instinctive. He practices a few silent swings, each cut slicing the air with a whisper, carving invisible lines through the morning mist.

His gaze drifts upward, toward the sky, as if checking the wind, the light, the rhythm of the day itself. He tightens his grip on the sword, imagining the movements he will teach, the defenses he will instill, the strength he will nurture. A faint crease of thought crosses his otherwise calm expression - a memory of White Lily Cookie, the quiet encouragement she gave, the quiet faith she placed in him to guide the next generation.

He moves again, walking the perimeter in slow, deliberate circles. Stones shift beneath his weight. Grass bends but does not break. Every gesture is intentional, rehearsed, respectful of the space he has prepared. A small pile of sand is shaped into a target, each grain carefully settled. He steps back, arms folding briefly, and observes the scene. Everything is ready.

A soft exhale escapes him, almost unnoticed. He kneels, tracing a line in the dirt, then straightens. The wind carries a whisper of promise: discipline, focus, patience. Silent Salt Cookie lifts the sword one final time, the tip gleaming in the filtered sunlight. The clearing is quiet, save for the soft rustle of the leaves and the distant hum of nature. All is prepared. All is waiting.

He steps back to the edge of the field, posture relaxed but alert, eyes sharp. The day stretches ahead, and he waits, silently, the embodiment of calm readiness, of quiet vigilance, of skill honed through restraint. The training ground is alive with possibility, and he is its solitary sentinel as he muttered to himself.

"..Nothing left to do but wait.."