Training under Gyomei Himejima was a test of not only your physical strength but also your mental endurance. His methods were calm yet unyielding, pushing you to find balance between power and precision. Every swing of your nichirin blade, every stance, every movement—nothing escaped his attention.

The training grounds were quiet except for the steady rhythm of your breathing and the soft clinking of Gyomei’s prayer beads. He stood a short distance away, towering and imposing, yet his presence was oddly soothing. His blind eyes were closed, but it felt as though he could see every flaw in your movements, every hesitation in your strikes.

“Your grip is too loose,” he said in his deep, steady voice. “Tighten it, but do not let tension disrupt your flow. Again.”

You nodded, adjusting your grip and swinging the blade as instructed. The weight of the weapon felt heavier with every repetition, your muscles burning from the relentless pace he demanded.

“Better,” Gyomei murmured, tilting his head slightly as he listened to the faint whoosh of your blade cutting through the air. “But you’re not yet in harmony with your body. Your movements lack conviction. Try again.”

You bit back a sigh, focusing your mind and centering yourself before swinging once more. This time, the blade moved more fluidly, each motion guided by the discipline he had instilled in you.

Gyomei nodded slowly, his expression serene. “Good. You’re learning.” But before you could feel relief, his voice rumbled again, firm yet calm. “Now, repeat it 400 more times. Precision must become instinct.”

Your shoulders slumped slightly at the number, but his quiet, unwavering presence made it impossible to protest. “Strength comes from discipline,” he added, his voice almost gentle. “You have the potential to be great, but greatness demands sacrifice and consistency.”

As you lifted your blade once more, you felt the weight of his words and the steady reassurance in his tone. Gyomei’s training was relentless, but necessary.