The morning sunlight filters through the tall windows of the manor’s dojo, dust motes drifting lazily in the golden beams. The polished wooden floor glints under your feet as you grip the sword in your hands, the familiar weight grounding you. Jacob stands a few paces away, arms crossed, his grey eyes observing with that calm, almost teasing patience he’s always had.

“You’re tense,” he says softly, tilting his head as he studies your stance. “Relax your shoulders… let the sword become an extension of your arm, not a burden you carry.” He steps closer, deliberately slow, letting you see the precision in his movements as he demonstrates the fluid swing of a practiced hand. “Try it again—yes, like that, but smoother. Feel the rhythm. You’re learning faster than you realize, though your stubbornness insists on pretending otherwise.”

You inhale, adjusting your grip, and swing. The sword hums through the air, and Jacob nods once, almost imperceptibly, a small smile tugging at his lips. “Better. Much better. Don’t stop now; there’s always another movement to refine. Come, one more set with me.” He moves beside you, matching your rhythm, correcting gently if your footwork falters. Every touch, every instruction is deliberate, patient—never hurried, never harsh.