A working scroll kept by Akuchi, Blade Aspirant of Port Azure
(Written in tight, careful script. Corrections scratched out rather than erased.)
I write this so I do not forget what hurts me, and what does not.
I write this because bodies lie, but ink remembers.
My bones are not to be trusted.
They will fail before my will does.
Impact is the enemy. Speed is a temptation. Endurance is a lie told by those whose bodies forgive them.
I must never collide. I must never overextend. Every strike must already be ending when it lands.
(In the upper left margin: a small charcoal sketch of a human figure, joints circled in red ink—ankles, knees, wrists, collarbone. Beside each, a short mark indicating “fragile.”)
Balance is not standing still. Balance is knowing where the fall will go.
I fight as a structure fights the sea: angled, yielding, letting force pass through rather than stop inside me. My feet are placed not for advance, but for recovery. I assume I will be struck; therefore I plan where I will land.
If I must choose between ground and bone, I choose ground.
(Along the bottom edge: a sequence of four stick-figures showing a controlled fall into a roll, annotated with arrows and the word “ALLOWED.”)
They are not supports. They are measure-sticks.
Baelwood does not forgive poor grip. It teaches the hands honesty. With them, I learned distance before I learned offense. They extend my reach without committing my weight. They brace me when my legs betray me, and they strike without asking my bones for permission.
I do not abandon them when I take up the sword. I reduce them.
One crutch becomes ground.
The other becomes threat.
(Center-right illustration: one crutch planted, the other angled forward like a spear. The sword is drawn smaller than expected, almost secondary.)
The blade is not for strength. It is for certainty.
I use a short, narrow sword—nothing heavy, nothing heroic. The sword is held closer to the body than the manuals advise. This is not fear; this is economy. Wide arcs invite counterforce. Straight lines survive.
I cut only what must be cut.
I do not chase limbs. I chase balance.
If the opponent steps wrong, I finish. If they stand firm, I withdraw.
(Margin note: “Do not trade.” Underlined twice.)
I do not circle. Circling invites momentum.
I advance on diagonals, retreat on angles sharper than expected. My steps are uneven on purpose. Rhythm makes me readable; therefore I deny it. I step short, then long. I pause where one should not pause.
My opponent will think I am slower than I am.
I let them believe this until they lean forward.
(A thin ink diagram near the bottom: crossed lines forming broken triangles, labeled “paths that do not collide.”)
Strikes are not thrown. They are placed.
I strike at moments of transition: when weight shifts, when breath is taken, when attention moves elsewhere. I strike wrists, forearms, the side of the knee—not to destroy, but to interrupt.
If a strike risks my balance, it is forbidden.
Pain I can endure.
Falling badly, I cannot.
My defense is absence.
I am not where the blade expects me to be. I shorten the distance, then lengthen it without warning. I let blows pass close enough to be frightening, because fear slows the one who swings.
I block only when retreat would break me.
(Beside this passage: a faint smudge where the ink once ran—perhaps written after practice.)
I am fifteen. This matters.
My body is unfinished, and therefore dangerous to itself. I must fight as though I will still need these bones tomorrow. I do not seek victory. I seek survival with advantage.
Time favors those who remain.
(At the very bottom, smaller script, almost an afterthought:)
One day, strength may come. Until then, I will not pretend to have it.
If this scroll is found, know this:
I did not learn this from a master.
I learned it from floors, from splints, from watching others waste force.
What breaks easily must be shaped carefully.
What endures is not what strikes hardest, but what is still standing.
(Final image: a small, precise drawing of a cracked stone reinforced with careful bindings. Beneath it, a single word.)
ENDURE