The Thirty-First Day of Fall, 513 A.V.
Late Afternoon in the Warfields.
Repetition was the key to any great master. Of any art or profession, repetition made it familiar, made it second nature. Shouta repeated his movements with the kusarigama. He repeated them every day for five hours at least. And he failed too often for his liking. Not the simple stuff anymore. Every time he introduced a new technique to his repertoire, it took weeks to master. And then there was the intricate flowing of technique after technique. It was almost an entirely different art. So repetition was his best friend here in the Warfields.
The sun shone brightly in the afternoon sky. No cloud moved overhead, no promise of shade. Dust rose and clung to the disheveled trim of his simple robe as his blade flashed in the air. A light thudding accompanied every forceful impact the weapon made. His breathing had progressed to a light pant, almost silent except for the faintest hiss. No bird sang, nor any rodent. The world was still and lazy. It was that sort of day.
Shouta let the chain of his kusarigama slip loosely through his left hand while his right held a death grip on the fine handle of the bladed end. With a practiced flick of the wrist, he set upon the dummy across from him a loop meant for grappling. Failed.
“Petch!” Shouta cursed his laziness. He had not missed that simple opener in weeks! He refocused and tried again, grappling the dummy’s arm. Good enough. He quickly closed the distance, careful to keep the chain taut. The move depended on close range. Sliding into position in front of the dummy, Shouta threw three different blocks, randomly. Then he dropped his knees. Shooting up with all the power of his legs and core he attempted the Falling Crane Uppercut, using his kama instead of his fist in the strike.
He was pleased when the blade connected hard with the red paint under the wooden head. If left a deep gouge in the dummy. Surely a fatal wound for one less impervious than his old wooden nemesis. Ecstatic about the victory of martial accomplishment, Shouta rushed the second attempt.
His lack of focus made his movements choppy and chaotic. His strike was less than lethal, and off. “Petching wooden jester! You taunt me, make me the fool, eh?” Shouta pointed his kama at the dummy. There was no response. As if an afterthought, Shouta flung the weighted end of the kusarigama at the dummy. It struck the thing’s chest and left a tiny dent. Sometimes he was able to drain his training of all emotion, those were the best days.
But today was one of those days where he just rode the frustration like an unbroken stallion. He hoped he would not falter.
