The Weight of a Wooden Sword

It’s heavier than I thought. Not just the wood, but what it means.

The sun is just beginning to rise.

Dew clings to the grass, and a faint mist curls at the edges of the field behind our home.

That’s where I see him—my father—moving like a shadow across the earth.

Every step precise. Every swing of his sword a whisper in the wind.

I’ve seen him train countless times before, but today… something is different.

Today, I’m holding a sword too.

Well—a wooden one. A small one he carved for me a few nights ago.

He told me it was just for play. But when I held it, his eyes lingered a little too long. Like he was watching for something more.

He walks over without saying a word.

Then kneels beside me.

His expression is calm, unreadable. The usual gentle warmth in his eyes is replaced by a stern sort of quiet.

“Grip it tighter,” he says. “It’s not a toy.”

I nod.

And that’s when the lesson begins.

I swing. I stumble. I fall.

Again.

And again.

And again.

My arms ache. My legs wobble. The wooden blade feels more like a tree trunk now.

But every time I fall, he helps me up.

Not with a smile. Not with words of encouragement.

Just a strong hand.

Steady. Unshaking.

Hours pass. The sun climbs higher.

Eventually, I collapse to my knees, breathing hard. My hands sting. My shoulders burn.

He doesn’t say “good job.”

He simply kneels down beside me and adjusts my stance.

“This world isn’t kind, Lucen. You need to be stronger than it.”

He steps back and takes a stance—his movements calm, measured.

“This is called the Dawnbreak Style,” he says. “A sword art passed through our family. It teaches you to read your opponent, to act only when the time is right.”

He lowers the wooden sword slowly.

“We fight with clarity, not rage. You strike only when you see.”

I nod, tightening my grip on the handle.

I don’t fully understand it yet.

But I will.

The next few days blur together.

Training at dawn. Collapsing by noon. Sleeping like a rock at night.

Every strike is met with correction.

Every correction, with silence.

Not cold. Not harsh.

Just… expectation.

And I want to meet it.

Because I’ve never wanted to impress anyone this much before.

Then, one morning…

It clicks.

My feet land firm.

My blade swings true.

And for the first time—

He smiles.

Just a little.

But it’s enough.

Author’s Note:

Lucen’s journey with the sword starts here—but his growth won’t come easy. I wanted this chapter to feel like the quiet beginning of something much bigger. Hope you enjoyed meeting the Dawnbreak Style. It won’t be the last you hear of it.