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Muso. The absence of thought.
Muga. The absence of self.
The Way which defines one's sword.
These fleeting thoughts are drowned into the darkness as a young swordsman wakes from slumber. His blonde hair of a questionable cut sways gently as he slips out of the futon.
Now upright, Sinclair pauses. He would have started stretching, yet something catches his eyes.
Directly in front of him, hovering at eye level is a rectangular hologram.
On it were the words: “Sword Drawn: 0/100,000.”
“Mine humble self is most uncertain of what this could entail.” Speaking softly in a manner that was fluttery, his golden eyes narrowed in thought.
With a brush of the hand, Sinclair tries to dismiss the hologram. Unexpectedly, it seems to phase away.
“Curious,” he mumbles. Not wasting any more time, Sinclair starts his morning stretches. He had plenty to do.
After a long or short day, depending on the perspective, Sinclair slept peacefully. As peacefully as he could.
A new day arrives, and like clockwork, Sinclair rises out of his futon.
“As expected,” the blonde mumbles.
The hologram was back. This time the numbers had changed.
5/100,000.
“Mine humble self…recalls my sword drawn five times yesterday.” Unsure still, Sinclair moves to grab his lengthy blade by the bedside, which was almost as tall as him. Positioning the front end onto his lap, he proceeds to slide it out, watching the hologram closely.
As the glint of steel caught the faint lighting above, the number moved up. 6/100,000.
“Mine…humble self,” a pause, as a light smile graced Sinclair’s face, “understands.”
Resheating his blade, he draws it again, watching the number rise to 7/100,000. Just as he was about to repeat the action, Sinclair suddenly stopped and settled his blades.
“Mine humble self must not forget the master’s teachings. Always stretch.”
Repeating it to himself, Sinclair proceeds to go through various stretches, making sure all of his muscles are ready.
“Now then…” Grabbing his blade, Sinclair positions it onto his lap again. Shlick. The blade is unsheathed. Click. It is sheathed.
The number rises to 8/100,000.
“Very good,” the blonde with a questionable cut mumbles to himself. “It so happens the day is free…mine humble self shall be kept busy.”
Fast forward to later, Don Quixote, alongside Ishmael, was visiting Sinclair. The prescript said to do so for a ‘surprise.’ She wasn’t sure, but that’s how a surprise is. Surprise, surprise, she and Ishmael arrive to find Sinclair’s back towards them. She saw that he was doing something with his hands. Up and down, up and down, near his center.
“W-what is he…doing?” she asked hesitantly to Ishmael.
Ishmael squinted her eyes. “Aye, can’t tell very well. Lighting’s shit as always,” she expresses while walking forward. “Watcha doing, Sinclair? What’s with the shlicking.”
For a moment, Sinclair stills. But only for a moment, before his hand draws his blade, only to sheathe it again before proceeding to draw it again. Repeating it on and on. In his eyes, the number had risen greatly, much to his satisfaction. 10,298/100,000. He just couldn’t stop.
Ishmael, having reached Sinclair’s side, saw him repeatedly sheathing and unsheathing his blade. “Is that some kinda new training?” she asks, tilting her head.
“I…suppose mine humble self could agree.”
“Oh, cool! It’s like…that.” Ishmael nodded in understanding as she took a seat next to Sinclair and drew her scabbards. She laid them down in front, moving one of two onto her lap. “It’s like that saying, where a technique practiced once a thousand times is more effective than practicin’ a buncha different moves. Or something.” Shilick. Cool steel is drawn, only to be stuffed back inside.
What was once a lone dance, now had a companion.
“W-what a-are they doing now…” Don Quixote muttered to herself in the meanwhile. She hadn’t moved a single step. Beep. Beep. A new prescript had arrived.
“W-what? Join…them?” There was a dread inside her stomach, yet she didn’t resist the prescript.
Fast forward and somehow the other apprentices had joined in on the blade sheathing and unsheathing. Ishmael lent Don Quxiote her other blade to draw. It was a full-blown chorus. Sinclair’s humble self looked mighty pleased.